By My Side (3 page)

It’s late in the evening when my mobile rings. Jamie, who’s home for the weekend, hands it to me.

‘I’ve had a terrible day,’ Guy says the moment I come on to the line.

‘What happened?’

Jamie glances my way, before turning the television off and discreetly leaving the room.

‘I met some old work mates.’ Guy used to work in the City. ‘They asked me if I wanted to meet for a coffee and I thought it’d be good to get out of the house. We met in this bar, they’d sussed out a place with easy access. The boys ordered me an espresso because that’s what I used to have, so when the waitress brings it over I drop the cup and coffee spills all over the table. They order me another and I drop that one too, this time the cup breaks. The handle is so fucking delicate, I couldn’t hold it properly.’

‘Oh God, Guy, I’m so sorry.’

Guy has a higher-level injury than mine. He broke his neck at C6 and is paralysed from the collarbone down. The nerves on your neck correspond to the movement and strength in your hands and wrists, so as a result his are weak. I can remember his screaming frustration at just trying to brush his teeth. ‘It was terrible.’ His voice shudders. ‘How are you, Cass? When are you coming to London?’

‘I’m sorry, Guy,’ I say again, understanding there is something else he wants to tell me.

‘Oh, Cass, you should have seen the look on their faces, as if I were a cripple. It nearly killed me.’

*

Later, Dad comes to say goodnight. He has deep circles under his eyes; he has aged ten years since my accident.

‘Thanks for doing so much to the house,’ I say, thinking of Guy in the downstairs room of his parents’ flat where he eats, sleeps … He says it’s like living in a rabbit hutch. ‘It must have been hard work.’

‘It was nothing.’ He sits on the edge of my bed. ‘Do you think you’ll sleep tonight?’ Dad is aware I’m having recurring nightmares. Sometimes I’m back on the hospital ward; other times I’m running barefoot along a hot tarmac road. Sean is waiting for me at the end. ‘Come on!’ he’s shouting, but just as I’m about to reach him he disappears. When I look down to my feet blood is seeping in between my toes, they’re burning like fire.

‘I hope so,’ I say, unconvinced.

Dad makes himself comfortable. ‘What’s worrying you?’

I tell him about Guy’s day. I can’t stop thinking about how traumatic it must have been for him to see the people he used to work with. They head back to the office to resume their normal working day; Guy heads back to his rabbit hutch. This is why I find it hard to talk to Sarah. I can’t return to King’s.

Dad understands. ‘It’s tough. All we can do is take one day at a time,’ he says gently, before kissing me goodnight. He stands at the door. ‘Sweet dreams, OK. No nightmares.’

I close my eyes.

*

Georgina rushes to my bed. ‘It’s Cass,’ Dom tells her.

‘I can feel something,’ I insist, lifting the sheets. ‘My toes, I think it’s my right foot.’ At last I feel a tiny connection to my body. ‘Georgina?’

‘Often you can feel pain below the level of injury in an area you can’t move,’ she says.

‘I’ve had that,’ claims Dom. ‘I get terrible pain sometimes, like a hot needle jabbing up and down my spine. It’s like biting on foil with a filling.’

‘Isn’t it good to feel something, Georgina?’

‘Yes and no. The problem is pain is hard to treat. Imagine lots of wires inside you, basically your nerves,’ she explains. ‘Pain goes through one or two and then sparks off as there is no connection. They’re alive but don’t have anything to do.’

I look at my feet, trying to understand. ‘Cass,’ she says, ‘try and get back to sleep.’ My feet are covered again as if laid back in the coffin. Lights are turned off.

‘Are you OK, Cass?’ Guy asks.

Struggling not to cry I say, ‘Not really. You?’

‘I’m sorry, Princess. Why us?’

We lie awake in the darkness but I can feel our arms around each other.

‘There’s no escape is there? Not even in your sleep,’ Guy says.

There’s no escape. There’s no escape. Not even in your sleep—

I scream. Sit up, gasping for breath.

‘Cass?’ Jamie rushes into my room.

I turn on the bedside light; recover my breath. It was so vivid; their voices as clear as daylight.

‘Can I get you anything? Glass of water?’ He hiccups. ‘Were you having one of your bad dreams again?

I nod. ‘Have you been drinking?’ I can smell alcohol on his breath.

‘No.’ He grins.

‘Liar liar, pants on fire.’ Dad used to say it to us as children.

He walks over to my wheelchair and plonks himself in it. He unclips the brakes and moves forward, crashing into the side of my bed and attempting to steer himself around the small space. ‘What does it feel like sitting in this?’

‘Horrible. Why?’

‘I’m really worried that you must feel like you’re this top half –’ with one hand he cuts across his own stomach – ‘floating above nothing. I’d hate to feel like that, sorry.’ He reddens. ‘You know what I mean. Dad said I should ask you questions and stuff, about how it feels, not tiptoe round you all the time.’ Another hiccup. ‘But I’m not very good.’

‘I can’t describe what it’s like,’ I admit.

Jamie jumps up from the chair and sits on my bed. ‘Shut your eyes,’ he demands.

‘Why?’

‘Do it.’

I shut them.

‘If I hit you right here, can you feel anything?’

‘Nope.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing. Can we stop this game now.’

‘I’m trying to understand, Cass.’

I open my eyes. ‘All right. Do it again, whatever you did before.’

Jamie hits me on the thigh.

‘It’s slightly different because I saw you doing it,’ I say. ‘I’m aware of something.’

‘What does it feel like?’

‘I don’t know. It doesn’t feel normal but then how do you describe normal?’

‘D’you think you’ll get back to sleep? Do you have nightmares about the accident?’

I shake my head, telling Jamie I don’t dream about that morning in Pimlico. I dream about Dom and Guy. I’m back in hospital with them. Sometimes Sean is in my dreams too. Deep down, however much I pretend to myself that I’m better off without him, I’m hurt by his rejection. Often, late at night, I wonder how I’d feel if it were the other way round. Would I still love him?

‘Would you be able to go out with someone in a wheelchair, Jamie?’

‘I don’t know. I think so, yeah. You love the person, right, not their legs. I mean it helps if they’ve got good legs but … D’you want to watch a film?’ he asks, when he sees my tears. We often do this when he’s home. There’s a small television in the corner of my room.

‘I think we’ve seen them all now.’

‘No,’ he insists. ‘I bought some new ones.’

Next he’s dragging his stripy red and navy duvet into my bedroom, a DVD in his mouth. He slots it into the player and camps on my floor. Jamie keeps on turning to me, making sure I’m all right.

‘Thank you, Jamie,’ I say, feeling a strong tug of affection for him that I’ve never felt before. ‘And sorry if I boss you around all the time.’

‘It’s all right. You’re my sister. You can boss me around and do whatever, but I’ll always love you.’

And it’s so clear to me now why Mum loves him so much.

He’s her uncomplicated little boy.

He’s like Dad.

I don’t remember at which part finally I fall asleep.

I’m in Dad’s study, the walls covered in black-and-white prints of his favourite buildings: the Duomo in Florence, St Paul’s Cathedral, the Houses of Parliament, the Savoy Hotel, Notre Dame. The window is open but the room still smells of smoke. A pack of cigarettes is by the telephone, next to a marble ashtray. Since my accident, Dad’s taken up the habit again, something Mum pretends to be cross about.

I always feel nostalgic when I’m in this room. It reminds me of my school days, in London, when Dad worked from home and allowed me to do my homework in his study. I loved watching him work at his drawing board. Back then he had longer hair and a beard. We’d listen to his favourite group, The Rolling Stones. After a while he’d open one of his desk drawers and produce a green-and-black pouch of tobacco. He’d smoke a roll-up before spraying a flowery scent across the room. ‘Don’t tell Mum,’ he whispered, blue eyes laughing as he hid the can and his pouch of tobacco back in his secret drawer.

I stop at his desk and pick up the framed photograph of Jamie and me on a beach, standing either side of Dad, holding his hand. I have long fair hair in plaits, a pink spotty costume and chubby legs. Next to this photograph is Mum and Dad’s wedding picture. I used to be fascinated by Dad’s hair; it was almost as long as Mum’s. And he wore hippy sandals. I used to tell him he looked like Jesus.

‘I
was
a hippy dude back then, Cass,’ he’d say. ‘That was the fashion.’ Mum’s wedding dress was made out of lace; she had designed and made it herself. ‘She used to make all my suits too,’ Dad said. ‘Saved us a blooming fortune.’

Dad must notice me looking at the photograph now. Mum’s long blonde hair falls loosely down her shoulders; her dress shows off her small waist.

‘She was beautiful,’ I say.

‘Still is. You’re the spitting image, Cass.’

That’s a compliment. Like Mum, I have honey-coloured dark blonde hair, deep brown eyes and a wide mouth like Jamie’s. Dad used to joke that my smile was as wide as Buckingham Palace.

‘Did you want something?’ he asks, aware that I didn’t come in to look at his old photographs.

‘I’m going to London tomorrow.’

‘London! Right! London,’ he tries to say more calmly.

‘I’m meeting Guy and Dom for lunch, and then Sarah later on in the afternoon. Can you give me a lift to the station?’

He taps his fingers against the desk, before picking up his pack of Marlboro Reds. ‘Tell you what.’ He lights up. ‘Why don’t I come?’ He scratches the back of his head, just as Jamie does.

I raise an eyebrow.

‘I promise I’d leave you the minute we arrived,’ he suggests. ‘I could go and see an exhibition.’

‘I’ll be fine, Dad.’

His forehead remains crumpled with worry lines.

‘Dad, I can’t be the only person in a wheelchair on this planet.’

Mum comes in, wearing summer trousers with a cream blouse. ‘There you are.’ She’s just returned from work. She looks at both of us, before slipping off her high heels and rubbing her feet. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Cass wants to go to London tomorrow,’ Dad says as if it’s mission impossible.

‘That’s a great idea.’ Mum sits on the arm of Dad’s old leather chair. ‘You’ve called the station to get help on to the train?’

‘Yep.’ Is it going to be like this every time I suggest going out?

‘You’ll have your mobile switched on all the time?’

I nod. ‘All I need is a lift.’

‘I’m sure you can take her to the station, can’t you?’ She turns to Dad, urging him with her eyes. He stubs out his cigarette. ‘Cass, why don’t I simply drive—’

‘Dad,’ I cut in. ‘I have to do this on my own, you know that.’ I wheel myself out of the room before he can ask me any more questions to make me doubt myself.

‘I’m happy to drive her,’ I overhear Dad saying when he thinks I’ve gone. I stay and listen behind the door.

‘That’s not the point, Michael.’

‘I’m nervous.’

‘And I’m not?’

‘You don’t seem to be.’

‘Bollocks!’

‘Bollocks? Have you just turned eighteen again?’ Dad asks, faint amusement in his tone.

‘Bollocks!’ she repeats. ‘Are we going to be like this every single time she leaves the house? We’ll turn grey, we will. We need to have faith.’

He mutters something about losing his faith.

‘Cass needs to go.’

‘I know … I’m on your side.’

‘This is a huge step forward, Michael. You need to quit smoking,’ she adds.

‘I will.’ He inhales deeply. ‘After Cass has been to London and come home safely.’

‘I know it’s hard,’ Mum admits finally. ‘That day, when you took Cass out in the wheelchair for the first time.’ I hear her bracelets jangling. ‘This will sound silly.’

‘Go on.’

‘It reminded me of the opera we saw when we were first married, you know,
Fidelio
, where the prisoners are let out for a day.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. It was your face, so sad and scared of the future.’

I remember how Dad had stopped dead when he first saw me in my wheelchair back at the hospital, six weeks after the accident. I still hated getting into my chair with a passion. However, thanks to Paul, I was beginning to feel encouraged that I was making progress.

‘Look!’ I had my back brace on, but I was sitting up and it felt good.

‘Great.’ He didn’t take his jacket off or sit down and start doing the crossword, calling out clues as he normally did.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing. Why don’t we get some fresh air?’ he’d suggested, jolting my chair forward.

‘I can push myself!’ I said, wanting him to be proud of my achievement. ‘I just need my woolly hat.’ I touched my hair. ‘And another jumper.’

He skirted the room saying, ‘Hat, hat, hat. Jumper, jumper jumper.’

‘They’re in my drawer.’

He tried to find them, manically tossing everything else aside.

When we were ready to leave Dad had walked behind me. We passed the nurses’ station where I waved goodbye. ‘Don’t get cold, Cass,’ Georgina called out.

‘There’s Mum,’ I said when we were outside. She was walking towards us.

‘Bren, I’ve left something in the car.’

I knew something wasn’t right when she handed him the keys.

‘Dad?’ I called out to him, but he didn’t turn round. ‘I thought he’d be pleased,’ I said.

‘He is. This –’ she gestured to me sitting up in my chair – ‘it’s a big day. You’re doing so well.’ She had looked over my shoulder then, watching my father walk away.

I lean in towards the study door again.

‘We can’t be scared. If we’re scared, what will Cass think? We have to be strong,’ Mum says.

‘She’s my little brown-eyed girl.’

‘I know. But this is good, Michael. For weeks she hasn’t made any sound about seeing friends, she hasn’t even wanted to talk to Sarah. Doesn’t that scare you more? Cass having no life of her own?’

‘You’re right.’

‘I’m always right.’

He laughs softly. ‘Vodka?’

‘Please, and make it strong.’