No Kiss Goodbye (6 page)

I smile again, and this time I
do
feel better inside.

‘Look, something like this is just going to take time. You can’t take an instant problem-solving medicine. But every day gets a little better, yeah? I’m not saying there won’t be some super shit days here and there, but I’m still your best friend, and no matter what, that will never change.’

‘Thank you,’ I splutter, yet again on the verge of tears.

‘Ha, listen to me. I sound like a bloody Hallmark card.’ Ava opens her arms and hugs me so tightly that my ribs pinch my insides, but I like it.

‘Did I say something really nasty to Mark?’ I whisper sheepishly, reluctant to spoil the moment, but I have to know.

Ava lets me go and drops her head. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘So I did say something, then?’

Ava doesn’t answer. I knew she was waiting for me to expand on the question and that worries me. I get the distinct impression she’s censoring what she’ll tell me about the other night, like she’s basing what she’ll tell me on how much she thinks I already knew. Just because my legs have stopped working doesn’t mean my brain has, too.
For fuck’s sake!
Everyone has taken to treating me like a child, and it’s doing my head in. But there’s no point in expressing my frustration; it just makes me look like a child throwing a tantrum. The irony sucks.

‘I had a weird dream where Mark told me he hated me,’ I say, making a conscious effort to hide how stressed out it makes me feel.

‘It was just a dream.’ Ava smiles. ‘Dreams don’t mean anything.’

Yeah, I suppose. Just felt so real, you know. It was horrible.’

Ava gives me a quick kiss on the cheek and stands up. She points to a small white envelope on the bed beside me.

‘This’ll take your mind off it,’ she says with a big, toothy grin. ‘Okay, I can’t lie. This is the main reason I called over today.’

I open the envelope and inside are four tickets to the annual charity ball in the posh Knightsbridge Hotel in Dublin.

‘Oh, I had completely forgotten about this,’ I admit, running my finger over the embossed font on the shiny tickets. My head is shaking from side to side instinctively. I haven’t actually said no out loud, but my body is screaming a resounding you’ve-got-to-be-shittin’-me.

‘I know, but we haven’t missed the ball in the last seven years. C’mon, please. If you could go when you were pregnant and throwing your guts up and couldn’t drink, then you can go now. Please, Laura. Don’t break tradition. Pleeeeeease!’

Ava is literally bouncing on the spot with excitement. It will break her heart if I refuse to go. We made a pact years ago that even when we were ninety-five and have to have double hip replacements just so we can bend over, we would never miss the ball.

‘I’ll talk to Mark about it, okay?’ I feel a little guilty for the lame-ass attempt to pacify Ava. But I’d say anything right now just to stop talking about the bloody ball.

‘I already spoke to him about it. He’s totally up for it; he thinks I’ll have my work cut out for me convincing you. So c’mon, Laura, what do you say?’

Ava picks up her handbag and begins to button her coat. I close my eyes and sigh deeply, relieved her lunch break is up.

‘I’ll pop around again tomorrow. That gives you twenty-four hours to think of something to wear. It’s going to be great, Laura. I promise.’

Another kiss on the cheek later and Ava is gone. I slouch down in the bed. As if what I have to wear is the biggest of my worries, I sulk. I crumple the tickets in frustration, but my fingers still when I notice the scar on the palm of my hand. The wound has healed and the scar is faded and barely noticeable, but it’s nonetheless evidence of a nasty gash.
It couldn’t be
. I shake my head.
It was only a dream.

Days begin to pass by more and more slowly. It’s been two weeks since Ava asked me about the ball, and I’ve avoided both her and an answer ever since. I’ve taken to pretending I’m asleep anytime she calls around, and she never has the heart to wake me. It has also been two weeks since I’ve seen the children. I miss them so much it’s causing a physical pain in my heart; their absence is consuming my thoughts pretty much all the time. The house is an empty shell without them, and it’s a depressing reminder that I’m not the person I used to be.

Every time Mark and I plan to visit them, something oddly comes up and we have to postpone. The excuses are becoming more and more far-fetched, as if Mark is intentionally creating a wedge between us.

When I try to discuss my concerns with Doctor Hammond at my appointment, he immediately shoots the idea down, echoing Mark’s sentiments. He hands me some bullshit about how my immune system is too weak to handle any sort of virus.
What? Like kids are little cesspools of disease or something? Bollocks
. I’m so upset I actually cry in his office. I’m a complete blubbering mess for a solid ten minutes.

‘We are making such good progress,’ Doctor Hammond insists. ‘Try to remain positive, Laura. The wrongs will soon be right, I hope.’

It doesn’t fill me with much hope that my doctor considers a toe wiggle great progress. One-hundred-and-fifty euro an hour for endless physiotherapy sessions, and a twitch is as much as I can muster. We spend more time talking about how I feel than actually trying any physical exercise. It all seems like such a waste of time and money. Despite my best efforts not to be a sulky bitch at each session, it’s damn hard to be anything but.

At the end of the session, the part when Doctor Hammond sits behind his desk with his arms crossed over his chest and asks me if I have any questions, I usually close my eyes and shake my head, but today, for the first time, I have a question. I’m confident and certain of his answer. If my doctor says I can’t go to the ball, then Ava will
have
to accept that.

‘It’s a charity thing. We’ve been going for years. It’s a huge event with hundreds of people in a city hotel function room.’ I gloat, exaggerating the volume of attendees, waiting for my doctor to shoot down the ridiculous idea at any moment.

‘Sounds elaborate,’ Doctor Hammond replies.

‘Yeah, it is. It’s very fancy. Well, it has to be when you have people from all over the country going to it.’

‘Wonderful,’ Doctor Hammond confirms his enthusiasm with a clap of his hands. ‘I think you’ll have a great time. You’ll have to show me the photos.’

‘Excuse me?’ I squeal.

‘I’m delighted to see you taking steps to reintegrate with society. This is a great idea, Laura. See, I told you we were making good progress.’

‘I wasn’t aware that I had disintegrated,’ I snarl, catching my reflection in the highly polished lamp on his desk. My dishevelled appearance doesn’t help my argument.

‘You need this opportunity, Laura,’ Doctor Hammond advises. ‘A chance to dress up and feel good about yourself. I’m sure you’ll see many old friends who have been concerned about you. I promise you will enjoy yourself.’

‘You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.’

Seriously?
I can’t understand how it’s such a wonderful idea to spend an evening in a function room with a couple of hundred adults incubating all sorts of who-knows-what diseases, but an afternoon with a three-year-old, who might sneeze, would be detrimental to my health.
Yeah, right. Fuck off!
Something is a way off, and it makes me very suspicious about just how genuine Doctor Hammond’s intentions actually are.

Hours later, Doctor Hammond’s words are still peddling around my head and my efforts to distract myself by making dinner are close to an epic fail. After dropping chicken fillets on the kitchen floor, and then rolling over them with the wheel of my chair, I gave up. It takes me nearly forty minutes of a serious upper body workout, rocking my chair back and forth over the hall mat, to scrape the remains off my wheel. When my energy levels finally bottom out, I take myself and my sparkling wheels to chill out in front of some daytime television.

I snooze my way through reruns of my favourite programmes and wonder if life as a couch potato is the extent of my future. Content that I’ve gotten my daily dose of self-pity out of the way a little earlier than most days, I turn to stare aimlessly out the window. And like most days, I begin counting down the minutes until Mark comes home from work. He’s always late coming home on the days I have appointments. I assume he’s making up the time he’s spent chauffeuring me there and back in the morning, but he never admits that, and I never ask.

Noticing Mark in the distance, I have to laugh. I watch as he passes our neighbours and stumbles up the footpath towards our house. He’s carrying a large box and balancing it forces him to walk with an uncanny John Wayne meets Mister Bean impression. To hold the box steady, Mark rests the side of it against his chest forcing him to hold his chin unnaturally high to peek out over the top. A bouquet of beautiful red roses is wedged under his arm, and I can make out a bottle of champagne hiding in the carrier bag dangling from his index finger. My heart begins to flutter. Mark is a true romantic, but it’s been a few years since he’s made a gesture this big. I quickly spin my chair around to face the television again and pretend to be asleep. Hoping to make it easier for him to surprise me, I concentrate hard not to smile and ruin the illusion.

Mark comes through the hall door and follows his usual routine. He shouts towards the kitchen to let me know he’s home and then kicks his shoes off before taking a step further. The sitting room door creaks open and I’m tempted to sneak a peek, but I don’t dare spoil the suspense. The door creaks again, and I hear Mark tiptoe towards the kitchen.

I grow deflated as I wait, and wait…and wait. I wonder if he’s cooking dinner, and he is planning to surprise me with that, too. I really hope not. Mark likes to consider himself an expert in culinary arts. His infamous mac and cheese is like eating a blender. It liquefies the contents of my stomach every time.

I wheel myself quietly towards the kitchen, sniffing all the way, delighted when no dodgy smells await me. I’m just about to open the door and wheel through the door when I hear Mark laughing. He’s on the phone. I decide to head back to the sitting room, leaving him some space to chat, when I hear him mention my name. Curiosity gets the better of me; I tuck my chair neatly behind the door and listen.

‘I’m just home now,’ Mark says. ‘She’s asleep.’

There are a lot of ‘yeah, yeah, yeah’ and some whispering. I can’t make out the gist of the conversation, and I’m ashamed of myself for earwigging.

‘No, I didn’t get a chance to give her the pills today.’

Pills? What pills?
I used the last of my painkillers last week, and I’ve been feeling fine since. I press my ear against the door.

‘I’ll try to get them in her tonight.’

The person on the other end of the phone must be in disagreement because Mark’s voice grows louder and I can tell he’s pacing the floor.

‘She’s not stupid. I have to be subtle. Just trust me. It’s not going to be a problem for much longer.’

I hear Mark slam down the phone. I race back to the sitting room, my arms losing grip on the wheels. A mixture of confusion and fear knots in my stomach.
Would Mark try to hurt me?
I hate myself for even thinking it, but I can’t stop. It wouldn’t be difficult for him. I’m pitifully helpless, bound to my stupid wheelchair. He could push me down the stairs and say I fell. Or slit my wrists and tell everyone I couldn’t take it anymore. The possibilities are endless. If I’m a
real
problem for him, then it won’t take a lot of imagination to dispose of me.

I shake my head.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I trust Mark; I love him. But why is he trying to give me medication without telling me? My gut is telling me it’s disgusting to doubt my husband; I’ve clearly seen too many episodes of
CSI
. But my head is telling me there’s no harm in being on guard. Mark would never have to know.

I barely make it back to my fake sleeping spot when Mark walks into the room behind me. He places the box he brought home on the couch and lays the bouquet of roses across my knees. He kisses my forehead softly and whispers my name. I pretend to wake up, even throwing in a yawn for authentication.

‘Oh, Mark. They’re beautiful,’ I say, sniffing the flowers. They really are amazing. A dozen long-stem, bright red roses.

‘One for every year I have known and loved you,’ Mark gushes. ‘And two extra for good luck,’ he says with a cheeky wink.

I smile, of course, and turn my cheek to accept his kiss. But inside my body is shaking as I remember the advice my mother gave me years ago. “A man only brings home flowers when he has something to feel guilty about,” she warned. I can’t help but dwell on her advice now.
Especially now
.

‘Come on,’ Mark says, taking my hand and waiting for me to roll towards the couch. ‘Open it.’

I lean forward and examine the long, rectangular box. I have no idea what it could be. I tug gently on the corner of the pink ribbon that wraps around the cream box and ties in the centre. It opens easily. Lifting the lid, a folded, lilac silk meets my eye.
An evening dress.
A dress for the ball that I’m not attending. Purple is my favourite colour and Mark knows that, but I’ve never actually worn anything that colour before. Not even a scarf.

The giddy excitement of receiving a new and beautiful dress is tinged with a sense of loss. I love the annual day trip Ava and I take into the city to hunt for the perfect dress. We spend hours wandering the streets and only venture into the shops to buy more takeaway coffee. We are usually so busy chatting that we forget to take note of the dresses we see as we window shop. Twenty minutes before closing, we dash in to find something not too florescent, not too expensive, and most importantly, something we can wear to dance the night away. But a girls’ day out like that is resigned to just a fond memory from now on. I try to hide my disappointment from Mark. He’s gone to such trouble, and he’s looking at me with a bright smile and such love in his eyes. It’s a huge contradiction to his attitude on the phone.

I stare at the silky bundle in front of me, excited by the feel of soft material beneath my fingertips. I caress the delicate straps and lift the dress into the air. The box slips off my knee and onto the floor. Scented petals of pastel-coloured paper that neatly caressed the dress litter the carpet. The long, lilac gown hangs delicately from my fingertips, swishing from side to side as I gently rock my arms. It’s elegant and simple, and exactly the type of style I would choose for myself. I smile, content that Mark knows me so well. I begin to imagine how beautifully the dress would sway as I dance.

I drop the dress, and it falls to my knees. For a moment, I forgot. I forgot how my limp legs betray me. I forgot how helpless I’ve become. And at that moment, I was happy.
What a waste of a stunning gown
, I think, as reality hits me so hard it knocks the wind out of me. I can’t shake it off. I can’t walk elegantly into the room turning heads as the silk drapes delicately from my shoulder, hugging my waist as it passes. Okay, so my waist was never enthusiastic about being hugged, probably because it was too comfy hiding under my spare tyre, but at least I had a waist. Now I’m just a blob in a chair. The dress is too beautiful for my unappreciative body to destroy.

‘I…I…don’t like it,’ I shudder. ‘Take it away, please.’

‘But it’s your favourite colour.’

‘Just take it away,’ I beg, balling the material between my shaking hands and throwing it across the room.

Mark bends down and picks up the crinkled dress from the corner where it landed. I can tell how much he’s hurting even with his back to me. He’s been so strong up to this, but maybe he’s finally at his breaking point.
How can I have ever doubted him?
He would never hurt me. I was turning into a paranoid bitch, and I hate myself for it.

‘Mark, honey, I’m sorry.’ I wait for a reaction. Mark doesn’t move. ‘I do like it. I’m just oversensitive. I just...’

There’s a long silence before Mark turns around. His bloodshot eyes are too painful to look into.

‘No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. If you’re not ready for this ball, it’s okay. I’ll understand.’

I sigh, about to thank him and suggest maybe getting a good DVD and a bottle of wine, but before I can gather the words, Mark continues. 

‘I’ll ring my mother tomorrow, okay?’

What? What does a night in front of the telly have to do with Patricia Kavanagh?
A spark of excitement ignites inside me. He’s going to suggest we bring the kids home.
Oh, my God. Oh, my God.

‘Why do you need to ring your mother?’ I ask, trying to play it cool.

‘Well, I’m going to need someone to come with me. I hope it’s not too short of notice for her.’

My heart sinks. I’m so disappointed about the kids; I don’t even think to be upset that Mark intends to go to the ball regardless of whether I go with him.