The Language of Dying (9 page)

‘Me and Simon are going for a walk. We need some fresh air. You know how it is.’ Davey already has his coat on and Simon is clumsily trying to get his trainers done up. I’m not sure how wise it is for them to be staggering round the countryside in the dark, but they’re grown men and I don’t have the energy or will to stop them. These are unusual times. They’re losing you.

‘Okay, just be careful. That road is pitch-black at night. Keep in at the side hedges.’

Davey rolls his eyes at his brother and smiles. ‘I think she’s forgotten we used to live here.’

I throw a tea towel at him. ‘Yes, you did, but you were more grown-up then!’

Simon giggles as he struggles with his second shoe and looks up. ‘She may have a point there, Bruv.’

They start to laugh. They’re still laughing when we wave them off down the drive. I guess sometimes you’ve got to see the funny side.

Back inside, the house feels emptier and I can breathe a little better. Penny and Paul are out on the swings and I finish up the cleaning and then sit in front of the TV, staring at it for an hour or so, watching the people go back and forth but not listening to a word they’re saying.

At about ten, Paul goes upstairs for a brief moment and then comes back down crying. Penny hugs him. I
want to, but find I just can’t. I don’t know why. When his eyes are dry, he lights a cigarette and stares at the wall.

‘I’ll have to head off soon,’ he says.

I stare at him, not sure I heard correctly. ‘You’ll what?’

He looks at his watch. There is a big clock right in front of him on the wall. Why does he need to look at his watch? ‘I’ve got to get back to Manchester. Ellie’s expecting me and I’ve got some work on tomorrow that I can’t afford to miss. I need the money.’

His words are coming out fast and I’m sure he’s convincing himself that they’re true as each one hits the air. I look at Penny. She shrugs.

‘Dad’s dying,’ I say.

He glances at me. ‘I’ve made my peace with him. I made it when he came to stay that weekend a while back. He knows that.’

I want to punch him in his sanctimonious face and see if my big brother is still somewhere underneath the surface or whether this arsehole has swallowed him whole. I want to shake him and tell him it’s okay to be afraid, and that we’re all afraid, but we still need him here.

‘But the boys,’ I hiss quietly. ‘You told Penny you’d stay over to keep an eye on the boys.’

Penny is chewing one of her plumped-up lips. She doesn’t like confrontation. I wonder if she’ll find something to start cleaning in her panic.

‘The boys will be fine. They’re better than I’ve seen them in years.’ He’s grabbing at his coat and car keys. There is no laughter now, no tall tales, just a man who can’t deal with losing his father. Or maybe can’t deal with the
process
of losing his father. I wish he could get a glimpse of other people and see that they feel and think, just like he does. Maybe then he’d realise that none of us can deal with it. We just have to suck it up and get on with it.

‘The boys are great,’ I sigh. ‘The boys are lovely. But Simon could fall asleep with a cigarette going and burn the house down while we sleep.’

‘He won’t do that. I’ve told him not to smoke in the lounge.’

I raise an eyebrow. ‘Oh, that will do it then.’

He stares at me. ‘I’ll do my best to come back tomorrow. I promise. And then I’ll stay over.’

And the thing is, he believes it. I laugh. I hear it fill the kitchen and it isn’t a pretty sound, but I can’t stop myself. Somewhere the laughter turns to shouting and the words come out in a stream. I don’t know what they are, but I know they’re angry and mean and hurtful and they’re making my face and heart burn as they escape in a torrent. Maybe in my head they’re home truths. Maybe as they escape they turn into something else, something savage and nasty. Still, I don’t hear the meaning in them and I feel better when they are out.

The kitchen is silent when I finish and my face cools.
Penny is staring at me, her mouth open slightly. Paul has clenched his jaw. Whatever I have said, he is in the process of using it to justify his escape. He doesn’t speak, just turns and leaves. I run to the door after him and scream out of it, ‘Remind me to do the same for you one day!’ These words I hear. They tear out of my throat.

I go back inside to find Penny scrubbing the draining board. She looks up and I’m surprised to see concern in her eyes. They’re searching me. It makes me feel uncomfortable. I smile a little, but that makes her look more nervous. She puts the scourer down. ‘Are you sure you’re okay, darling? That stuff you just said …’ She shrugs. ‘It wasn’t called for.’

‘He’ll get over it,’ I say. My mind is blank. Whatever I said couldn’t have been that bad. Surely. I dig deeper but there is nothing apart from a vague memory of rage. I shrug it away. It’s done and Paul is gone. And anyway, he’ll get over it. Paul always does. I eat the last piece of cold garlic bread from the plate.

*

It is a dark night, inside and out, forcing the argument to be quickly forgotten. The boys come back at about eleven, their faces red from the air and still laughing, and they take Paul’s absence in their stride with no surprise, almost as if they already knew he wouldn’t be here when they returned. I curse him again, but keep it on the inside. They wouldn’t understand my anger. They adore him too much for that.

I dig out some blankets for Simon and Davey and they settle down on the two sofas, the TV for company. They are in high spirits. I lean in to kiss them each goodnight as if they are still tiny boys, all clean and warm and snug in pyjamas.

‘Make sure you only smoke in the kitchen.’ I speak to both of them, but my eyes linger on Davey’s. He gets the message. Simon is the brighter one, but Davey could always read between the lines.

Penny comes out of the bathroom, her face shining even after she’s scrubbed her make-up off. I don’t think she could switch that glow off even if she wanted to. That’s how I know she will always be all right, regardless of what befalls her. People like the glow.

She has her pyjamas on and her hair is pulled back in a ponytail. ‘Goodnight, darling. I’m going straight to bed. I’m shattered.’ She hugs and kisses me and wanders to the spare bedroom. I think about the two bottles of wine under my bed. I think about our giggles of earlier in the day. Maybe I did go too far with Paul. My head feels a little fuzzy, but drenching it in cold water in the bathroom sink clears it. Penny will be fine in the morning, whatever I said. She’ll put it away because she won’t want to think about it.

I go into my room but the TV is too loud downstairs and I stare up at the ceiling. Sleep evades me and I don’t want to take anything to help send me off in case the boys really do set the house on fire. I’m funny like that.
Once an idea is in my head I can’t shift it and part of me is firmly convinced that we will all go up in a boy-induced blaze tonight.

Eventually, with a big sigh, I grab my dressing gown and creep out of my bed and along the corridor. I can still hear the boys talking downstairs in the kitchen. They’re getting louder. Or maybe it’s just that the house is quieter. I seek refuge in your room and curl up in your armchair. Your breath rattles now, but it’s steady and even, the pauses between each inhale no cause yet for concern, but I wonder how your body is sustaining itself. You’ve shrunk so much I can’t make out your form under the duvet and your arm on top of the cover is stick thin. I’ve heard that phrase so many times but this is the first time I’ve really understood the metaphor.

The clock ticks. I wonder how your heart is ticking away without the medicine. I know that you’re bored of this and just want it over. I sigh. I’m glad the little light is still on, shedding some warmth in the stinking room.

I won’t sleep, I think, as I stare at that unfamiliar arm, but before long my eyes close …

*

They open quickly from the doze to see you sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at me and muttering to yourself.

‘Dad?’

You don’t answer, you don’t even hear me, your head
shaking a little on your fragile neck. One arm comes up as if you’re trying to point at the wall.

‘What is it, Dad?’ I ask you. ‘Do you need something? Do you need the toilet?’

I crouch in front of the bed, but you’re not hearing me. You’re not lucid. I don’t know where you are. You sit like this, your arms waving slightly, head trembling, mouth slightly open and I’m convinced you’re going to try to stand.

I hold your shoulders and try to negotiate you back into bed and although you don’t fight me, you don’t help me either and it takes me ten minutes to manipulate your long body so that at least most of it is lying down. You weigh nothing, but your legs are long levers and I can’t move them easily.

‘Help me, Dad,’ I whisper to you, to what you once were, as tears of frustration prick the back of my eyes. ‘Come on.’

You don’t help me, though, and in the end I manage alone and you are covered again. I stand with my hands on my hips for a moment and watch you. Then I sponge your mouth a little. I’m wide awake now, so I pad downstairs and put the kettle on. By the time I get back upstairs with a cup of tea and a book, you are lolling half out of bed again. My heart breaks some more.

The third time you try to get up I know we can’t do this on our own anymore. I shake Penny awake.

‘Pen. I need your help. Dad keeps trying to get out of bed.’

‘What?’ She is blurry and squinting in the light flooding in from the hallway.

‘Just get up, Pen.’

She shuffles after me, but when she sees you sitting up, this time at the end of your bed, her eyes widen and I know she’s awake. ‘What’s he doing?’ she whispers, as if you aren’t even there; as if you aren’t even you.

‘I don’t know,’ I find myself whispering back. ‘This is the third time I’ve had to get him back into bed. He’s not awake. Not properly, anyway. I don’t think he knows he’s doing it.’

Your whole upper body is shaking now and one foot lifts itself from the ground and then puts itself down again, clumsily, as if you’re tapping your feet to a bad jazz record. We get you to lie down, but we can’t drag you back up the bed and your legs are left hanging over the bottom.

‘I’ll get Davey,’ Pen says and dashes down the stairs. I look at you and sigh but I know she’s right. We’re just too tired to manage this.

The room is too small for all of us and we are cramped together as I try to explain what’s been happening. Davey nods. Simon sways. ‘He’s been getting out of bed? What’s he doing that for?’ His words are slurred and as he speaks I can smell beer on him. Suddenly it’s obvious that the boys walked all the way to the little shop earlier. No wonder they were laughing so much when they got back. I grit my teeth as he leans into me. I suspect there’s more than just beer at work here and I snap.

‘Just wait outside, Simon. Davey can do this. You’re in the way.’

He recoils so much it’s almost a pantomime response. ‘In the way? In the fucking way? He’s my dad, too … I have every right …’ His arm is waving as much as yours now as he points angrily at me. ‘Maybe he’s getting out of bed because he doesn’t want to be here! Have you thought of that, you fucking freak!’ His dark eyes rage at me.

Penny pulls him away. ‘Come on, Simon, not in here. Let’s go and get a cup of tea.’

I don’t say anything as he lets Penny tug him out into the corridor. He’s still muttering, and then he shouts, ‘Paul told me you didn’t want me here. You don’t trust me. He told me!’

I want to cry. I want to cry because Paul doesn’t understand how sensitive the boys are. I don’t believe he told Simon that – I really hope he didn’t, but I know Paul well enough to know that he would have spread his guilt. He would have told Simon that I was worried about the house. That I was worried about
what he might do
. Now two of them hate me.
Freak
. I wonder if I’m losing it. I try not to care and turn to you. Davey has got you all straightened out and pulls your duvet up to your chin.

‘His hands are so cold. Probably best to keep them covered.’

‘Thanks, Davey.’

He smiles sheepishly. I know he hasn’t been drinking. I can see it in his eyes. I sip my now-cold tea and make out Simon’s unsteady voice, still full of ire and hurt. Davey goes down to join them.

Not for long though, because within half an hour you’re at it again. I can feel my seams coming apart.

It’s a dark night inside.

There is very little sleep had that night and at about five a.m. rain begins to lash the house. Hard, heavy drops beat the walls and windows, but the rhythm soothes you. You finally settle down into some kind of comatose rest and I manage a couple of hours of escape in the chair. Still, even the bricks feel unsettled. You’ve crossed a bridge in the night and the change is tangible in the stale air of the morning. You are closer to dead than alive now. Even the house and the grey sky outside know it.

I hear the steady chug of an engine outside as a tractor rolls by. The world keeps turning. I yawn and stretch, bones cracking as they straighten and then I sponge your dry mouth. It doesn’t wake you. This sleep you’re in is different. I wonder if you dream in there. I talk to you anyway. It can’t hurt.

At about eleven, after a quiet breakfast of coffee and toast, Penny takes a subdued Simon to the train station.
We pay for his fare home and tell him we’ll call when things change. He is still angry, his ire no doubt fuelled by self-pity and more cheap beer consumed in the night. He doesn’t look at me as he leaves. Davey shrugs a little and goes back inside.

Watching them leave, I feel something, but I don’t know what it is. It’s not anger, at any rate. I don’t think I’ve got room for that. Davey is tidying up and rummaging through old things in the study so I make a cup of tea and go back upstairs. I plan to run a bath but, when I pop my head around your door, your eyes are open.

You try to speak but the words don’t make sense. They’re dry and rasping and confused. I try not to cry. For a second I wish you’d just come back or leave completely. This in-between is no good for anyone. A mistake in nature’s plan for us. Better to be hit by a bus or drop out of the sky than this interminable changing. This memory thief. I stroke the wisps of hair across the top of your head. When did they get to be so white? I don’t remember. You were always dark when we were children. Dark hair, dark eyes and dark, swarthy skin. I sigh.