The Other Ida (31 page)

Someone coughed quietly.

Blues and greens appeared on the wall and Ida fiddled with the knob on the side of the projector, turning it until the image was clear.

There she was, a skinny twelve year old in her ma's blue kimono, flinging her arms out to towards the camera while she mouthed lines from the play and weird, terrible poetry she'd written herself. Above her drifted the blurred shapes of gulls.

“Here we are when we were little,” said Ida. “Weren't we bloody magnificent? Well, we thought so at least. I tried to kill her you know, tried to kill Ally that day.”

“Princess,” Peter whispered. “This isn't the time.”

She ignored him.

“Maybe you don't want a film of us on the beach. We were never the interesting ones, were we?” she said to the room, opening the other tin.

She unhooked the beach reel – her teenage self disappearing from the wall – and placed the new one into the machine, drawing the film through the clips and looping it round.

Bridie appeared, frowning beneath her fringe as she leant against the kitchen worktop in their brand new house, the house she had hated from the start.

Then Ida appeared wearing a kilt, her hands in the air, jumping, delighted to be filmed, grasping the tiny Alice and pulling her round the room like a bag full of coal.

Around her people laughed, and it was only when she saw a drop fall into her wine that she realised that she was crying.

Most of the guests had gone, but a few remained huddled around Annie.

The curtains were still closed but the lights were on now – it was dark outside. Tom was hugging the drunken Alice and Ida sat with them for a while, Terri stroking her hair, before pouring herself another glass of wine, walking over and standing with the people in the corner.

Terri beckoned for her to sit back down but Ida shook her head. She stood for a few seconds, listening to them talking, before, pushing her way through the group and standing in front of Annie and Elliot. “Elliot, I mean it now, will you fuck off.”

He looked confused and annoyed. “I came down here to help you with stuff – I know you're upset, but...”

“Fuck off!” she shouted more loudly that she'd intended to.

“Jesus, we were only talking,” Annie said, looking at her knees.

Ida felt a small hand on her arm.

It was Alice, bleary eyed, pointing towards Annie. “And you can fuck off too, coming in here and flirting with everyone, I've been listening to you for hours. Ma thought you were a shit actress – you are a shit actress by the way – and you never replied to my lovely sister's letters. She loved you, she wrote about it in her secret book, that I read – sorry Ida – and you look like an aging fucking blow-up doll.”

“Fuck,” said Annie, standing up. “I came here to be supportive.” She pushed her way through the crowd of people and out through the hall, shouting something incomprehensible as she left.

“Oh, fuck you,” Alice shouted after her at the top of her voice.

Ida laughed.

The rest of the room began to talk again, nervously, while the crowd around the sisters dispersed and people pretended to examine the sandwiches.

“Come on, let's get you to bed,” Tom said. “You never should have had that Valium.”

Alice shrugged him off. “Stop it, Tom.”

Elliot stood up. He was smiling at Ida. “I knew you'd get jealous if I talked to her, didn't know you'd go bloody mental. And her as well,” he gestured at Alice. “Didn't know she had it in her. Come here.” He winked and held out his arms.

Without stopping to think Ida threw her glass of wine right into his face.

“Fuck Ida, my eyes,” he said, wincing and leaning over.

Tom stepped forwards and put his arm out, sensing Ida was about to launch herself at Elliot.

“Oh piss off, you boring wanker,” she said to Tom. “Why can't you let me do what I want? I know what you're about, you know. Obsessed with our mother, fame-hungry, grabby…”

“That's not me, Ida. That's him.” He looked towards Elliot. “That's all he could talk about when we were in the pub. But I don't give a shit about your mother being famous, or about what you do, not really. I'm here for Alice, who loved her ma. And even, as impossible as it might seem, loves you.”

It was dark, but Ida could see the outline of the desk and chair and realised that they were in Alice's room.

She felt the bed and found that it was soaking wet. With a deep breath she reached for the side-light.

At first she thought she'd imagined it, the bright red blood all over the clean white sheets – she'd imagined things before when she'd taken pills. For a few seconds she stared at it but it didn't go away and she froze – convinced that Alice had been murdered, perhaps by her. She checked her sister's back, found that she was breathing, before realising that it was her own dress, not Alice's, that was soaked with blood.

Her breathing was shallow and she felt light-headed. She turned, swung her legs out of the bed and tried to stand, but her skull filled up with light and she felt herself fall onto the carpet.

Chapter thirty-five

It was the morning, she was pretty sure of that, although the pale green curtain was pulled around her bed and she couldn't see a clock. Somewhere an old man was coughing and somewhere else, to her right, there was the scraping sound of a wonky-wheeled trolley being slowly pushed down the hall. Ida knew she was in hospital although she still wasn't quite sure why. She tried to sit up but the sheets were tight around her chest. She was thirsty, but from the fading sound of the trolley, she knew it would be a while before she'd have anything to drink.

No one had been near her yet which wasn't unusual. Normally, a few times a day, people would ask her questions – how does it feel? Does it hurt when I press here? Is there anyone we should call? Different people but always the same questions. She had no confidence in any of them and was almost certain she was going to die there. Apart from anything else the ground was so far away, and she was so unbelievably high up – twenty feet perhaps! – that she wasn't sure how she was ever going to be able to use the loo or stretch her legs.

Despite asking them, no one had brought her a ladder to use to climb down – not that she minded much. She was pleased to discover that, as she'd always suspected, she really didn't mind about death and it felt like it might be easier for Jesus to find her where she was, laid out like an offering on the narrow metal bed.

She slept a lot and occasionally they brought her food. Sometimes it was mashed up, sometimes not, and after a day or two Ida understood that it was because her age was shifting, that sometimes when she lay there, finding it difficult to speak, it was because she'd actually become a child once again. It was a comfort when she realised that and no longer struggled to talk, instead gazing at the yellow outline of the damp on the tiles above her and rubbing the soft place underneath the top of her arm.

Sometimes it hurt inside her and she wouldn't look. But instead of fighting the pain as she would have done in the past she imagined herself inside it. She knew what it looked like – deep and black and red – but at least it was warm and, while she was in there, no one could get to her.

A few times there were people she recognised, and then she wanted to speak. But it had been child-times when they visited so she had no choice but to smile and hope that they could see how much she'd shrunk. Elliot came once or twice, or someone who looked like him. He hadn't been back for a while. Peter came all the time to stroke her hair. And a few times she had been sure her mother had visited, singing Seoithín, Seohó and holding a damp cloth against Ida's forehead.

Above her a television was angled downwards so she could see. You were meant to pay to watch telly, she'd seen other people put coins in theirs, but she couldn't remember putting anything in hers.

Miracles could be small.

She changed the channel.

She knew this film.

Two clasped hands filled the screen before the camera panned back, and she saw Anna DeCosta in the water, her poor, sad future already showing in her eyes.

There was a shot of sky and then the girl again, but instead of Anna it was Ida herself – this Ida, right here! – out in the water, a blue kimono stuck to her skin, while on the beach was grown-up Alice, filming her sister with an ancient Standard 8.

Then it was Alice's turn in the sea.

Ida felt sand under her bare feet and wind on her skin. She was there now, in her hospital gown on Branksome beach, and she laughed as Alice smiled and beckoned her in.

She strode into the sea and reached for her sister's hand. Alice pulled, hard, and they fell together under the gentle waves before clambering out and gasping for breath, the salt scratching their eyes.

“Ha,” Alice shouted into the sky as she held Ida's arm aloft. “Haaaaa!”

It was a laugh and a roar, something joyful and victorious, and above them the startled gulls flew upwards, their wings beating the air so hard that Ida was thrown back into her bed.

The curtain clattered around her as someone pulled it open. It was a nurse she recognised. “Here she is, Jan, she's a little confused,” she said as she looked at Ida. “Aren't you?”

Ida glared at her. She was trying to watch
Batman
and it only came on once a day.

“That's fine, Denise,” said the auburn-haired woman, quietly. “Dr Green filled me in. You can leave us to it.”

The nurse didn't reply but looked grumpier than ever and began to walk away.

The woman pulled the curtain back round and sat on the chair next to Ida's bed. “Hi, I'm Dr McRoberts, from the psychiatric team. I'm here to help you, so if there's anything you don't understand please feel free to ask. I have some questions I'd like you to answer. Some of them might seem quite silly, apologies if so, but we need to ask them. Okay.”

Ida looked at her. She was beautiful this woman, younger than Ida, and her long hair was so shiny.

The woman laughed nervously. “Okay. Can you tell me your name?”

“Ida Irons,” she said. Her voice was hoarse. “I'm thirsty.”

“Oh God, okay, yes.” The woman looked at the empty water jug on Ida's side table then turned to look round the edge of the curtain, searching for a nurse. “Oh never mind, here,” she reached into her bag, pulled out a bottle of Evian, unscrewed the lid and handed it to Ida. “Wait, umm, do you need some help to sit?”

She stood and peeled back the sheets and Ida winced as she hauled herself up. Then the woman lifted the back of the bed, rearranged Ida's pillows, and held her as she slowly leant back and took a sip of water.

“Thank you,” Ida said breathlessly.

The woman sat back down. She was pleased with herself, Ida could tell.

“Okay, back to the questions. Can you tell me what the date is?”

Ida finished the water in three gulps. “Ummm, I'm not exactly sure.” She tried to remember the last time she'd looked out of the window or at a newspaper. The light where she lay was almost always the same – yellow and buzzing – it was impossible to tell if it was blazing summer or covered in frost outdoors.

Ida could see the woman draw a circle for ‘naught' on her clipboard. “You should let me off that one though. All the days are the same in here.”

The woman smiled. “How old are you?”

Ida knew what the answer was meant to be – well, kind of. She couldn't tell her about all the age shifting – she'd get excited and think she'd caught Ida out. “Twenty-something.”

“Exactly?”

Ida just stared.

“Do you know why you're here?”

“Not really to be honest. No one's told me. I know I have a pain.”

“Where's the pain?”

“Inside.”

“Where inside?”

“Inside me. Under my skin. All through me.”

“All of you hurts? It's important to be specific.”

“The core of me hurts. My guts. I'm not sure.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“You said you're a psychiatrist.”

“You don't believe me?”

“I think you're a trainee. A real psychiatrist would never have given me their water – professional boundaries.”

The woman frowned. She looked at her piece of paper and hesitated.

“Let's move on. Do you ever hear voices, Ida?”

“I can hear you now.”

The woman smiled weakly. “I mean voices of people who aren't there.”

“No.”

“Because Dr Green said there had been some mention of religious experience…”

“Yes.”

“Could you elaborate?”

“I could but I'd rather not. Just because he's a bloody heathen he shouldn't go round saying I'm mad.”

“Who?”

“Dr fucking Green!”

“Okay Ida,” the woman lay a hand on Ida's arm. “There's no need to get worked up. I'm here to help you, honestly. Honestly. Sshhhh.”

Ida looked the woman in the eye. They had similar eyes, round and brown with huge black pupils. Ida was surprised to realise she would quite like to have told the woman everything but, as always, she knew that she couldn't. She laid her hand on the woman's, who shuddered slightly.

“Dr Mc… Roberts? I don't mean to be a dick. I am trying hard not to be. You have no idea how hard. Could you please tell me what I'm doing here? And am I going to die? If so – do you know when?”

The doctor removed her hand and looked at the questionnaire on her lap. Ida peered over the edge of the bed and made out the words as she wrote them:
refused/unable to answer questions
.

“I'll get Dr Green to come and talk to you. Although he says he has made you aware.”

“Well can you please do me a favour – can you make me aware again? And does my sister know I'm here?”