The Story of Us (28 page)

I turned away, and that was when I saw her. She looked old, way older than my mum, and was sitting slumped in what appeared to be a very sophisticated electric wheelchair. Her sparse hair was a white candyfloss bird's nest, with her pink and shiny scalp showing through. She was wearing a nightdress that looked clean enough, and a hideous green dressing gown with fresh stains down the front. She was staring far away into a distant corner of the room, at the point where the wall met the ceiling. I followed her gaze and saw nothing but cornice and plasterwork, but her eyes were transfixed as though she saw so much more. There was nothing of her; she was a jumble of bones in a dressing gown, with paper-thin wrinkled skin covering the places where flesh ought to be.
Who are you?
I thought sadly.
You're someone's daughter, someone's wife, probably someone's mum. How did you get so lost?

I turned to walk away, my eyes beginning to fill; my dad had been right not to come today, I wished I had made the same decision. I dropped my gaze, and that was when I saw them, the old lady's shrivelled and wasted bare feet, with the prominent blue veins and gnarled toes, whose nails were finished off with a perfectly immaculate pillar-box red coat of varnish. It was the single most incongruous thing I had ever seen. Those nails were absolutely perfect. Someone had spent time and effort giving a woman who clearly went nowhere and probably couldn't even remember her life before this place, an outstanding and beautiful pedicure. Someone cared. She hadn't been cast adrift and abandoned after all.

That care home wasn't the right one for us. But that old lady with the brightly painted toenails gave me the strength and determination to keep looking at others, not for now, but maybe for the future. Something else came out of that visit too, because now whatever else was going on in my life, whatever else I was doing, I set aside the time each week to paint my mum's nails.

‘Some post arrived for you this morning,' announced my father, walking past with a cup of tea in hand and the newspaper tucked under one arm. ‘I've left it in your room.'

I didn't look up from my task of slicking a coat of clear varnish over Mum's nails. ‘Thanks, Dad, I'll check it out when I go upstairs.'

Four letters were propped up against my mirror. I examined each in turn before dropping them back on to the dressing table: one from the bank; one mobile phone statement; a reminder about my car tax and a letter from my dead friend's mother. Linda's extravagant handwriting was instantly recognisable, even though I'd only seen it once before on the package returning Jack's leather jacket. This envelope felt too small for her to be returning anything, and I had no idea why she was writing to me. Inside the envelope was a single sheet of paper, carefully wrapped around another sealed envelope, like we were playing pass the parcel… from beyond the grave. Because of course I had instantly recognised the handwriting on the second envelope too. It was different from her mother's, untidier. There was only one word on the envelope, my name. So she'd clearly never intended for it to be posted. You'd have thought I'd have wanted to read whatever it was that Amy had to say, but I didn't. Instead I picked up the letter from Linda.

Dear Emma,

Donald and I have finally finished packing up Amy's flat. It was very difficult and emotional, and we'd been putting it off for weeks. I think if he'd had his way, Donald would have kept on paying the rent for years, and have kept the place as a shrine to her, but, well, that would have just been morbid, wouldn't it? Amy wouldn't have wanted us to do that.

Anyway, I found the enclosed letter tucked away with Amy's important papers. She obviously meant for you to have it, and I wonder if she'd intended to give it to you on your wedding day? Anyhow, here it is. I hope you don't find whatever she had to say to you too distressing. You're lucky. I would give anything to hear from her one last time.

All my love,

Linda xxxx

Linda's final sentence made me feel unbearably guilty. How much better would it have been for Amy's parents to have found a letter addressed to them in her flat, and not to me. And as for finding it distressing to read, well, I'm sure it would be. If I had any intention of reading it, which I didn't. I didn't want to read Amy's well-wishes for my wedding-which-never-was, and if she was writing about anything else… well, I didn't want to read that either. Not now. Not yet. Maybe never.

I went to my wardrobe and pulled from its depths a tattered old shoebox I hadn't looked in for years. It was held down with a broad elastic band, its cardboard lid bulging upwards under a pile of teenage mementos and souvenirs. I placed the pristine white envelope in its new resting place and bound down the lid. Then I buried the box back in my wardrobe.

‘Oh look,' said Monique with false good cheer, during a lunchtime lull later that week, ‘one of your men has come to see you. I am so glad. The day was beginning to drag a little.'

I gave her the sort of withering look that only employees who share a genuine and long-standing affection with their bosses are allowed to get away with. I saw Richard climb out of his car, having parked it with uncharacteristic recklessness on the double yellow lines which flanked the kerb outside the bookshop.

He entered the shop wordlessly, placed my spare car key on the polished wooden counter and slid it towards me.

‘Your key. As requested.'

There was nothing on his face that gave away what he was feeling. Not a solitary trace. But if you'd been there when he'd fallen out of a tree when he was nine years old, and had steadfastly refused to cry, even though his arm was broken in two places, you'd have recognised the pain he was concealing. I know I did.

I tried to swallow down a nagging feeling of guilt. Richard didn't look well. Beneath the tan he'd acquired while skiing, he looked pale and tired. I told myself I didn't care.

‘Thank you,' I said, covering the key with my hand, feeling the sharp edges digging into my palm. ‘You didn't have to make a special journey,' I added.

‘I got the impression you didn't want me hanging on to it any longer than necessary.'

‘Well, no,' I replied uncomfortably. ‘Actually, there are some other things of mine that are still at your place, things I'd like to collect…' He winced, as though I'd knifed him. ‘Perhaps I could call round one lunchtime in the week and get them?' I didn't have to translate that ‘lunchtime in the week' was a euphemism for ‘when you're not there'. I could see from his eyes that he got it.

We stood awkwardly facing each other, strangers travelling through a weird and unfamiliar territory. Frankly, it had been easier when we were still yelling at each other.

‘Yes. Whatever you want. You still have your door key?'

I nodded, mentally reminding myself to leave that behind when I'd finished.

‘How's Caroline?' he asked abruptly, and I could sense our mutual relief. Here at least was a neutral topic, with no hidden undertow to suck us under.

‘Much better. She went for her first counselling session the other day, and she sounded quite positive about it. Nick's really relieved; he's been so worried about her.'

Richard nodded, opened his mouth to say something and then thought better of it. This was awful. Excruciating. Every sentence was a minefield. It was impossible to pick a pathway through the dismembered remains of our relationship without causing injury. Where was Monique with her acid-tongued
bon mots
when you needed her? I glanced behind me, but my boss, for the first time ever, had tactfully left us alone to talk.

‘Oh, I almost forgot, I've brought you something,' Richard said, pulling a large padded manila envelope from beneath his arm.

My heart sank. After the flowers, I really hoped he wasn't going to try and win me back with gifts. He was wasting both his money and his time.

‘It's a book,' he said, placing it on to the counter.

I slid my fingers beneath the flap and pulled out a large expensive-looking hardback.
Alzheimer's: A Revolutionary Understanding.
Although I'd read a great many books about this villainous disease since my mother had first been diagnosed, I hadn't seen this particular title before.

‘It's new,' Richard said, as I turned it over and speed-read the back cover. ‘There are some really interesting case studies in the last chapter. They mention strategies we've not tried before. I think some of them might help her.'

I laid the book back down on the counter. ‘Thank you. It looks interesting. What do I owe you?'

A look of genuine pain flashed across his face.

‘Nothing. Of course, nothing. I ordered it months ago, before… before everything. It's just taken a while to get here.' He shook his head as though he still couldn't believe I had offered him money. ‘You don't owe me anything.'

‘Well, thank you again.'

He glanced at his watch. ‘I have to go. I guess I'll see you around.' He saw the look on my face. ‘Or not.' He walked to the door, and then stopped. I could almost see his inner struggle as he fought down whatever it was he really wanted to say to me. ‘Don't throw that book away, just because it came from me,' he asked, clearly remembering the fate of the flowers. ‘At least read it first.'

‘I will,' I promised.

And I did. Richard was right, the book contained strategies that could possibly help Mum. They gave me hope. What I didn't know how to deal with, what I
really
struggled to push from my mind, were the countless notes Richard had painstakingly annotated in the margins of the book. He must have spent ages writing them, and I didn't know what to make of that at all.

Caroline timed her call perfectly. She knew exactly when I left work each day and phoned just as I was gathering up my bag and getting ready to leave.

‘Hi. It's me,' she announced, then plunged straight in. I guess she wanted to catch me off guard. Mission accomplished, my friend.

‘Do you know what day it is today?'

It was a stupid question. Of course I knew. Important dates like that stick in your brain. ‘Yes, yes I do.'

‘Well I was wondering…' My not-quite-so-certain-of-herself friend let the question hang in the airwaves between us. I remained silent.

‘I've bought some flowers.'

‘That's nice.' I wasn't being deliberately sarcastic, but then, I wasn't exactly being sincere either.

‘Will you come with me after work so that we can lay them together?'

I sighed. I'd known that this, or something very like it, was going to have been the purpose of her call.

‘No, Caro. I don't think so.'

‘But it's her
birthday
,' she protested sadly.

‘I can't, Caroline. I just can't.'

‘You have to forgive her some time, Emma. You can't keep this up. I
know
you.'

‘Well, maybe I can. Maybe I'm just not as nice a person as you.'

‘Yes, you are,' she defended loyally.

‘Go without me,' I requested. ‘I'm sorry, but it's still too soon for me.'

‘Well, all right.' Caroline had caved with very little real argument. I guess she hadn't really thought that I would say yes. ‘But I'm going to tell her the flowers are from both of us,' she said with a small challenge in her voice.

‘Okay, whatever.'

I stood staring at the calendar on the office wall, long after Caroline had hung up the phone. My eyes were fixed on the two black numbers in the square grid.

‘Happy birthday, Amy.'

There was warm sunshine and a tree-ruffling breeze outside my window on Friday afternoon as I changed out of my work clothes and into something more suitable for visiting the lake. It's not like it's a date, I told myself fiercely as I pulled on a pair of black trousers and reached for just about the only thing I hadn't yet tried on. It was a soft angora jumper with a deep cowl neck. The jade colour complemented the red in my hair, and brought out the green of my eyes. The one decision that
had
been easy to make was my footwear. Definitely flats.

I pulled the clip from my hair and brushed it until it fell in a waterfall of burnished copper on my shoulders. I had just finished applying a slick of gloss to my lips when his car pulled up outside. My heart began to pound, and my mouth felt suddenly dry. It was absurd, but I felt like a nervous teenager about to go on her very first date.

It was strange to see Jack standing in the hall of my parents' house, politely shaking my father's hand. He looked up with a warm smile when he heard my descent on the stairs, and I hoped the clatter of my feet was loud enough to mask the sound of my breath catching in my throat as his eyes met mine.

There was an odd feeling of worlds colliding as Jack and my father exchanged their greetings. This was new and alien territory for me. Richard had been like a member of our family for so long that I scarcely recognised the feeling of fluttering anxiety as my family and personal life crossed paths, and all I could do was stand back and hope that everyone would like each other. I needn't have concerned myself on that score. Jack was charming, modest and respectful when my father haltingly expressed his long-overdue gratitude to our visitor.

‘We owe you everything, Frances and I,' he said humbly. We all turned as my mother walked silently from the kitchen and came to stand beside him. ‘There are no words that can express it adequately. If it hadn't been for you, we would have lost her. You saved all of us, when you got Emma out of that car.'

‘It was my pleasure.' Jack's soft American accent made his reply sound both warm and sincere.

‘She means the world to her mum and me—' My father's voice was choked with emotion.

‘Dad,' I interrupted, finding his honesty with a total stranger both touching and unexpected. ‘You'll embarrass Jack if you keep going on like this.'