The Lie, page 8
Romy nodded her thanks, but didn’t feel particularly encouraged. Michael was obviously still far from out of the woods.
The hospital had a soporific effect on Romy. It felt like a separate world: overheated air, polished corridors and pleated blue curtains, frightening equipment and people talking a language that made her feel stupid and out of control. There was nothing to do except sit and watch as different elements of the medical team zoomed in on Michael, like bees to a flower, performed whatever service they were required to provide, then melted away.
She ate too many biscuits and crisps and drank too much coffee. She had brought her book and tried to read. But in the end she just sat vacantly, unwilling to analyse her presence beside Michael’s bed or her feelings about the man lying in it.
In her mind’s eye, an old memory sprang up, an event she hadn’t thought of in years, triggered because it had taken place in a large house in one of the streets behind the hospital. It was a New Year’s Eve party they’d been to before the boys were born, given by one of Michael’s fellow trainee barristers in his parents’ home. She’d had on a gorgeous strappy dress in deep raspberry. The band was top class, Michael a great dancer – like everything else in his life, he wanted to be the best – and she just followed his lead. She remembered his dark eyes flashing with pleasure as he whirled her expertly around, skirt swirling out from her long legs, remembered the exhilaration she felt just being in his arms.
Will he ever be able to dance again? The thought brought tears to her tired eyes.
14
Michael’s condition had gone up and down in the five days since his stroke. It was Saturday now. Romy still felt scratchy and bone-tired from worry, but also cautiously optimistic. Michael was no longer considered critical and they had moved him out of the ICU to the stroke ward on the floor below – where, to Romy’s guilty relief, visiting hours were limited to the afternoons.
He was definitely more compos mentis now, although his speech was still extremely slow and distorted and his whole left side hung uselessly from his body, making him horribly lopsided and incapable of balancing on his own when the nurses got him out of bed. But the danger of another stroke was still a real threat, according to the doctor.
Today he seemed pleased to see her, raising his good hand to take hers when she reached the bed. Someone had shaved him and put his pyjamas on, and he looked a bit more like his normal self. Her husband had always been striking rather than handsome. A lean man of average height, he had begun shaving his head decades ago, after he’d cut it open getting off a faulty ski lift, then decided he preferred the look. It accentuated his high cheekbones and large dark eyes, his Roman nose – inherited from his Venetian grandmother – and made him stand out among the more conservatively presented judiciary. But now his exposed skull just made him look ancient.
‘Hey,’ she said. ‘I brought you some chicken broth.’ She placed the Thermos on the bed table, moving aside the inevitable grapes and a pile of books brought in optimistically by Leo, none of which Michael had even glanced at. ‘Bit of a cliché, but you’ve always been fond of my soup and I’m sure the food in here is shit.’
Michael nodded and smiled. ‘I’m very fond of … things you cook,’ he said slowly, obviously searching for words, the meaning hard to glean from his mangled speech. Then, to Romy’s horror, she noticed a single tear course down his cheek. Then another.
‘Michael?’ She stroked his hand, finding a tissue in a box on his bedside locker and handing it to him. The tears stopped almost as soon as they’d started.
Michael gave her a weak smile. ‘Not sure … why that … why I …’ he mumbled, appearing bewildered rather than embarrassed. Romy had rarely seen him cry, not even when his beloved mother had died. It shocked her that he was so disarmed; it touched her heart.
‘Shall I pour you some soup?’ she asked, to cover her own emotion.
He shook his head, but she couldn’t understand the words he was trying to articulate.
The afternoon wore on and there was no sign of the boys or Anezka. Michael’s long-time colleague and friend, James Bregman, with whom he shared chambers, dropped in, clutching a lavish, dewy bunch of flowers, which he waved vaguely around, and finally laid on Michael’s bed.
‘Thanks, these are gorgeous,’ Romy said, after she’d greeted James. ‘But I’m not sure they allow flowers on the ward, these days.’
His expression fell and he looked ill at ease – although James was not someone easily discomposed – as he hopped from foot to foot in his expensively tailored suit, his plump, fair face flushed. ‘Sorry, didn’t think …’ He stared at Michael’s sleeping figure. ‘Bit of bad luck this, eh?’ As if his friend had just lost on the horses.
James, through all the guff and posturing, was actually a decent person, Romy knew – he would have done anything to help, had she asked – but he was not the easiest man to talk to, even though she’d known him for decades, unless the subject was the law.
‘Are you and Michael –’ James was interrupted by the arrival of the ward staff nurse at Michael’s bedside. He looked relieved. ‘Better leave you to it,’ he said. ‘I’ll pop in another day.’ And he was off, leaving the flowers on the bed, without having said a word to his ailing friend.
The nurse cleared her throat. ‘Perhaps we could step outside for a moment,’ she said in a low voice.
They stood in the corridor. Staff Nurse Weeks had her arms crossed over her uniform. She was dark-haired, neat and businesslike, her friendliness slightly forced as if she considered this part of her job a chore.
‘It’s early days, Mrs Claire, but I wanted to touch base with you about Michael’s rehabilitation.’ When Romy, caught off guard, did not instantly reply, she went on in her clipped voice, ‘As I’m sure you’re aware, there’s a lot to organize. Obviously Michael’s not ready to go home quite yet. But we try not to keep stroke patients in hospital any longer than necessary. We find they do much better in familiar surroundings, as long as they have proper support.’
Romy felt a shaft of panic. ‘I’m not really the one responsible for that,’ she said. ‘Michael and I aren’t together. We haven’t been for a while.’
She seemed taken aback. ‘Oh. No one mentioned this to me.’ She paused. ‘So will your son be responsible for Michael when he goes home? Because we need to check there’s someone arranging his care package for when the time comes. Such as taking charge of his finances while he’s incapacitated. I’m sure the family has thought of this, but he’ll need his accounts monitoring, his bank informed and his bills paid until he can do it himself. Plus someone will have to oversee the various aids and equipment he’ll need in his current situation and make sure there’s always someone present – he can’t be left alone. Is this something –’
‘He has a partner,’ Romy interrupted, although she knew as she said it that this might very well not be the case any more. But she was uneasy about steaming in and potentially treading on Anezka’s toes. Can she be totally sure about splitting up when Michael is too incapacitated to have a proper conversation about the row they had? ‘I think you should talk to her,’ she added.
Weeks nodded. ‘Is she coming in today?’
‘She might be,’ Romy replied uncertainly. Because Anezka hadn’t visited in the last couple of days, only kept in touch with Leo on the mobile. But even if she did come in, Romy was having trouble imagining Anezka picking out which Zimmer frame would be most suitable for Michael. As she stood watching the retreating figure of the staff nurse, she suddenly felt frighteningly alone, like a drowning person. The finger of responsibility seemed to be pointing directly, inexorably, at her.
15
It had been a tearful reunion with Rex on Thursday, the three of them hugging each other in mute bewilderment when he arrived, dazed from his twenty-four hours of travel. But being there to welcome her son in the place the boys still thought of as home felt strange without Michael, especially as now she considered the Sussex cottage her home. As a family they seemed disoriented, not sure what to do with themselves.
Later that day Rex and Leo took over from her at Michael’s bedside. She needed to go to the flat to collect clean pyjamas and his shaving soap. ‘Meet me at five thirty across the road?’ she asked her sons. She needed to talk urgently to them – in the wake of the staff nurse’s bombshell – and do it away from their father’s hearing. At least they could get a decent cup of tea and a piece of cake in the café opposite the hospital.
Now her sons gazed at her expectantly from the other side of the rough wooden table. She had a sudden flashback to their youth, their faces barely changed, in her eyes, since they were small boys, and felt an overwhelming love for them both.
‘OK, so Staff Nurse Weeks collared me earlier. She’s already talking about the plan for when your dad gets out,’ she said.
Rex glanced sideways at his brother. His hazel eyes – always with a slightly dreamy, faraway look – were underscored with dark circles from the jetlag. It was so lovely to see him again, although he seemed different, even in the six months he’d been gone, almost foreign with his surfer-style clothes, his tan and longer, salt-bleached waves. All of which were so out of place in the grey city light. She wondered how long he would stay: her heart was already steeling itself at the thought he would soon be gone again.
‘Anezka has said she can’t be involved,’ Leo stated flatly.
Frowning, Romy asked, ‘Already?’
Leo shrugged. ‘We left her with Dad earlier because Rex needed a smoke. Then we grabbed a coffee so she could have some time alone with him. But on our way back in, she came flying out of the revolving doors, almost in tears. Apparently one of the nurses had tried to talk to her about Dad’s rehab and she freaked, told them she had nothing to do with it. Said she was just a friend.’ Leo raised his eyebrows.
‘So …’ Romy let out a long sigh. ‘So she’s saying it’s really over with your dad?’
Rex spoke up. ‘Certainly from her point of view, I reckon. Although she waves her arms about and shrieks so much, I can’t make out what she’s on about half the time. She kept saying, “ I love him, I love him ”, but then she says something about Dad not wanting her any more.’
‘And when I asked her if she was going to stop visiting,’ Leo took up the story, ‘I thought she was going to lynch me. She grabbed me by the arms and shook me. “ Of course I come, Leo. Who do you think I am? I will not leave your father when he is like this. I told you, I love him.”’ Leo did a terrible imitation of Anezka’s accent, which might have made Romy laugh at any other time.
The three were silent. Then Leo said, ‘Mum, what are we going to do? Anezka is obviously a lost cause.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘I mean, I guess I can take a bit of time off work, if they’ll let me. But I’m not exactly sure … I hope I’m up to it. And Rex won’t be any help. He has to get back to start his new job next week.’
Romy gave her youngest a sharp look. Next week? Her heart lurched. ‘What new job? You didn’t tell me.’
Rex sheepishly lowered his eyes and picked at the crumbs on the paper case that had held his chocolate muffin. ‘I only just heard. It’s not barista work this time. This is a proper global outfit. It’s my dream job, Mum. If it works out, it means I’m set for life. I can travel all over the world.’ There was a lengthy pause. ‘But obviously I don’t have to take the job. I wouldn’t want to land Leo in it.’ He gave a resigned sigh. ‘I’ll stay if you need me, of course … It’s just …’
‘Coding?’ she asked. She’d hoped he would get bored with Australia and come home after a few months. But now he’d probably settle somewhere thousands of miles away from her, meet some girl and live a life she would only know about on Facebook.
‘Yeah. Uncle Blake had a contact. They seem to think I’m pretty good.’ He gave a shy grin.
‘That’s great.’ Romy managed a smile in return. ‘I’m pleased you’ll be –’
‘It’s great for Rex, obviously,’ Leo interrupted. ‘But where does it leave Dad? I’ve got a job too, which I certainly don’t want to lose.’
In the silence that followed, Romy felt that menacing finger pointing at her again. She winced, her mind whirring. Why didn’t Michael have a convenient relative with nothing else to do? Some doting Cousin Mary who could ride in and take control. But Michael wasn’t really in touch with his extended family. He spoke to his three brothers only when they called him – which wasn’t often – and rarely travelled north to visit. He’d felt he had nothing in common with them since leaving home as a teenager.
When she didn’t reply at once, she saw the boys give each other a look. This is something they’ve already discussed, she thought.
‘Dad can afford nurses, can’t he?’ Leo asked tentatively.
Romy nodded. ‘He’s got insurance.’
Another glance between her sons, but neither spoke.
‘Mum …’ Leo looked her straight in the eye and took a long breath. ‘If I see to Dad when he gets out, will you help me …? Just for a week or two, while I settle him, find good people to come in,’ he added quickly, his look beseeching.
Rex took hold of her hand. ‘I know you and Dad aren’t together, Mum, but I can’t easily stay and it’s a lot for Leo to manage on his own.’
They both fell silent.
‘Once we’ve got carers settled in and he’s used to them, he’ll be fine, won’t he?’ Leo asked, when Romy still couldn’t find words to reply. ‘I can drop in all the time to make sure things are going OK. And, anyway, it shouldn’t be too long, the nurse said yesterday, before he can get round on his frame by himself.’
The image of Michael, staggering around the flat on a frame, dishevelled, dragging his leg, one arm completely useless, made Romy want to cry.
‘I don’t know which nurse you spoke to,’ she finally said, ‘but he’s going to need a lot of help for quite a while, Leo. He won’t be able to get to the loo, even wipe his bottom, take his medication, lift a plate – not for weeks.’
Both her sons looked embarrassed.
‘Poor Dad,’ Rex said.
‘Yeah,’ Leo agreed. ‘But the carers can do all that, Mum. And he’ll get physio …’
Romy didn’t reply. They had absolutely no idea. She’d seen her friend Angie’s husband, Barry, after his stroke. Angie had done every single thing for the man for months. Although she’d probably done too much, and made Barry even lazier than he already was. Michael isn’t lazy, she thought. He’ll be really motivated to get better.
Now it was Leo’s turn to reach across the table and take her hand, his eyes filling with tears. ‘Please, Mum. I know it’s not fair to ask you, but will you help?’ He took his hand from hers to brush away his tears. ‘I’ll do it all, I promise. I just need some moral support.’
Romy knew she didn’t have a choice. ‘I’m going home this evening,’ she said, her tone painfully reluctant. ‘I need to get clothes and stuff.’ She took a slow breath, trying to quell the roiling in her gut. ‘But I’ll be back Sunday night … And, yes, of course I’ll help you, Leo.’
As she said goodbye to her grateful sons and walked away from the café, she thought of the email she’d received earlier in the week, the request from the Wildlife Trust to come in and meet them. She thought of Finch. The prospect of going backwards – even for a short period – to tend a post-stroke Michael made her feel like throwing plates at the wall.
16
‘I know it’s late, but can I come over?’ Romy’s voice had sounded strained when she’d called earlier.
Finch was delighted. In the days since he’d dropped her off at the hospital, he’d become increasingly anxious. He’d begun to feel that the night they’d spent together would prove a grand finale to their relationship, not the opening ceremony, as he’d hoped.
She had started to cry as soon as she was through the door. He’d taken her in his arms and just held her, listening to her muffled, disjointed fears about helping out with Michael’s rehabilitation.
‘Glass of wine?’ he asked later, when she was calmer and had flopped down tiredly on the sofa.
She nodded. ‘Make it a large one.’
He came back with two glasses of red and a big bowl of crisps. Romy’s eyes lit up and she helped herself to a handful.
‘You won’t be needed for too long, I imagine,’ Finch said, settling beside her.
She met his eyes, her expression blank and exhausted. ‘You must think I’m awful, being so reluctant. It’s not that I don’t want to make sure Michael’s OK. And of course I’ll be there for Leo. It’s just … recently I’ve felt so excited about things …’ She looked away. ‘And this feels like …’ She didn’t finish, but her expression said it all.
‘You don’t think Leo could cope?’
Romy shrugged. ‘I’m sure he could. He’s nearly thirty, not a kid – although I still think of him as one. I’m sure people his age have to deal with much worse than this, all the time. But if I can help …’
Finch, who’d had to do just that when he was not even twenty and his mother had fallen seriously ill with congestive heart failure, did not comment. He didn’t want Romy to think he was criticizing her sons because he wasn’t. He wouldn’t wish what he’d had to go through on anyone.
Romy went on, ‘But both the boys are at the beginning of their careers. They can’t easily take six months out to look after their father.’ She gave an apologetic smile. ‘I don’t think I’m being too soft on them.’
Finch nodded. He understood.
‘The thing that really worries me is that Leo’s estimate of two weeks is way off. It could take much longer to settle things.’
‘You don’t know that. See how it goes,’ Finch said, trying to be encouraging. But he felt he was swimming against the tide. Romy was too wound up to take in what he was saying.
