Being Here (14 page)

CHAPTER 11

I
WAKE AT TWO-THIRTY FIVE
and I know.

There is a moon outside and the walls of my room are painted in silver. The colours merge with my dream. It is not uncommon to wake in the early hours of the morning. Pain is often my alarm clock.

This time, though, my body is at peace. It is my mind that hurts.

I know.

I cradle the knowledge through the long hours to dawn.

***

Jane takes my hand.

‘It was peaceful, Leah. I promise you that. She didn't suffer. Just went to sleep and didn't wake. I am so sorry. I know you were close.'

There are tears in her eyes. I wonder how she copes with looking after the elderly. Death comes with the job. What effect does that have over time? The constant erosion of emotions by the battering waves of death. The accepted wisdom is that nurses become immune. It is their only defence. But Jane is different. I am glad she is different. When we lose the ability to care we become less than human. But the toll … I nod. I have had a number of dark hours to think it through. I do not know how I knew. It is a mystery, and the older I get the more the mysteries accumulate. I no longer try to fathom them.

Lucy was here and now she is gone. It is as unexpected as it is expected.

We talked last night about the final journey. I thought I would be the first of us to set out into the unknown. I was wrong. I wonder if she has her answers now.

‘Thank you,' I say to Jane. I rub her hand. It is my office to comfort her. ‘We are old. It happens. It must happen. You cannot take it to heart. It's not personal.'

She smiles, but it is a weak and helpless thing.

‘Not sure how much more personal it can get,' she says.

‘It's not personal,' I repeat.

‘Would you like me to stay with you today?' she asks.

‘You have work to do.'

I see her mind considering. Her mouth moves to utter the words, but she stops herself in time.
This
is
work. The
comforting of the elderly at times of bereavement is what,
among other things, I am paid to do
.

‘It can be arranged,' she says finally.

‘You go about your work,' I say. ‘I'm fine. But thank you.'

‘I'll get you dressed and into the lounge.'

‘If it's all the same to you, I'd prefer to stay in bed. I'm tired, Jane. It wasn't a good night.'

She eyes me. There is doubt there. I shouldn't be left alone to mope. She has a duty of care. For Jane it's not just a statement in a job description. It's a moral imperative.

‘What about your visitor? That young lass who comes every day? Do you want me to tell her to come back another time or do you want the company?'

‘Send her to my room,' I say.

Jane kisses me on the cheek. I
know
that is not in the care-of-geriatrics manual.

‘I'm so glad she visits, Leah,' she says. ‘It's put a glow in your cheek and a spring in your step.'

I smile.

‘She's a nice girl. I enjoy her company.'

I do not add that I have treated her badly, that in so doing I have probably forfeited the pleasure of her company. And it is pleasure. She is not simply a receptacle for my story. She is a human being and must, therefore, be treasured.

I watch the day grow old and die.

Carly doesn't come.

She doesn't come the next day either.

CHAPTER 12

I
AM LOWERED INTO A
wheelchair for the journey to the car. Someone lifts me into the back seat of a long, black, sleek vehicle. A nurse – not Jane – sits in the back with me. Our driver wears a dark cap and a sombre expression.

Despite the circumstances, I am glad when we leave the Home behind. I cannot remember the last time I left the grounds. The sun dominates a cloudless sky. I want to wind down the car window. It operates with a button and it takes time to work out how to do it. I breathe in air that is pungent with life and watch the landscape roll past. My nurse doesn't say anything. I do not know if that is consideration or indifference, but I am grateful.

The church is small and crowded. I am helped into the wheelchair once more and wheeled down the central aisle to take my place at the front and to one side. I have the best view in the house. Lucy's daughter kneels before me and we whisper routine sentiments. There is sadness in her eyes, but I think I also detect the faintest hint of relief. I understand that. I respect that.

The minister is young and talks too long. He makes the mistake of assuming a knowledge he doesn't possess. I am faintly irritated by his insistence on appropriating Lucy for God's benefit. I remember some of her last words to me. That organised religion is too in love with ritual. I wonder if he uses the same format for each funeral, the same pious assumptions of a meaning behind all this. It is, I know, in the nature of things. Wheel one in, dispose of it, work through the list. Next, please.

Yet I also know he believes everything he says. His words are steeped in sincerity. It makes forgiveness easy.

I gaze around the church. It is wonderful and if God is anywhere He is here. The stained-glass windows are delicate, exquisite. The pulpit is elegant, the cross simple. No body crowned in thorns and slumped in the agony of victory. A plain wooden cross. Mother would have disapproved. She craved drama in her religion. She expected it to be full of pain. She always had difficulty getting beyond the Old Testament. The New, for her, was like a re-make of an old classic film. It lacked style and tried too hard to please.

The coffin is simple, too. I think Lucy would have liked it.

Once the ceremony is over I am wheeled back to the car. Lucy's daughter has invited me to her house for sausage rolls, curled sandwiches and pointless reminiscence. I have declined. I have said my goodbye. Nothing else remains.

The chauffeur stubs out a cigarette and straightens his cap as we approach. I wonder if he ever thinks about the day he will be driven in his turn, that final crunch of rubber on some gravel-strewn path. Sooner than he thinks if he keeps up the smoking.

My nurse applies the brakes as the chauffeur moves to open the back door. I am touched on the arm. When I turn the sun is directly in my eyes and I have to squint at the figure above me.

‘Hey, Mrs C.'

‘Carly,' I say. My heart jumps. ‘What are you doing here?'

She kneels down into the shade of the car. I see her through the watery film of sun-bludgeoned eyes. She smiles and I am thrilled to see the artist's palette of her teeth.

‘I went to the Home,' she says. ‘They told me you were here. That it was a funeral. My boyfriend, Josh, drove me.' She points to an old, rusted car at the far reaches of the car park. A young man stands, leaning against the passenger door. He has his arms folded. Even at a distance and even with my failing eyes I can see the boy from the photograph, which, I realise, I still have. One leg is bent. Carly gives him a wave, but he doesn't respond.

‘I don't understand,' I say. ‘Why the rush? You could have waited until I got back. Or you could have returned tomorrow.'

Carly blushes and then I realise.

‘You thought it was mine, didn't you?' I say. ‘They didn't tell you I was just a spectator.'

She spreads her arms.

‘Hey, you know. I got confused. They said “funeral” and I just made assumptions. It was dumb. I know that. But I asked where it was and they gave me the address. I rang Josh. Here we are.'

I laugh.

‘It's okay,' I say. ‘I'm surprised it's not mine, as well.'

She laughs too.

I want to apologise, but maybe it's the sun. Maybe it's the silent nurse and the grim-faced chauffeur who smells of smoke. Maybe it's just not the right time.

‘I love your teeth,' I say instead. ‘They are an explosion of colour.' Her hand automatically goes to her mouth, but she quickly drops it. ‘Is that something you chose or something the dentist made you wear?'

‘The orthodontist? No. I chose these colours. If you've got to wear braces, well, I figured you might as well go all the way. Know what I mean? Loud and proud. To hell with it. In your face.'

‘You made the right choice,' I say. ‘They are bright and cheerful. They match your personality.'

The nurse coughs and I battle the urge to stay here talking a while longer just to spite her. She is on duty. Her time is much more disposable than mine. But I don't. Years of submission to duty win out once more. I can't change this. I have stopped trying.

‘I am delighted to see you, Carly.' I say. ‘I wasn't sure if I would.'

‘Ah, no worries, Mrs C. It's just that I've been kinda, you know, busy the last week. Assignments and stuff.'

I think it is a lie. But a sweet one.

‘So, can I come and see you again?' she says. ‘You know, if you want.'

‘That would be wonderful,' I say. ‘When?'

She scratches her nose.

‘I guess you wouldn't want me to come later today, would you? I mean, this kinda thing probably takes it out of you.' She waves her arms to encompass the immediate environment. The gesture takes in the funeral.

‘I would love that. And please thank your young man for driving you here. It was kind of him.'

She glances over at her boyfriend. He has not moved a muscle.

‘Sure,' she says. ‘Well, catchya later then, Mrs C. Cool wheels, by the way.'

The chauffeur has opened the back door and the nurse is itching to get me out of the wheelchair. I allow myself another sentence.
To hell with it
, I think.

‘Thanks,' I say. ‘As wheels go, they are certainly … cool.'

The return journey seems much shorter. I think about Carly talking to the receptionist at the Home and the confusion she must have felt. I know she always gets the bus when she comes to see me. It's something she mentioned. When she thought I was dead, she rang her boyfriend, made him collect her. I can't imagine he was happy to drop everything for an old woman he doesn't even know. He doesn't look like someone easily coerced. Yet she insisted.