Perfect Skin (34 page)

Everything from the time of Mel's death is too strange and extreme to explain, and I often don't get it myself. I'd forgotten about the stories in the paper, and the way my brain worked, seeing Mel as I looked up from the dictionary eight days after she was dead. It's all still stuck in the jumble of that time, all too big to make sense of. None of it's even medium-sized, so where and how would I start the talking to make the process of talking do some good?

For several weeks it was like driving in fog. Blank and intense. I think I had my friends there to buffer me, keep me from harm. But I don't even know.

The rules seemed irrevocably different, suddenly. As though everything I'd understood about the world was wrong, everything I'd taken to be certain couldn't be relied upon. Everything I thought I had to argue about or to fix didn't have to be battled over any more. And it happened with no effort at all.

Death seemed always likely then, in those first few weeks, in a way it hadn't since I'd been a hospital resident, when I saw it all around me during some terms. Even now, Lily scares me when she sleeps. As though it's reckless of her. Sometimes I have to watch and watch.

But I'm doing it again. Standing here, chopping, listening to Ash talk to Lily, and doing it again. Running the tape again in my head, being my own audience of one. Not talking, perhaps trying to wear out the tape, play it so many times it becomes inert.

When Lily's gone to bed, I cook the pasta and I toss it with everything I've chopped. It smells good. The kitchen fills with the smell of garlic and basil. I've known Ash three weeks, three weeks and three days. And I lie awake at night, thinking about her. She's more than ten years younger than me, for god's sake. I've no idea what she wants, what she's thinking, what her life's about.

We eat outside. On the monitor, I can hear Lily making murmuring noises and, just when it sounds like she's building up to something, about to wake properly, she settles.

Well done, I tell her in absentia. Good choice.

It's useful, having that
.

Yeah. It's better than checking, getting up to check every few minutes. Which is what I'd do if I didn't have it.

When she's sleeping?

You don't think I'd leave her in peace, do you? I never slept at first. I'd have to get people over here during the day to mind her so that I could sleep. And I'd have to tell them we'd had a bad night, which we hardly ever did. She's always been a good sleeper. I just couldn't leave her to it. I still can't really relax when she sleeps. However dumb that is.

I don't think it's dumb
.

Hmmm. It's not very rational. She scares me when she sleeps, and that's kind of off-putting, potentially. It's a pretty neurotic thing to admit.

Dickhead
, she says, in a joking kind of way, and shakes her head.
What have I been saying? I was hassling you about not talking. I can't complain if you do. So what's it about?

What do you mean?

You're not a neurotic person. What's the problem with her sleeping?

Okay. At first I think I kept trying to convince myself that it was safer to believe that she was temporary. That the whole thing was a phase. Having her was a phase. I tried not to get attached. Just in case. I couldn't believe that someone as comprehensively naive as her could be given something as fragile as life to look after. When her mother was smart and took no shit and paid attention to everything, and she still blew it. But it's not like that, of course. All Lily's parts, I'm told, are in great working order, and any problem would come as a complete surprise. But surprises happen sometimes. So there you go.

Yeah, but
. . .

Ash, I now notice, is quite pale. She's been going pale and looking more and more uncomfortable over the last few minutes.

Sorry, should we talk about something else?

No. It's just my headache. It's nothing to do with what we're talking about
.

Are you sure?

Yes, I'm sure. I knew you'd think that
. She puts her head down on the table.
Which is why I wasn't telling you. Have you got anything I can take? It's getting worse
.

Yeah, probably. Let me go and look. It's just, you know, a regular headache?

Yeah
.

I get to the bathroom and I look through the cupboards. I don't know where all that stuff's gone. I pull the drawers open, and there's all kinds of junk, a lot of it not even mine, but nothing useful.

Ash appears in the doorway, looking unwell in the harsh bathroom light. She says,
I'm
. . . and then nothing more, as she goes down on her knees, doubling up, curling up on the floor.

What's happening? Really. What's really going on? You have to tell me.

Um
, she says, and takes a sharp breath in.
It's a period thing, I think
.

What?

A period thing. I used to have trouble. I went on the pill and it got better. I've been off it for a while now and it's getting worse
. She squeezes up her eyes and clenches her teeth.
And it's been a longer cycle this time, so that makes it worse too
.

A period thing?

Yeah, not a headache. I was planning to keep it to myself, but . . . right now it's better to curl up on the floor and admit it
.

I put my hand on her arm. I stroke her hair. I can't remember what to do. I don't know what to do for this now, I've been lasering so long.

You're cold, I say to her, and I pull a towel down and wrap it round her.

She sniffs, wipes her eyes, pulls her knees up higher.

Have you got anything to take for it?
Anything at home?

I don't have any money
, she says angrily.
You know I don't have any money. How could I get something to take?

Okay.

Sorry
.

Don't be. Let's get this sorted out. I'm getting help. I'm going to call someone who's a gynaecologist, and he's pretty nearby.

She doesn't argue. I fetch my mobile so that I can call from the bathroom. That way I don't have to leave her. I tell her Roscoe will know what to do. And he'll have drugs for now and free samples for later and he'll get this fixed. And we can get more of whatever she needs. And all the time, watching her on the floor, curled up, I'm scared and powerless.

You'll be okay.

I know. Jon, it's all right. I've had this before. This is just the worst time. But it's okay
.

I move her so that there's a towel under her as well as wrapped around her, and I fetch a pillow for her head.

Sorry, this is stupid
.

It's not stupid. And stop apologising.

I go through the cupboards again and I find a half-full bottle of infant Panadol. There's nothing I can do but wait. She squeezes my hand hard.

The doorbell rings. It's Ross Donovan.

Jon, what's happening?
he says when I get there.

I don't know. I could be over-reacting. It's just someone who was here for dinner who . . . she's on the bathroom floor. She thinks it's gynae. She looks like she's really in pain, and I didn't know what to do. I didn't know if I should take her somewhere, because there's Lily to sort out too.

That's okay
, he says.
Just take me in there
.

I lead him to the bathroom and he kneels beside Ash,
Roscoe Donovan with his wide, rounded shoulders and his big grey head of hair making her look like a broken child.

Could we just have a few minutes?
he says to me, when he realises I'm still anxiously hanging around.

Yeah, sure. I'll be out here.

Now, let's work out what's going on
, he says softly as I go.

I wait outside the door, telling myself I'm there in case I'm needed. I hear Ash answering questions. I should stop being so concerned. When I hear him ask if she's been sexually active lately, I realise I do have to go, but I can't stop myself hearing her answer. It's no.

I make tea in the kitchen. I'm not sure why, since I don't want it. I sit and drink it, and the murmur of Roscoe's voice is still calm, questions with spaces for Ash's answers, longer stretches of explanation. Elvis trots in and sits at my feet.

Then I hear Roscoe's footsteps along the hall.

There you are
, he says, as he comes into the kitchen and puts his bag on the table.
She's fine, Jon. She wanted me to tell you she's fine. And that it's primary dysmenorrhoea
.

So, like, period pain? She's collapsed on my bathroom floor and it's just straight period pain?

Yeah. It sounds a bit better when you say primary dysmenorrhoea. It's sometimes this bad in young, thin, healthy women. Occasionally you end up having to look at other possibilities, but not usually. I've got a daughter that age. She got almost that bad. Kept it to herself. You know how they do. You don't know anything's wrong with them when they're that age until you work out the house is being overrun by echinacea and saint someone's bloody wort
.

Okay. Thanks. That's good isn't it? I'm sorry. I got you round here for dysmenorrhoea?

It's not a problem. It still needed something done about it, even if it's not going to . . . do her serious harm. Why haven't you got her to see anyone before?

This is the first cycle I've known her.

Oh
.

She's from up north.

That's the moment when Roscoe realises he doesn't know who the hell Ash is, and it's followed by the moment when he realises he's going to take ‘She's from up north' as a respectable attempt at an answer.

Thanks for coming round.

No problem. I was in the neighbourhood, as you probably figured
.

Maybe I did, but I didn't call you because you lived nearby. I called you because it seemed like it was going to be gynae and, you know, you're the best. Obviously we didn't really need the best for this, as it turns out, but who else would I call? Who else would I hassle about Saturday evening period pain?

Glad I could help. And they're taping
The Bill
for me at home so, like I said, it's really not a problem
.

Do you want a drink? How about a scotch?

Only if you're having one
.

Sure. Why not?

Why not? Well, several reasons, but I keep them to myself. I don't like scotch for a start. Not on its own, not with anything. Not since a bad Med Ball experience with scotch and dry, many years ago (perhaps even the legendary Med Ball of 1986). Once any drink has mixed with your stomach contents and been passed out your
nose, you can't feel the same about it again. But Roscoe likes scotch. He's known to.

Black Label
, he says when I find the bottle.
That's a nice one to be offering me. But don't go opening a new one on my account
.

I'm sure it was due to be opened anyway.

I didn't know you were a scotch drinker
.

Oh, from time to time.

I sip, and try to take my mind off the Med Ball incident, but the smell is powerful and olfactory memory hard to shake. Ash is okay. She'll be okay. For that I can drink scotch, and recall the disappointment of however many Med Balls I managed to fit in, and not care too much about it.

So how have you been?
Roscoe says.

Pretty good.

He turns the tumbler around in his hand and nods.
Good
.

It was tough for a couple of months there, but things are starting to fit into place, I think.

That's good to hear
.

The baby's well. Lily. She's doing really well.

He nods at that too.

Roscoe, Mel . . . these things happen.

Yeah . . . I did a term as her father's resident in about 1972. Did I ever tell you that?

Yeah, I think so. On one of our antenatal visits, probably.

Ashley's going to come and see me next week, so that we can get on top of this
, he says, and finishes his scotch.
But she'll be right for tonight, and the rest of the weekend. She's in bed now. I thought that was better than the floor
. He forces a smile.
So I might be off. Might go home and watch that tape
.

Okay. Well, thanks for coming. I really appreciate it. I might have over-reacted a bit there, calling you, but she looked pretty bad and I didn't want to mess around.

It's no problem. Any time. If you've got any worries, call me
. The Bill
can keep. But this'll be okay, so don't be too concerned
. At the door, he shakes my hand and says,
It's good to see you. Good to see you looking all right
.

When he's gone, I go to check how Ash is. She's not in the spare room. I walk in, and the bed is as made as it was after my parents last stayed, and I wonder where she is, if something's not right.

I only get one door down the hall before I see her. In my room, in my bed, the hall light coming in as far as the bedside table, but putting enough diffuse light in there that I can see her, curled up. I walk in – doing a quiet check of her breathing, I realise, once I'm most of the way to the bed. I'm too used to checking on Lily.

I stop, and I watch her. Her head on the pillow, facing this way, but with her hand there to brush the light off, and now half-closed with sleep and covering only one eye.

She wakes and sees me, says,
Oh . . . I'm sorry about all this
.

It's quite all right.

No, I should just go home
.

That's not likely, really. Now, you're okay? Is there anything you want?

No. I wish I felt better. How can a normal process be so foul?

Well, hopefully Roscoe can do something about that.