State of Grace (Resurrection) (6 page)

I staggered back through the town centre, raided Morrisons, which was still open, for painkillers and water, and found a bench to sit on just below the bridge
over the River Usk. It was secluded at this time of night, most of the dog walkers having done their doggy duty and the groups of teenagers who frequented the path along the river bank were occupied with the small funfair next to the rugby pitch. I had the path to myself and I slumped onto the bench with a grumble of pain as I waited for the analgesics to take effect.

Gradually as the pounding sank to a dull ache, and the
n dull ache faded almost entirely, I let my overwrought mind consider the events of the evening.  It had been over two weeks since the last vision… episode… whatever… and I had parcelled the incident away in a little corner labelled ‘things I didn’t want to think about too closely’. I had semi- convinced myself that I had briefly fainted and the extremely vivid dream I had experienced had been exactly that: a dream. The fact there had been no reoccurrence of the vision had served to bolster my belief. Yet now, here I was trying to get my head round the knowledge it had happened again, and in front of witnesses, too. 

I had to consider the very real possib
ility it would keep on happening. I wondered if I had experienced a type of blackout, where I lost consciousness for a second or two, and marvelled I had managed to remain upright throughout. I knew I would have to face the very real fear these episodes might be the start of something serious (as if the presence of the tumour wasn’t enough on its own). Pain I was expecting, even loss of function, and although I didn’t want to peer down that particular road too far, I knew bits of me would eventually stop working and I would probably get to the point where I would need assistance at every level of my life. Beyond that was too horrific to consider. I hope these blackouts would not become too frequent, because at some point someone was sure to notice.  The only consolation I could take was that Sarah had said that I had been ‘out of it’ for only a minute, in spite of it seeming much longer when I was in the grip of the vision. 

‘Felt like a lot longer than a minute,’ I murmured
out loud, grateful that at least I hadn’t made a fool of myself, and I had still been on my feet when I came round, regardless of the dismal headache. Headaches I could cope with and the whole incident could have been much worse. Next time it was.

Chapter 3

I was being
fucked. This primal mating could not be called making love, or even having sex. I couldn’t see who I was with, but I knew, as you do in dreams, it was the man from last night. I could feel him inside me, hear his panting, and just as the orgasm rippled through me, I opened my eyes with a start.

I was lying in bed, alone
, with my body tingling and a dampness between my legs. I snorted quietly in outrage. I had just had the female equivalent of a
wet dream.
It was definitely a dream, and I had known that as I was dreaming it, so not another blackout then, though I did wonder if it was possible to actually blackout when a person is already asleep. I frowned in exasperation: thinking in circles like this was enough to drive you mad.  I checked the clock, one thirty in the morning, and sighed, then got out of bed and padded downstairs to put the kettle on. As I stared out through the window into the darkness beyond, waiting for the water to boil, I thought carefully about the mess going on inside my head. I still felt a disconcerting tingle from my raunchy dream and I shook my head in annoyance. I had enough to deal with without my libido waking up: and it had woken up big time! I tried to second guess my body: was this one of the signs or symptoms, or was this a natural healing after the ravages of the drug therapy? Of course, there was a third option: sex was a normal reaction to the nearness of death and I supposed my death was fast approaching (in relative terms, when you considered that my contemporaries should have approximately another fifty years ahead of them), so, like a plant when it bolts, striving to produce the next generation of seeds as rapidly as it can before it dies, this was my body’s instinctive response to try to reproduce in the face of death.  I hadn’t had sex in a long time, and hadn’t had good
sex
for much longer than that, not since before the diagnosis in fact. Joe and I had tried, in between spells of the sickness that was one of the side-effects of chemotherapy, but my heart hadn’t really been in it, and neither had Joe’s. His penis had decidedly not had its mind on the job. I think it was at that point we had both realise we were flogging a dead horse and had called it a day. Obviously my body was now telling me sit up and take notice of it.

Great. I could do with another complication, I thought sarcastically.
As if I didn’t have enough problems, my subconscious had decided to throw another one at me. These changes to my mental state, when I was physically starting to feel healthy (ignore the headaches) were starting to get my attention. No-one had been able to tell me with any kind of accuracy just how long I had left, or even how long it would be before I would have to retreat to a hospice, assuming my mother would let me go and not insist on nursing me herself at home. I was going to have to have a serious talk with her about that in the not-too-distant future, because there was no way I was going to let her nurse me. I could linger for months and it simply wouldn’t be fair on her. I didn’t want to put her through that.

I had no idea how long I would remain compos mentis and the recent blackout during the firework display, not to mention the one up on the mountain, brought it home to me just how little time I might have left to enjoy being me
before I become someone I didn’t recognise or before I became too ill and indisposed to care about anything other than my next shot of morphine.

I decided I needed to make the most of the
time I had left. I was going to immerse myself in every minute. And as a start I was going to have a night out. I was going to stop feeling sorry for myself and try to act as normally as possible and with that in mind I finished the last of my tea and went back to bed.

‘You’re Bethan’s daughter, aren’t you?’

I was lying, legs akimbo, on a raised
beautician’s bed, having my nether regions waxed. I hadn’t paid much attention to my grooming for months, so today was a bit of a treat in preparation for a night out on Friday. First eyebrows and other assorted bits of me waxed, then a facial and a manicure.

I was having my
‘other bits’ attended to when the beautician spoke to me. I nodded in reply.

‘Thought so. How is she? Haven’t seen her in ages. She used to come in regularly for a wax.’ The woma
n leaned closer to whisper, ‘Your mum is an all-off lady, too.’

It took a seco
nd for her comments to make sense. Oh. Ohhhh! Eww! That was
too
much information. I didn’t really want to think about my mother (my
mother
) having her lady garden waxed. And, more to the point, I didn’t want to consider
why
. No matter how old a person is, they didn’t want to think of their parents as sexual beings. And to be honest, that was why most women had it done. Except me. I had no chance of any nookie so I was doing this to make me feel good about myself. And a pampering session was phase one of the plan. I only went ahead with the whole wax thing because the package deal was cheaper than selecting the parts of my anatomy I wanted to have de-haired. Also I was feeling a bit defiant. Joe had always liked women who had been divested of their downstairs fuzz and I had obliged in him that regard, up until I had more important things to think about, so this was my half-baked attempt at normality and my stuff-you-Joe-I-can-still-look-good attitude.  I had tried to persuade my mother to come with me, my treat because I had little else to spend my money on, but she had muttered something about helping dad with TB testing. Now I knew why she hadn’t wanted to come with me: there are some things a mother and daughter need not share…

‘Brace yourself. This’ll hurt.’

Ow! Ow! Ow! She wasn’t joking. I had forgotten how much it stung. Eyes watering, I had an image of my middle-aged mother lying on this same bed, in the same position, having the same thing done, and carrying on a conversation about price of potatoes with the sadist wielding the wax. Dear God! 

I
returned home with my eyebrows and other things stinging, scarlet nails, glowing face, relaxed shoulders and a different impression of my mother.

‘Hi Mum,’ I called, stamping on the hall mat to shake the worst of the rain off my boots.

‘In here.’

I followed her voice and found her in the kitchen. ‘Nice time?’ she asked.

I smiled vaguely at her, unable to look her in the eye.

‘Did Monica do you, or was it that new one?’ Mum was slicing carrots and throwing them into a heavy orange casserole dish. A pan of new potatoes rested on the stove.

‘Monica, I think.’

‘Goo
d. She’s better than the other one. Gets it in all the nooks and crannies.’

I
so
wasn’t going to have this conversation with her. And here’s me thinking she had been embarrassed!

‘What’s the special occasion?’ she asked.

I grabbed the change of subject with both hands. ‘I’m meeting up with a couple of friends in Cardiff on Friday night,’ I explained. ‘They’ve got a stop-over at Rhoose, so I’ll probably stay the night.’ Rhoose was the local name for Cardiff Wales airport.

‘That’s nice.’ Mum beamed at me, wiping her hands on a tea-towel. ‘Get the
beef out of the fridge for me, would you?’

I did as I was asked, stealing a slice of carrot on the way past. Mum slapped my hand away.

‘It’ll do you the world of good. A young woman like you should be out enjoying herself.’

Yes, I thought, wistfully, she should.

The bar was filling up nicely. We had picked Angel’s because it had a live band and
we were enjoying the music. It was too loud to talk properly, but I didn’t mind. Although it was nice to catch up with an ex-colleague I didn’t want to give her the opportunity to ask too many questions. Of course Laura knew why I left, but that didn’t stop me not wanting to talk about it.

The band was actually quite good and although they
played a lot of their own stuff they did a few cover versions of songs I knew and I sang along, not caring I was tone deaf. The music was loud enough to cover my wailing anyway. I knew Laura had a sweet voice and I was glad she couldn’t hear me: it might put her off singing for life.

‘
Can we buy you ladies a drink?’ I looked at the two hopefuls standing next to us at the bar. Laura and I exchanged meaningful glances before we shook our heads, with regretful smiles.

‘No thanks,’ I replied, indicating my almost full glass.

They shrugged and walked away. We giggled after they had gone. The guys were barely out of their teens, and I, for one, preferred my men old enough to shave.

‘Not my type,’ Laura shouted.

‘Not mine either,’ I shouted back. ‘I like to pick on someone my own age.’

I sort of got my wish fo
r an older man with the next candidate. Is there a name for the male equivalent of mutton dressed up as lamb, I wondered? Too-tight chinos, pointy shoes, shiny black shirt with one too many buttons undone, and was that
really
a medallion nestling in his extremely thick chest hair? And his mate wasn’t any better, either. We shook our heads again.

A couple of hours later we were ready to leave. The band had been replaced with a D
J playing goddam awful rap stuff, I had drunk enough alcohol, and it was getting late. Laura, tall and willowy, with wild, red, curly hair and cat-like green eyes had been propositioned more times than I could count, until she had met a traffic controller she appeared to know quite well.

‘Go ahead,’ I said. ‘I don’t mind.
’ We had separate rooms booked in the Plaza anyway, so I could grab a taxi and go back there. Laura was grateful and apologetic, all at the same time. I could tell that she was really taken with him, and I didn’t want to spoil her fun.

I stood in the foyer debating whether to risk walking to the hotel: my shoes were so high I might fall off them if I wasn’t careful.

‘I’ve been watching you all night.’

I was surprised to see the lead singer of the band standing in the doorway next to me. Early twenties, fashionably floppy hair, not bad looking, quite slim. Nice. I gave him a full beam smile.

‘Wow, you’re gorgeous,’ he drawled.

That was a bit cheesy, but I was willing to ignore it. It was ages since I had been chatted up by someone this nice.
It was ages since I had been chatted up at all.

‘Where’s your friend?’

‘She met a guy from work. You know how it is.’

‘And left you on your own?’

‘Oh, I don’t mind. I was thinking about leaving anyway.’

Catching up had been nice and all, but I felt out of the
loop. Once Laura and I had exchanged gossip and reminisced about times gone by, both good and bad, we had been left with not much else to talk about except the elephant in the room, and there was no way I was going to spoil the evening going into detail about the tumour, yada, yada, yada. I felt like she had moved on and I had taken a step back, well, several steps, actually. I experienced a pang as I understood this was probably the funeral of our friendship. Yes, we would keep in contact, but without the cement of flying and work, our relationship would dwindle to nothing more the odd wistful thought and maybe a friend request on facebook. Laura had other things in her life and she lived in London, as I used to. My life here bore no resemblance to hers and as much as I wanted to cling to what I had before the diagnosis, I knew it wasn’t going to happen. I consoled myself with the thought we probably would have drifted apart anyway if one of us had changed airlines, or gotten married. Wistfully I wished her well, knowing it was unlikely I would ever see her again.