The Sky is Changing (13 page)

Thinking back to how Anthony and Dave were sitting there, holding on to their tickets resolutely, made her laugh. Never in a million years would she have thought to hook up with one of them.

However, a week later at a Wagamama restaurant in Islington, as she was eating her favourite noodle soup, someone tapped her on the shoulder. “I know your friend was really mad at us but frankly, you didn't miss anything. The film was rubbish.”

She recognised him immediately. The bottle-green eyes and dark hair. Anthony. She liked his name. He sat next to her and two hours later they were still there, talking. He insisted on inviting her and Helena to a film, to make up for their ruined evening.

She didn't fall in love with a bang. It was a smooth transition, a gradual development. The sex was relaxed and grown up, no fumbling and gawky gestures. No blush with shame. He was a good cook too, which Claire was convinced came with being a good lover. Maybe she fell in love as she watched him filetting that turbot, his hands disappearing in the cavity of the fish, stuffing it with lemon and herbs. He was different, not the dark arty type she usually went for.

“As soon as he finds out what a neurotic mess I am, it's over,” Claire told Helena as if to protect herself. But he seemed to even out her mood swings, shrugging them off with a generosity she had never experienced before. As a result, she became calmer; she wasn't walking on quicksand anymore, but on solid ground. Although she didn't quite know where it was going, she knew early on that with Anthony she was in for the long run.

What was so maddening in hindsight was that she didn't really have to cross that street. Just because she decided at the last minute to get something from a shop before heading home, she suddenly changed direction. She couldn't even remember what it was she wanted from that shop. The car hit her just as she stepped off the pavement. Screeching tyres, a loud bang, and being lifted off the floor is all she could remember before she lost consciousness.

According to the report she flew a few metres across the street, shattering her leg with full force on the kerb of the pavement. The driver, a woman who had just been given a silver Honda Civic for her 18th birthday, had immediately called an ambulance. Not used to lefthand traffic, Claire had simply looked in the wrong direction.

She knew something was wrong with her left leg the moment she opened her eyes. She couldn't feel nor move it. It was there, propped up and covered in a white cast. A drip was hanging next to her bed, connected to a vein in her hand through a curly plastic tube. She could see bruises on her arm; she was probably bruised all over her body. She felt battered as if she had suffered a prolonged beating, but she couldn't feel any pain.

“You are on a high dose of morphine,” the orthopaedic surgeon said. He was young and he smiled as he leaned over her, testing her temperature on her forehead with his hand. “You are doing very well, darling.” First she looked at him and then at her leg. There was only one thing she wanted to know.

He sighed, pushed the chair next to her as close as possible. “Claire,” he said, patting her hand apologetically. His voice was soft and smooth. “I know this is going to be hard for you. Your knee has a complicated fracture; you won't be able to dance again, but you are lucky that you will be able to walk.”

Everything was white, the walls, the curtains, the cast, the doctor's coat, even his teeth seemed to oscillate. The numbness followed almost immediately after he left the room. It was as if the cast wasn't only on her leg but now all around her, inside her, keeping everything tight and together, completely motionless. Even her thoughts seemed to be stored as if in the little compartments of an ice cube tray, clear and frozen. Staring into the air she was waiting for tears to fill her eyes, blurring her vision, taking away the edge, but her eyes stayed dry. Maybe that was the worst, this inability to cry. Instead, a strange, deadly stillness wrapped her up like the bandages of a mummy.

The door opened; Helena was the first to visit, then came her mates from the dance company. They brought flowers, books, chocolates. She heard herself saying “thank you,” but it sounded hollow, like an echo from someone else who was miles away. She knew there and then that she would never see any of her dance colleagues again; the word ‘dancing' wasn't in her vocabularly anymore, eradicated forever.

Anthony came to visit; it was hard to look into his eyes. “You don't have to come,” she said. But he visited, every day. Something she could look forward to in the daily routine of dreary meals and doctors' visits. When he couldn't visit because he was doing overtime at work he would send flowers. Yellow lilies, roses, a white orchid, its delicate paper-thin blossom trembling with every draft in the air. She looked at those flowers, as if they were a part of Anthony and something deep inside her shifted, a sheer unbearable longing to let go and cry inconsolably into his dark hair. But when he came, sitting next to her at the bed, holding her hand, her voice was dry and sober and completely detached as if it were a creature on its own that had nothing to do with her.

Her parents called. Mother started to sob almost immediately and Claire ended up comforting her, which was somehow much easier to bear than being pitied. “I'll be alright. I'm lucky to be alive!”

That was the sentence she repeated again and again, although she didn't mean it; it was like pushing a button – an entirely mechanical act. Her parents wanted to visit her immediately, but she made them promise her not to. Under no circumstances did she want them or Anne to see her in that misery. The sheer thought of them, surrounding the bed, their eyes fixated on her leg, stretched out like an exclamation mark, made her shiver. It would have been unbearably degrading. Instead, Anne and her parents organised a counsellor.

“A shrink?” Claire asked, almost amused.

“We think it could help you,” her mother said in a concerned voice. “If you can't see your own family. You need someone to talk to.”

“Alright then,” Claire agreed, just so her mother wouldn't start crying again, sobbing into the receiver. It felt like a deal, that maybe they needed to do that for her, so they could feel they were Doing Something.

The psychotherapist came, asking her how she felt. She could see a tunnel at the exit of the hospital that she would have to walk through when she was released, a dark narrow tunnel with no end in sight. But she didn't say that; she said, “Nothing. I feel nothing.” He nodded, writing something in his notebook before he started talking about “drawing up a map for the future.” The word hurt. Future. She told him to fuck off. He closed the door behind him carefully as if she was asleep. But he came back, week after week – she almost admired his persistence.

“You are not going to fix my leg, are you? So why are you wasting my time?”

“I'm trying to talk about your feelings, Claire. Maybe I can help you to get over it.”

“Over it? Over what? There is nothing to get over. Apparently I'm lucky.”

“You are, you just can't feel it at the moment.”

“You're damn right.”

“Are you angry?”

She didn't answer. What was he doing here, apart from getting on her nerves? He prescribed pills. “Your brain is much too low on serotonin,” he explained. “This will lighten up your mood a bit,” he said with a knowing smile. “You will soon feel much better.”

Reading the leaflet of the medication, Claire was surprised to learn that the pills weren't just some mild mood enhancer, but to treat clinical depression.

A few days later she could think clearly again, although she didn't feel much better. But at least she had a plan.

“I'm not what I used to be. When I'm out of here, I will be a different person,” she explained to Anthony. “I am thinking of going back to Berlin. Living with my parents for a while and sorting things out.”

“I'm afraid that's not going to happen,” he replied, walking up and down the room as if he had to measure its size. It was his self-confidence and his certainty that blew her away. He didn't actually ask her to marry him, he ordered her to it. Like some medicine that had to be forced down her throat. “Just so you know what's going to happen when you're out of here.”

As soon as he had left, she asked the nurse for a mirror. Never before had she felt so unattractive, propped up in bed, toad-like with greasy hair and pimply skin. She couldn't help but smile for the first time since the accident. Surely this was the time she was at her weakest and lowest, and she couldn't have been more unprepared and surprised as she lay there in the hospital bed, feeling useless and damaged on every level, someone was willing to take her hand and lead her life in a completely different direction yet again. Maybe it is a good thing, she told herself, that the worst must have happened already.

*

She saw them coming out of the house. Mother and daugther. Mrs Ross had her arm on Nora's shoulder, guiding and protecting her at the same time. Seeing them together like that, an unbreakable pair, gave Claire a pang and she realised how alike they looked. Both had delicate features, lean elegant bodies and fair skin. No doubt Nora would one day turn into a beauty just like her mother, and she wondered what it felt like to have a miniature version of oneself. What did Mrs Ross feel when she looked at her daughter? So many things would remain a mystery to Claire as long as she didn't have her own child, so many questions would stay unanswered. However, the attachment she felt for Nora was real and painful, and she couldn't help but feel a rush of happiness when she ran towards her, arms stretched out.

Claire held her up, laughing; she could feel her warm cheek on her face. It was their first day out. Mrs Ross had already retreated into the car, waved goodbye to them with a quick half-smile, and driven off. Claire envied her coolness, her relaxed state of mind. She didn't have to earn Nora's love; she was her mother and would always have the advantage. Even if she neglected her daughter she still would be loved by her. The bond created through genes and blood was inevitably stronger than anything she could ever offer. Claire hailed a cab. Nora loved riding through the city in a black cab and Claire loved treating her like a little princess.

There she was, sitting on the edge of the seat, lollipop in mouth. “Are we going right up there?” Nora asked excitedly, pointing at the white wheel of the London Eye as the taxi crossed Southwark Bridge. The sky was clear; they would have a good view. It was something Claire had wanted to do for a long time, to get a bird's eye view of London and capture its vastness.

The capsule-shaped cabin was bigger then she'd expected. Slowly they were lifted into the air; they could see the bend of the Thames and the grand line-up of Westminster, Big Ben and the white dome of St. Paul's Cathedral. Soon they were over the rooftops and buildings became smaller, like randomly assorted toys lining the streets, which meandered in every direction. They looked like the tentacles of an ever-growing beast insatiably feeding on the land that surrounded it.

On the right, the skyscrapers of Canary Wharf were stubbornly poking into the sky. Somewhere in that urban jungle of glass and steel was Anthony, sitting at a computer in a sleek open-plan office, analysing numbers and making economic predictions. Claire remembered what Dave had said about the house of cards that was about to collapse. From this height, the giant company logos looked tiny and somehow unreal. London was gradually sinking back, appearing vulnerable and fragile under the huge sky, now almost uncannily changing to a different shade. Nora meanwhile was all upbeat, pressing her nose against the window and chatting to another girl. Claire could see that the girl's mother was younger than her, probably in her midtwenties.

“How old is yours?” the woman suddenly asked her. She had just assumed Nora was her child, and why not? They even had the same blonde hair.

“Seven,” Claire answered without hesitation.

“Same age as mine then,” the woman said with a contented smile. But Claire immediately regretted that she had let this woman believe she was Nora's mother. It was as if she had opened a floodgate, and the woman wouldn't stop asking all sorts of questions about the school Nora went to and whether she plans to have a sibling for her.

“Actually, I am three months pregnant,” Claire said in the hope this would shut her up, but it just got worse. The broodiness was almost palpable and the cabin became increasingly claustrophobic. Stuck with this woman who observed her closely, eyeing up her belly as if looking for the evidence, she couldn't wait to get out. However, the wheel of the London Eye turned agonisingly slowly. At the top they seemed to stop for minutes, with the city spread out down below. A sudden attack of vertigo forced Claire to sit down.

“Are you alright?” the woman asked. “Maybe you shouldn't have come up here, being pregnant.”

Nora suddenly turned her head. “Are you going to have a baby?” she asked bluntly.

The situation couldn't have been more awkward. What could she do other than continue the lie unless she wanted to appear a complete fool? She had no choice. “Yes, my darling,” she said, stroking the crown of her head, “but the baby won't be here for a long time.”

The woman looked at her, with a puzzled expression, probably wondering how Nora didn't know already that she would be getting a sibling. As if she realised she had stepped too far into a stranger's private territory, or through uncertainty, she retreated to the other end of the cabin to tend to her daughter.

Claire heaved a sigh of relief. How could she have put herself in a situation like this? So as not to raise further suspicion and to make sure the woman wouldn't speak to her again, she talked to Nora about other trips around London they could do, like going to the zoo and the aquarium, where they could see tropical fish from all over the world. But the more she talked about it, the more miserable she felt. It was inevitable there would be situations like this again, that she would be mistaken for Nora's mother and, flattering though it was, it was also deeply hurtful. But to admit she was just the babysitter would be worse.