The Woman Who Stole My Life (23 page)

I went back downstairs and lay on the couch and contemplated: as Karen said, I really
had
fecked things up royally.

But maybe, in the bigger scheme of things, everything that had happened was meant to have happened. Maybe Mannix Taylor was just a catalyst, a cosmic device to show me that I didn’t love Ryan any more. Sometimes things fall apart so that better things can fall together – Marilyn Monroe had said that. Mind you, look at how she’d ended up …

And maybe I was wasting my time trying to make sense of things: sometimes things don’t happen for a reason, sometimes things just happen.

It felt like forever since I’d had this much time alone. It reminded me of when I’d been in hospital and my thoughts had had to race around and around in my head, with no way out, like rats in a run.

At some stage I rang Zoe, who answered after one ring. ‘You haven’t rung him?’

‘No.’

‘Listen to me – no drive-bys, no texting, no sexting, no calling and no tweeting. You
cannot
get drunk. That’s when you’ll be at your weakest.’

But there was no chance any of those things would happen. I had pride, a lot of it.

The day was over and it was already dark when the doorbell rang. For a long time I thought about just staying on the couch and ignoring it, then it rang again. Reluctantly I hauled myself to my feet, and when I found Mum and Dad on my doorstep I refused to acknowledge the wash of disappointment.

‘“Ask not for whom the bell tolls,”’ Dad said. ‘“It tolls for thee.”’

‘We brought bagels,’ Mum said.

‘Bagels?’

‘Isn’t that what they do in films to show they care?’

‘Thank you.’ I surprised myself by bursting into tears.

‘Ah, come on, now.’ Dad put his arms around me. ‘You’re gameball, you’re gameball, you’re gameball.’

‘Come into the kitchen.’ Mum switched lights on and led the way down the hall. ‘We’ll have tea and bagels.’

‘How do you eat them?’ Dad asked.

‘You toast them,’ Mum said. ‘Don’t you, Stella?’

‘You don’t have to.’ I tore off two sheets of kitchen paper and convulsed into them.

‘But they’d be nicer?’ Mum said. ‘They would, they’d be nicer. Warm is always nicer. We’re here to say we’re sorry, Stella. I’m sorry, your father’s sorry, we’re both sorry.’

Dad was at the toaster. ‘They’re too fat. They won’t fit.’

‘You’ve to slice them first,’ Mum said. ‘To halve them, like.’

‘Is there a knife?’

‘In the drawer,’ I said, thickly.

‘I’m on your side,’ Mum said. ‘So is Dad. We just got a fright. All of us.’

‘It was a shock,’ Dad said, jamming bagels into the toaster. ‘And we let you down. Your mother let you down.’

‘And your father let you down.’

‘And we’re both sorry.’

‘Everything will be grand,’ Mum said. ‘The kids will get over it. Ryan will get over it.’

‘In the fullness of time, everything will be gameball.’

‘Is Mannix Taylor your boyfriend?’ Mum asked.

‘No.’ A thin stream of evil-looking black smoke began to issue from the toaster.

‘Will you get back with Ryan?’

‘No.’ The black smoke was starting to billow.

‘Well, no matter what happens, we love you.’

A high-pitched, ear-piercing noise started up: the fire alarm was going off.

‘We’re your parents,’ Mum said.

‘And I think we’ve broken your toaster, but we love you.’

Despite invitations from Zoe, Karen and Mum and Dad, I spent Sunday entirely alone. I decided the house needed to be cleaned – properly cleaned, in the way it hadn’t been in over a decade – and I seized on the job with relief. Zealously, I scrubbed the kitchen cupboards and tore at the oven and went at the grouting in the bathroom with such vigour that the knuckles on my hands reddened, then cracked. Despite the pain, I kept scouring, and the more my raw hands burned, the better I felt.

I knew what I was doing: I might as well have taken the scouring pad and bleach to myself.

It was just gone seven when Betsy called. I pounced on the phone. ‘Sweetie?’

‘Mom, there are no clean clothes for school in the morning.’

‘Why not?’

‘… I don’t really know.’

Casting around for solutions, I asked, ‘Is it because nobody washed any?’

‘I guess.’

‘So just wash some.’

‘We don’t know how to work the machine.’

‘Ask your dad.’

‘He doesn’t know either. He said to ask you.’

‘Oh? Put him on.’

‘He says he’s never speaking to you again. Can you come here and do a wash?’

‘… Okay.’ I mean, I might as well, what else was I doing?

Fifteen minutes later, Betsy opened the door to me. Nervously, I stepped into the hall, braced for the wrath of Jeffrey and Ryan.

‘They’ve gone out,’ Betsy said. ‘I have to call them when you’ve left.’

I swallowed back the hurt. ‘Okay. Come into the utility room and I’ll explain everything.’

In under thirty seconds Betsy had grasped the workings of the washing machine and dryer, which were identical to the ones at home.

‘It’s really that easy?’ she said, suspiciously. ‘Huh. Well, who knew?’

Something was troubling me. ‘If none of you know how to do this, how did you manage all the time I was in hospital?’

Betsy thought about it. ‘I guess it was Auntie Karen and Grandma and Auntie Zoe who did the laundry.’

But Ryan had got the credit. And now the gaps in his skill set were being exposed … And there was a shameful little part of me that was glad. Maybe Jeffrey and Betsy would see that I had
some
uses.

‘So, Mom, you’d better go.’

‘Right.’ Then I flung myself at her and began to cry and
said, ‘I’m so sorry,’ over and over again. ‘Call me if you need anything. Yes? Promise?’

I got into my car and headed for home, and in the light cast by a street lamp I saw Ryan and Jeffrey standing on a corner, their faces baleful. I knew I was being fanciful, I knew there was no way they were
actually
holding burning pitchforks and shaking their fists as they watched me leave, but that was the impression I got.

On Monday morning, I awoke to a silent house. I ached for the noise and fuss of a regular morning, getting Betsy and Jeffrey ready for school, getting myself ready for work. But there was nothing I could do, except wait things out.

I picked up my phone and stared at it. Nothing. No missed calls, no texts, nothing. I couldn’t help thinking that Mannix Taylor might have tried a
bit
harder.

It was a relief to go to work, and for once I was in before Karen.

‘Jesus!’ She drew up short at the sight of me. ‘You’re keen!’

‘That’s me.’

‘That delivery from SkinTastic had better come this morning,’ she said, and before she’d even finished speaking, the buzzer rang. ‘There it is. I’ll go!’ She raced away down the stairs. Karen would never pay for gym membership but she kept skinny by moving constantly. She considered it a sign of personal weakness to remain seated for more than seven minutes.

She reappeared, huffing and puffing up the stairs, carrying a large cardboard box. ‘Feck’s sake!’ She was struggling under the weight. ‘Lazy fecker courier fecked off. Just left this at the door, and it weighs an effing ton.’

She dumped it on the desk and attacked the Sellotape with a Stanley knife. I waited for the litany of complaints that
usually accompanied a delivery – according to Karen, the suppliers always sent the wrong quantities of the wrong products: they were cretins, gobshites, morons and fools.

‘What the hell’s this?’ she demanded.

Obviously they’d got it really wrong this time. I feared for the rep who would feel the sharp side of her tongue.

‘Look, Stella!’ She was holding up a book, a small hardback. It looked like a prayer book or maybe a little collection of poetry. The cover was decked out in rose-gold and bronze swirls and it gave the impression of being expensive and beautiful.

‘There’s a load more in here, all of them the same.’ She did a quick count. ‘Looks like fifty of them. They must have been sent by mistake. But the box is addressed to you.’

I took one of the little books and opened it at random. The paper was heavy and sheeny and sitting in the middle of a page, in graceful curlicues, were the words:

I’d give ten years of my life to be able to put on a pair of socks.

‘What’s this?’ I asked.

The next page said:

Instead of thinking, ‘Why me?’ I think, ‘Why
not
me?’

I flipped to look at the cover, something I should have done straight away. The name of the book was
One Blink at a Time
and it was written by someone called Stella Sweeney.

‘Me?’ I was startled. ‘I wrote this? When?’

‘What? You wrote a book? You kept that to yourself.’

‘But I didn’t. Write a book, that is. Go to the front. See if there’s information.’

‘There’s an introduction.’

Karen and I read it together.

On 2 September 2010, Stella Sweeney, a mother of two, was admitted to hospital, experiencing fast-moving muscle paralysis. She was diagnosed with
Guillain-Barré Syndrome
, a rare auto-immune disorder which attacks and disables the central nervous system. As every muscle group in her body, including her respiratory system, failed, she came close to death.

A tracheotomy and a ventilator saved her life. However, for several months, the only way she could communicate was by blinking her eyelids. She was lonely, frightened and often in acute physical pain. But she never gave in to self-pity or anger, and throughout her hospitalization she remained positive and upbeat, even inspirational. This little book is a collection of some of the words of wisdom she communicated from her locked-in body, one blink at a time.

 

‘Jesus!’ Karen said, almost scornfully. ‘Is that you? It makes you sound like … Mother Teresa, or someone.’

‘Who did this? Who made it?’ I flicked through more of the pages, utterly astonished to see things I’d allegedly said.

When is a yawn not a yawn? When it’s a miracle.

I’d a vague memory of blinking that out to Mannix Taylor. And:

Sometimes you get what you want and sometimes you get what you need and sometimes you get what you get.

The only clue I could find was the name of the printers. I Googled their number and said to the woman who answered the phone, ‘I know this sounds odd, but can you tell me what you do?’

‘We’re a private publishing company.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘The client gives us their manuscript; they choose the paper, the font, the size, the jacket illustration – everything is bespoke and to a very high quality – then we print it.’

‘And the client has to pay?’

‘Yes.’

‘There’s a book with my name on the cover but I didn’t order it.’ I was afraid I’d have to cough up for this and it looked terrifyingly expensive.

‘May I take your name? Stella Sweeney? Let me see.’ Clicking noises followed. ‘
One Blink at a Time
? The order was placed and paid for by a Dr Mannix Taylor. He took delivery of fifty volumes in September of last year.’

‘When you say “volumes” do you mean “books”?’

‘Yes.’

‘So why did I get them today?’

‘… I’m afraid I don’t know. I suggest you take that up with Dr Taylor.’

‘But I’m never speaking to him again.’

‘Perhaps you should revisit that decision,’ she said. ‘Because I can’t help you any further.’

‘So will the books be in the shops?’ I was a little excited.

‘We’re a private publishing house.’ She sounded prim, even defensive. ‘Our volumes are simply for our clients’ personal pleasure.’

‘I see.’ For a second there I’d thought I’d written a real book. The tiniest shadow of disappointment passed over me, then it moved on.

‘Thank you.’ I hung up. ‘Mannix Taylor is responsible,’ I said to Karen.

‘Well! Who knew you were that good in bed?’

‘I’m not. He got them done last September.’

She stared hard at me. Her forehead would have furrowed if it hadn’t been injected into cowed submission. ‘He must … 
like
you. Why?’

‘Because I’m positive and upbeat, even inspirational. Allegedly.’

‘I’m the inspirational one.’

‘I know. So …?’ I asked. ‘What should I do?’

‘I see your point. The recycling will cost a fortune, now that they’ve started to weigh the bins. Could you … I don’t know … keep them for birthday presents? Gradually offload them that way?’

‘I meant, what should I do about him?’

Her mouth tightened. ‘Why are you asking me? You know what I think.’

‘But you said it yourself: he must like me.’

‘You’ve got two children. Your responsibility is to them.’

‘He told me he loved me.’

‘He doesn’t even know you.’

Karen insisted our mobiles were powered off when we were ‘doing’ someone; it was professional-seeming, she said. But at twelve thirty, when Betsy and Jeffrey were on their lunch break at school, I didn’t have a client, so I switched my phone on to give them a quick ring. This was my campaign to win them back – to offer as much time as they needed as well as regular, non-guilting reminders of my love.

I said a little prayer that their angry hearts might have softened and I could hardly believe it when Betsy answered. ‘Hi, Mom.’

‘Hi, sweetie! Just saying hello. How’s your day going?’

‘Good!’

‘Did you have lunch?’

‘Yes, Mom,’ she said gravely. ‘And I got dressed this morning, and put on my shoes.’

‘Very good! Hahaha! And you had breakfast?’

‘… Sorta. You know Dad. He’s a little domestically challenged.’

This was
not
the time to start slagging off Ryan. Proceed with caution, I counselled myself. Keep it neutral. ‘Okay, well, call me if you need anything, if you want help with your homework, anything. Day or night.’

‘Okay. Love you, Mom.’

Love you! This was an enormous leap forward.

Buoyed by this, I immediately called Jeffrey.

Oookaaay. Less of a leap forward. He was still refusing to talk to me. As was Ryan.

But, ever hopeful, I took a quick look at my messages. And there were four voicemails. All from Mannix Taylor.

I darted a fearful look over my shoulder – Karen would go ballistic if she caught me listening to them. Then a strange calm descended. I was a grown woman. Who only had one life. I was going to hear what he had to say and I’d take the consequences.

I got a bit of a land when the phone then started to ring. And it was him: Mannix Taylor.

Confidently, I touched the green light. ‘Hello.’

‘Hello?’ He sounded surprised. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you to answer.’

‘Well, there you go.’

‘Did you get the books?’

‘What’s that all about?’

‘Meet me and I’ll tell you.’

I had a think about it. ‘Meet you where? I’m not going to your apartment. I’m never going there again. And no, you can’t come to my house, don’t even ask.’

‘Well, how about –’

‘Fibber Magee’s for a pint and a toasted sandwich? No. Some fancy restaurant for an awkward conversation with all of the waiters earwigging? No. The Powerscourt Hotel where I’d bump into every person I’ve ever met? No.’

He laughed softly. ‘There’s a holiday cottage in Wicklow, on the coast. I own it with my sisters. It’s only half an hour’s drive from Ferrytown – and before you ask, Georgie hasn’t been in years. She says it’s boring.’

‘So it’s okay to take me to a boring place?’

After a pause, he said, ‘… You won’t be bored.’

‘And I won’t have to get a taxi home when you’re done with me?’

Another long pause. ‘I won’t be done with you.’