The Courier & Advertiser (Perth and Perthshire Edition)
Bone Deep: Episode 16
I realise we are here for the duration, a family, a show of strength. I must be a sister, a dutiful daughter. I cannot weep at Reuben’s bedside
But it’s not true, is it? That no one knows? My mother knows.
And she is the first person I see when I get to the ward where Reuben is.
She is waiting in the corridor, her shoulder bag gripped so tightly under her arm that her chest is all squished out of shape.
She’s wearing a buff-coloured top that blends in with the hospital paint and she’s gripping that bag as if it’s the only thing that’s stopping her dropping through to the basement.
Above the usual clinical smell, I catch the whiff of her floral perfume, and it takes me back to childhood. Without warning, I burst into tears.
It’s noisy, slightly hysterical, and my mother looks mortified.
She doesn’t try to comfort me, just hitches the bag up tighter.
“Lucie, do you want a tissue?” Fiddling with the zip gives her something to do, somewhere else to look.
It’s Arthur who offers me a crumpled bit of kitchen roll. I dab my eyes. The paper smells of suet. “How is he?” I manage to whisper.
My mother looks at me then, her eyes frosty. “Jane and Laura are in with him just now. They’re speaking to the nurse.”
Introductions
Laura is Reuben’s sister. Their parents are dead, so they’re very close, and because she’s Reuben’s sister I’ve soaked up all the details of her life.
Her husband works offshore, like Reuben. She has three kids, another on the way and a nursing career she’s put on hold.
I feel I know her intimately, but in reality I’ve only met her twice and I’d be hard pressed to recognise her.
Mum is looking at Arthur, and awkwardly I make the introductions.
I’d thought he would just drop me off, I’m sure he has more important things to do, but he accompanied me all the way in; guided me into a lift when I got lost, pointing out the signs.
He’d kept up a conversation of sorts: “I know this place well. My mother is always having tests.
“My father, he was never in hospital a day in his life. They brought him here, after the accident, but he was already...”
I hadn’t known what to say, couldn’t really get my head round any of that, with Reuben lying in the building somewhere, stretched out under cold sheets.
I’ve always had a fear of hospital beds: they look so hard, so unfamiliar.
Had Arthur’s father been in a car crash too? I’d let the notion drift away, kept my head down, plodded on.
Arthur is making some small talk about the cost of the car park.
Father has gone down to get coffee, Mum says – it could be a long night.
I realise we are here for the duration, a family, a show of strength. I must be a sister, a dutiful daughter. I cannot weep at Reuben’s bedside.
I must distance myself, as I have always done. I recall the scrap of poetry I’d scribbled in Mac’s study. It’s still love, isn’t it?
Had I picked it up? Chucked it in the bin? I can still feel my hand in yours. I hope I’ve thrown it away. What if Mac reads it? We will never have a Christmas tree together, you and I.
I don’t want people knowing this; judging me. Arthur has guessed. My mother knows. Did she ever tell my father?
Oh God. I am waiting for another chance to be alone with you. Oh God, oh God. I act restrained, as if I couldn’t care less.
Oh God oh God oh God . . .
Perhaps the one person who doesn’t know me at all is my sister.
Restless
Cold overhead light burns the white sheet. I can’t quite believe the bump beneath the sheet is Reuben.
He should be more restless, to be Reuben; take up more space.
This is a line drawing of a man, plugged into machines I don’t recognise.
There’s some kind of cage keeping the linen from his legs.
I remember that other light, so recently: sunshine spilling through a gap in the curtains, illuminating his nose, his chin; spidery black lashes, and the steady rise and fall of his sleeping chest.
I’d wondered what he was dreaming about. Now his mind has been emptied by drugs.
I can hear the drip of them, somewhere, in a tangle of pipelines.
I don’t want to look at all that stuff, but it saves me having to make eye contact with Jane.
Laura has excused herself to go to the bathroom. I was shocked by the size of her bump.
How awful it must have been to receive this news, to find childcare, transport.
To be at her brother’s side in that condition. I realise with a shock that I have more empathy for this stranger than for my own sister.
What am I turning into?
Jane is wearing a yellow cardigan; it was the first thing I’d noticed when the nurse said I could go in, and I thought it was too optimistic for a situation like this.
And then I remembered – Jane doesn’t even like the colour yellow.
I gave her a big fluffy yellow cushion one Christmas and she took it straight back and swapped it for a pale pink one.
Irritating
Jane has an irritating habit of cuddling cushions when she’s watching the telly, or on the phone to Reuben.
Maybe the yellow cardigan was all she could find in that moment of panic, when Laura called. She would have gone numb, breathless.
She tries to function, looking for her shoes, her jacket. She grabs a cardigan, any cardigan.
She can’t do up the buttons because her fingers are shaking.
Feeling sick, I reach for my sister’s hand. My palms are sweating. Her hands are stone cold.
“He’s strong. He’ll pull through.”
She glances at me. Her eyes are dry, and I’ve made sure mine are too.
I’m trying so hard to keep a lid on it.
She doesn’t speak, and my heart winces. Does she know? How can she know?
“Can I get you anything?”
Jane licks her lips. It’s hot in here. The air is dry and chemical.
“It’s okay, Dad’s gone to get coffee. Lucie... ” She suddenly squeezes my hand. “Thanks for being here.”
Then I begin to cry again.
More on Monday.