Okay By Maria Dean
‘So, Dana, how are you feeling today?’ I ask, my eyes clocking her tired skin, stained uniform, and the dark circles that appear to have been tattooed under her eyes.
‘OK,’ Dana mumbles, her fingers working the cuff of her frayed uniform.
OK. The default response. I had anticipated as much. Only this morning I found myself batting back the two-letter reply when the headteacher had rolled out of her four-by-four in the car park. She hadn’t noticed me at first, my Nissan Micra dwarfed by her Range Rover Discovery. I had clambered out, fighting with the tangled seatbelt, arms loaded with bags.
‘Morning, Janice, how are you?’ she had said once she had realised that I was there.
‘OK, thanks.’ It rolled off my tongue like a bowling ball down an alley. ‘And you?’
‘Lovely, thank you,’ she had purred, the trim of her expensive coat looking like she had a Persian cat slung around her neck. ‘The weekend goes too fast. Can’t believe we’re back here again,’ she had laughed haughtily before we had trundled
down the path that led to the main entrance, fobs at the ready.
I wondered what her weekend had looked like and how far removed from my own it would have been.
Dana is kicking the chair leg, the loose sole of her shoe flapping like she has a beached fish on the end of her foot. She looks so small sitting here in my dreary office.
‘Have you eaten this morning?’ I ask. She nods. Another lie. When did we get so good at this?
‘Can I get you anything before you start your lessons?’ She looks up at
me now, that look that I know so well. What could I possibly get her? A bedroom of her own with carpet and curtains and privacy. Central heating that would stop the ice thickening on the inside of the windows. Honeysuckle shampoo and hot water to wash out the fetid smell of grease and weed that was clinging to her tangled hair.
‘No, thanks.’
I don’t want to send her to class; what’s she going to learn that’s going to be any help to her in her world? What use is a fronted adverbial when she’s trying to work out how to use the washing machine?
How is knowing all the square numbers going to help her decide between feeding herself or her younger sister?
‘I’ve got some biscuits in the cupboard if you’d like one. I’m going to have one,’ I glance at the clock, ‘Never too early for a biscuit.’ It does the trick and Dana gingerly puts her hand into the tin and pulls out a Bourbon cream.
We eat in silence, both of us regarding the other.
I remember the first time I met
Dana, the day after she’d been locked in the house whilst her mum had gone to find her next fix. I remember thinking how young she was to have built such a high wall around herself and how on earth I was going to break through. As a primary school-based social worker, it
is my job to knock down such walls no matter how backbreaking they may be.
I watch Dana eating, knowing that it’s going to take more than a biscuit or two to ease out one of her bricks. But I will try; I always try.
‘How was your weekend?’ I push slightly, hoping the creamy chocolate filling might have softened her.
‘OK,’ she shrugs. I’m about to change tactics when her gaze hardens, biscuit poised in her right hand.
‘What about you?’ Dana asks. My mouth hovers, the question having thrown me off-script.
‘What about me?’ I eye her carefully. ‘How was your weekend?’ Dana stares at me with intent, and I can feel the hairs on my arms bristle. Then her eyes move over to my arm. The sleeve of my jumper has ridden up, evidence of how deep I had thrust it into the biscuit tin. The purple bruise is garish against my ivory skin, and it almost glows luminescent in the darkness of my office.
‘It was OK,’ I reply as I push my sleeve back down covering the bruise and my lie.
Dana looks at me, but something has changed in the room; I can feel it and so can she.
Dana reaches for another biscuit and in that instant, I wonder if we might actually be OK.
You planned to tell him you loved him a minimum of 21,915 times – allowing for leap years, of course – once a day for the sixty years you expected you would be married. By the time you reached this diamond anniversary, you knew that you would be fat with affection, bloated by it. You would both be old and grey and wrinkled, but it wouldn’t matter because each of you would see your younger versions in the face of the other. You would see the gossamer trails stretched tight between you, joining you together, humming with the vibrations of shared memories.
Like the time when he brought you tea in bed on a Sunday morning. You cuddled up to him with your nose stuck deep in his armpit, one leg thrown over his. Together, you listened to the early morning whistles and chirps outside the window. You couldn’t see his face but you knew he was looking at you, you knew he was smiling, because you did the same sometimes. What luck, to have found this person.
Eventually, you knew you had to get up. Oh, but it was so warm and cosy. You remember that clearly, that feeling. And you remember he dragged himself out from under the duvet first. You felt his weight shift and then disappear. The clink of the mugs being picked up.
You were dozing, eyes half closed, when you heard him scream. You opened them wide just in time to see him jerk the dregs of drink against the paintwork. You saw movement on the floor, spindly black legs scuttling to the corner. A spider. A small spider. A fact you find hilarious. Every weekend you saw the stain and said you should paint it and every weekend your time was filled with other chores and the brown streaks remained.
Not that long ago he said he loved your blue eyes (even though they are definitely brown, have always been brown. He should know – he’s stared into them often enough). You were mad, (you’re still mad, just a little, just a tiny bit). And even though afterwards he gave you his best puppy-dog look you weren’t ready to let it go. You were quiet and heavy handed with pots and pans. You thought you would have time to let him make it up to you.
You were wrong.
You have the time to be here now though, drowning in the lack of him, even
though he’s still here – just.
The pale green hospital walls fade away and in your head the beeps of the machine become birdsong, swooping high notes and trills, and it’s that Sunday again. You’re safe and warm and next to him. You hold his hand and tell him to take as long as he needs. You have nowhere else to be. Under your breath you say – I love you I love you
I love you.
And you count them off in your head.