Small Acts of Kindness, page 5
Along with the new location – not that one hospital ceiling is much unlike another – I am to continue physical rehabilitation sessions and physiotherapy, but I will also benefit from the sensory garden, weekly music therapy and, by next month, if all goes well, a spanking new aqua-therapy pool. Quite the five-star hotel.
Is that ungrateful? I know that this is landing on my feet. There is a team working to keep my body from shrivelling. They are trained and devoted and they want to help me. Not all hospitals are so fortunate as to have generous benefactors opening new units. This place is the product of a decade of fundraising by a very wealthy woman whose husband was treated here. I know this because the consultant was talking about it earlier, to the students who were following him as he swept in on his rounds. He stopped by my bed and he addressed me as Mr Edbury.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Edbury,’ he said. ‘I trust you will not mind my explaining that you have recently come to this unit from the acute neurological ward. As you can see, Mr Edbury is now breathing unaided.’ He proceeded to talk to them about a ‘pontine haemorrhage following traumatic injury and subsequent period of induced coma and ventilation’ and about complex evaluations and something called the Glasgow Coma Scale, before one of the students asked a question which I didn’t understand and which led to a lengthy discussion on cortical function which was way beyond me.
One student said then that she had seen my eyes move when he’d said my name and the consultant gave a reply which was something about observational assessments over weeks and months and about how such involuntary reflexes didn’t necessarily indicate any significant level of awareness.
‘From my experience, Ms Zwicki, it is often the case that upon seeing such uncontrolled physical reactions, relatives will infer a higher level of consciousness than is in fact present. Understandable, but as doctors you will find that the majority of reported interactions can be ascribed to wishful thinking rather than to actual cogent activity.
‘In genuine cases of pseudo-coma, or locked-in syndrome as it is widely known, one will generally find that vertical eye movement remains intact, despite otherwise total paralysis, due to sparing of the reticular formation. Thus the patient will be able to communicate his conscious state, although this must be confirmed by consistent correct responses to questions, rather than anecdotal or occasional and inconsistent reflex responses.’
I swear I was moving my eyes at that very moment. But the consultant – I believe his name is Mr Douglas – continued his lecture.
Come on Ms Zwicki, I willed her. Ask me something. Test me. Ask if I can hear you. Ask me if I know where I am, or what my name is, or what two plus two makes.
But the consultant thanked me for my time and off they all went.
And now, here is Bella, clutching my hand while telling her mobile telephone how she’ll never stop fighting my corner. And I am moving my eyes again. I swear I am. Like a flag waving above my head. I can feel them. Why can she not see it?
‘. . . my Norton is too loved and too talented and has too much to offer for the world to give up on him and . . .’
Bella, look. Annabella, look. Look, Bella. Bella!
When I was still me, I kept myself in shape. As well as the running and the football and the Pilates of course, I went to the gym three or four times a week. I cycled too. I never imagined that the thing I needed to be exercising would be my eyes. Before I ended our engagement, Bella and I would go riding on her parents’ estate at weekends. I liked my body to ache at the end of a day. Then, my muscles were taut and firm. Afterwards, before I’d even showered, she’d tug up my top and kiss me. Her perfume smells of those kisses.
Pilates, Passion & Practice. All of that was her idea. I was dismissive at first, but it was fun to do, and I clocked up twenty-thousand-odd views, which felt pretty fantastic. She’s a doer, Bella.
Chanel. Her perfume. Not No 5. Something else. Fresher. Younger.
‘. . . and Norton’s story shows how a life can be overturned in the blink of an . . .’
Eyes, Annabella. Look at me. Please.
Like flowers and apples and lemon zest and sunshine. The smell of her body against mine. Breathing it in as her eyes locked onto mine. Chance. That’s what her perfume was called. I would nuzzle into the soft hollows of her neck and breathe it in. All those times, snuggled against her, listening or half-listening to some recounting of a work project, or some story about something a friend had done.
Bella. Look at me.
She has beautiful eyes. More grey than blue. And her skin is pale and even. No freckles, just one little mole on her right hipbone, peeking down at her appendix scar.
Oh please, Bella.
Such soft skin. I loved to rub my cheek across her, smelling her and—
My god. Now this is unexpected, and a little embarrassing, but I’m feeling the swell of a desire that’s been absent since all of this. If I could, I would be reaching inside my hospital gown, to check if my body is doing what it believes it is doing. Surely Bella can sense this.
‘. . . the message I suppose that Norton would want to give to the world is to never give up, however bleak the future seems.’
For pity’s sake, look at me.
Finally. She is standing and leaning in so that her chest comes into my field of vision. She is wearing a white T-shirt and I can just make out the contrast through the cotton of her bra against her skin. From my bed, with its top end slightly raised, I am watching her bend into me, into my line of sight, and smelling her perfume. Is she going to touch her lips onto mine?
I feel a sudden surge. Will she press her body closer? Thread her fingers into my hair. Would she dare hike up her skirt and climb onto me here? Surely not, when a nurse could walk in at any moment?
‘Poor Norton.’ She gives my forehead a kiss. ‘But you’ll come through this, darling, wait and see.’
No, Annabella, no. You wait. Look. You must see the SOS that my eyes are flashing, that my body is throbbing? I’m a human distress signal for Christ’s sake. Annabella . . .
‘Sleep well, my love. I’ll be back tomorrow.’
MRS M
H
ERE WE GO. MRS Beeton’s Book of Household Management. Do stop looking at me that way, Wordsworth, you shall have your tea in two shakes. Patience, dog, is a virtue. Goodness me, but this book does bring back memories. Standing on a chair at Mother’s side, while she beat and creamed and whipped and rolled and folded, and I would be pleading with her to let me help, and secretly hoping that she might permit me to lick the bowl.
The book had once belonged to her own mother, and she remembered standing on her own chair. ‘One day it will be you teaching these recipes to your daughter,’ she’d tell me. Though of course that was not to be.
Mother’s sponge pudding was a thing of beauty. I can almost taste it now. And there is nobody here to appreciate this fact except Wordsworth, so I address my thoughts to him.
‘Do you know, dog, I cannot for the life of me understand why nobody cares for a pudding anymore?’
Not cosmopolitan enough, I suppose. No Asiatic influences or Mediterranean twists. Everything now must be a fusion of something or other. Although, she made a rather nice-looking spotted dick the other day, the one on BBC2 that Harriet liked. The one who’s always licking her fingers. And I thought to myself how many years it was since I’d eaten one. Roger never liked them. And the ones they gave us at school were simply awful. But Mother’s was marvellous. And her custard never came out of a packet.
‘So, Wordsworth,’ I say. ‘If I . . . if I—’
Oh, yes, here it is. Harriet’s . . .
What was I saying?
Mrs Beeton. I—
‘Oh, Wordsworth, this blasted headache. I should have taken a nap when I came back from – where was I again?’
Maybe if I – oh bother! That noise. That—
What on earth is Mrs Beeton doing down on—
On the . . . ? Down on—
Did? Did I think I . . . I . . .
KIKI
I
OANNA MOON. FACTS.
This is what I have written at the top of the page of my notebook. The one I found in the pub. It’s one of those ones with the pages held together by a wire spiral.
Then I’ve written:
Born – Glastonbury (roadside, near Pilton festival). DEFINITE.
23rd June 1971. DEFINITE.
Died – Glastonbury, or nearby? (Van? very near. Yaya said near stone circle said NOT festival.)
Stan Douglas – who is he? Poison? Why? Came through window?
I have this notebook in my left hand. On my right knee, I’m balancing another one. Its cover has a picture of three cartoon puppies. On the first page, in pencil writing: Kiki Moon, I am 6. My secruts. There is a box drawn around the word secrets. On the second page. Big secrut — Gramps is my favurit. But below it, in purple coloured pencil, is Yaya is too with lots of badly drawn hearts. I must have felt guilty.
‘Call back if I can help any more.’ Pam at the Glastonbury register office told me, when I phoned before the wake earlier. And also, ‘You’re welcome, Kid.’
Gramps used to call me Kid. Or Babber sometimes. ‘All right, Babber? What’s that you’re playing?’ And it’s like Pam calling me Kid with her accent from here has brought his voice back into my head. I’m here, in my window nook, looking out at The Fox and Hounds sign, with these two notebooks on my knee, and there’s an ache in my gut. Gramps, with his cuddles and his calmness and his ‘grab your sleeping bags, girls, the stars are too lush for roofs tonight’.
The three of us – him, Yaya and me – would lie in a row, each in our hammocks stretched out between the wooden poles he’d hammered in by the lake edge. I’d try to stay awake while they talked about other nights and other countries and other times. If they thought I was asleep, they’d start whispering.
I’d listen as long as I could, telling myself I must remember everything they said – names of bands and friends and stories of jumping in vans to drive the length of the country, and of tents blowing away in gales and acquaintances falling into ditches or leaping onto stages to perform with heroes.
If it was about my mum, Yaya might cry then too. I’d have to listen really hard to try to understand what she was saying.
Yaya never learned English at school, only after Gramps brought her to England. You never quite knew if her words were the ones she meant to say or just ones that had come into her head. Gramps said she talked her own language. Yaya-ish, a Greek-Kiwi-Somerset mix. ‘Your Yaya is unique,’ he used to say. ‘Never forget that, Babber.’
As if I could.
When Pam asked why I was calling, I said I’d ordered a copy of my mother’s death certificate by email a couple of months ago from New Zealand, but I’d had an email back saying there was no death registered with the details I’d given.
‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘Let’s have a little look.’
I’m holding the spiral notebook – it’s one someone left in the pub, unused except for a couple of pages of doodles and some letters, like for working out a crossword.
Ioanna Moon, I’ve written. Facts.
Sue always says it’s important to focus on the facts. So that’s what I’m doing.
Ioanna is Greek for Joanna. I know where and when she was born because it’s like our family legend. Yaya always loved to talk about my mum’s birth, but if I asked her about her death, it was like suddenly she couldn’t understand anything that was said.
My mum died when I was three which was 1997. I don’t know the exact date, but Pam said the search would have allowed a couple of years either side, so that shouldn’t matter if I’m sure of the year. She asked how certain I was about the place of death. Widening the geographical area could help, she said.
‘Yeah,’ I told her. ‘Nah. I’m certain where it was.’
It was written in my book of secrets – or secruts. Glasonby.
There’s a website with births, marriages and deaths – all the old certificates being put online. It goes up to 1997. I told Pam I’d already looked on that. Sue’d found it for me when she was helping me back in Auckland. When we looked on it there was an Iris Moon who died in Frome – not too far from Glastonbury – in the summer of 1997 but she was 78, way too old, and a Ioanna Free who was born in 1971, and her death was registered in December of the right year. But it was in a place called Penrith and I checked where that was. It’s up in the north of England, almost Scotland. Miles away from Glastonbury. Anyway, their names were both wrong.
There were other Ioannas though their dates and places was wrong too. And none had the last name Moon. None were my mum. A Joanna Moonfleet died in Bristol in August 1997. But she was only five, poor thing.
‘Do you have your mother’s birth certificate? Passport? Any other paperwork?’ Pam asked.
Yaya and I were burgled after she became ill. They took all our passports and certificates. Old letters from Gramps, too, and pictures my mum had drawn when she was little. It was the most upset I saw Yaya ever. But she said the thieves were stupid because they hadn’t found her grandmother’s gold earrings that she’d sewn inside one of the cushions.
After Yaya died, I cut open all our cushions and found enough dollars to pay for my plane ticket to England. I never found her grandmother’s earrings though.
I told Pam I wouldn’t bother ordering a copy of my mum’s birth certificate, because I knew all of that information. My own birth certificate is the replacement Yaya ordered after the burglary. My mum’s signature has the Os of Moon crossing over each other. That’s how I sign my name now too.
The father’s details are all blank, but it has my mother’s place of birth and occupation and address when I was born. It says student and the address is on the Holloway Road in London. My place of birth is a hospital called the Whittington.
The first thing I did when I arrived in London – after dropping off my backpack at ratbag-landlady-Siobhan’s and having a sleep – was check out the address. But it was more like a hostel than a home, and the man on the desk wasn’t very friendly. I went to the Whittington too. I rode up and down the escalators and went into the shop and told a few people about me being born there. I told the woman in the information booth on the ground floor. She said, ‘Oh, wow.’ Then she said, ‘How can I help you?’ I didn’t really have anything to say back.
Ioanna Moon. Facts.
My pen’s in my mouth. Yaya always told me I shouldn’t chew my pens and I can feel the plastic cracking as I do it now. I write down my own date of birth. And London. And the Whittington, Holloway. And student.
Yaya never told me anything about my father, except that he was one of the ‘crusties’ that Ioanna lived with. It wasn’t Yaya being rude, she said, everyone called them that – crusties and new age travellers. Gramps always joked that he and Yaya were old age travellers then, but they weren’t really. They had their barn which Gramps had converted all by himself.
My mum and her friends were arrested heaps of times but not because they were doing anything wrong. Mostly they were trying to save woods or forests from being cut down. They’d chain themselves to trees or dig tunnels and hide in them. That was how my mum ended up doing law studies in London, because she wanted to learn how to fight in court instead. But she’d only just started when she found out she was pregnant with me. The university said she could finish her studies when she was ready. Except she died too soon.
University of North London, I write. And Who was my dad? Yaya said one of mum’s crusty group. Other friends?
I found the address of the old barn Yaya and Gramps lived in. My mum went and stayed back there with them after I was born. But I don’t think there’s any point going there now. I looked on Google Maps. There’s just a big supermarket and car park where it used to be.
It’s cosy here, with the pub sign creaking outside. And I’m trying to think what else I know for definite. I open my little girl secret book and turn the page.
Mumy did wen I wos 3. The 3 is the wrong way round, so is the s. Somtims she toks to me.
I had my own cushion, a yellow one. It had a zip on the back. I hid my book of secrets inside it – copying Yaya. After Yaya died, I found it again when I was cutting open the cushions. I’d forgotten all about it. My writing’s pretty good for a six-year-old. Gramps was a great teacher. I reckon my spelling would be better now if he’d stayed alive.
I’m thinking of Gramps’s voice. ‘Your mum would never have chosen to leave you. It just happened. It wasn’t her fault. She was sitting down, drawing pictures, and she went to sleep and didn’t wake up.’
It was only after he died that I started to think, but why didn’t she wake up?
‘Your grandfather told you this a hundred times,’ Yaya would insist, when I asked her. ‘Don’t make me talk about it. It brings everything back like it’s today again.’
Later, when I told Sue, she said maybe Yaya was telling the truth. Maybe Gramps had told me. Children only take in as much as their brains can understand, so maybe that was why I couldn’t remember what I’d been told.
Yaya seemed more and more upset each time I asked. If I carried on pushing her she’d say different things. I never liked to see Yaya sad, so mostly I stopped asking. But one time I confronted her. I demanded to know who Stan Douglas was. ‘I know he killed my mother,’ I told her. ‘I heard you saying it to Gramps. You thought I was asleep but I heard you saying to him that Ioanna was poisoned by a man called Stan Douglas. Who was he, Yaya? Why did he kill my mother?’
What was I? Thirteen maybe. Old enough to ball my fists and say she had to tell me.
But Yaya said she didn’t know what I meant, I must have dreamt it.
‘I didn’t dream it,’ I told her. ‘I remember you saying it. You said Stan Douglas came in and killed her. You said you’d have saved her if you were there. You said thank God I wasn’t there too.’
That’s when Yaya started sobbing.
‘Who’s Stan Douglas?’ I asked her. ‘Tell me.’
