Authors: Janelle Harris
Mark tucks my wheelchair beside the passenger door of a blue saloon while he walks around the back of the car and throws my bag into the boot. I look through the back windows searching for the children’s car seats. I expect to find Bobby’s chocolate stained booster and Katie’s little pink carry chair, but the backseat is empty. This car is new and spotless and an extreme contrast to our usual car.
‘What do you think of the car?’ Mark asks, reappearing.
‘It’s okay.’ I shrug, surprised he’s gone ahead and chosen a replacement car without discussing it with me first.
‘It’s only a lender from the insurance company until the paperwork is finalised on our claim.’
‘Oh.’ I swallow. ‘What paperwork?’ The mere hint of any complication resulting from the accident puts me instantly on edge.
‘Yeah, the feckin’ assessor says we’ll be waiting a few weeks. Something about getting someone to look at the car to make sure it’s beyond repair. The usual red tape crap.’
I try to smile as hazy images of our mangled car swarm my mind.
I don’t want to think about it.
Mark takes my hand. ‘They’re probably checking things like brakes and stuff. If they find a fault, then they can claim from the manufacturer rather than having to fork it out themselves. You know how insurance companies are. Any excuse not to cough up; don’t look so worried.’
‘Faulty brakes?’ I pull my hand away.
I hadn’t thought of that. What if it wasn’t an accident?
Mark shakes his head, and I know how paranoid I sound. I close my eyes. I need to stop avoiding the blame and just face the fact that I ran the red light and the car approaching from the other way was driving way too fast. It didn’t stand a chance of stopping on time.
‘It’s no big deal. I bet we’ll have a cheque by the end of the week. We can start shopping around for a new one in the meantime, yeah?’ Mark is smiling, but his eyes are sad.
I have no plans to go out in public anytime soon, but I nod and smile back anyway.
I open the door of the car and accidently smack it on the big, clunky metal wheels of my wheelchair. I slam the door shut again, almost taking my fingers with it. Mark crouches down beside me and his big, round, blue eyes peer into mine.
‘I love you,’ he says softly and leans forward to kiss my forehead before starting the awkward task of getting me into the car.
A strong hour and a half later, we near home. I know the road like the back of my hand from so many hospital appointments during my pregnancy; the journey usually takes about twenty minutes, even in traffic. But Mark is driving painfully slow. I get the distinct impression he’s trying to put me at ease about being back in a moving car. He glances across at me every five seconds, and I know he wants to ask if I’m okay, but he doesn’t say a word. I’ve been so quiet the whole way, and I’m probably freaking him out a little. I just sit and stare out the window, but I’m not actually looking at anything.
I glance back at Mark. His hand is on my knee.
When did he put it there?
I want to ask him to take it away because it’s reminding me of my paralysis, but I also want him to keep both hands on the damn wheel. Yet I decide not to say anything.
I close my eyes. I can see the kids’ faces, and it makes my heart race. I’ve never gone so long without seeing them. I can’t wait to hold them and kiss them. But I also can’t help but worry about how they’ll react when they see me; especially when they see me in my chair. I keep imagining all sorts of ridiculous scenarios. Worst case is Bobby running out into the garden screaming that a transformer has eaten Mommy. I admit that’s slightly excessive, but Bobby has inherited my overactive imagination, so I’m anticipating some sort of freak-out.
At home, Mark makes it halfway into the hall before he spins around on the spot. His face flushes a rosy red as he races back to the car to open the door for me.
‘Oh shit sorry, Laura, I forgot!’
‘It’s okay.’ I giggle. ‘I forgot, too. Well, until I opened the door and nearly fell out.’
‘Well, if that does happen, try to aim for the grass,’ Mark says.
I laugh until I realise he’s actually serious. He must have had to force himself to think about strange stuff like that recently.
‘Eh, okay,’ I reply. ‘Or I could just wear a helmet.’
Mark looks appalled at first, but then he starts to laugh. It’s a new sounding laugh. One I’m not used to, but one he’s often doing lately. He reverts to it every time he says something that he instantly regrets. Mark always speaks his mind. Even if it is to tell me that my jeans really do make my bum look big. But since the accident, he’s taken to watching every word that comes out of his mouth. It’s not him. It’s taking a lot of getting used to, and I don’t like it.
Mark lifts me out of the car and throws me over his shoulder a little haphazardly.
‘I’ve always wanted to carry you over the threshold,’ he says.
I say nothing. I’d appreciate Mark’s romantic gesture more if he didn’t have to huff and puff his way up the stairs and then if I didn’t hear him finally sigh with relief when he dropped me onto the bed.
I’m disappointed we didn’t stop downstairs or go straight to the playroom. Our bedroom looks so different that I almost don’t recognise it. My dressing gown, which usually resides in a pile at the foot of the bed, is hanging neatly on a new coat hook on the back of the door. The old, cream rug at the end of the bed that proudly sports some discreet hair dye stains has been replaced with a pretty new one, and some beautiful, fresh red roses sit on the windowsill in place of the regular artificial ones. It’s all lovely, but I miss seeing Katie’s cot in the corner. Mark has obviously gone to a lot of trouble, so I’ll wait until later to ask him to put the cot back. I snort as I suspect it was Mark’s mother who wanted to move Katie’s cot out of our room; interfering is her middle name.
I lie back against the pillows and try not to cry. The house is painfully quiet and I resign myself to the idea that the kids aren’t here. I try to hide my upset from Mark because I know he’s struggling to do what’s best. If he’s sent the kids to his mother's, I know it’s because he thinks I need my rest. All I need are the kids. I want to ask about them, but I’ll wait for the lump in my throat to go down.
Mark helps me change into one of his old t-shirts and tucks me into bed. He orders me to relax while he goes to make some tea. He must have noticed me gazing around the room because he turns around at the door.
‘Are you okay?’
His voice is a whisper, and I almost don’t hear him. Mark hangs his head and shuffles his feet awkwardly. ‘Ah, Laura, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean are you okay…of course, I know you’re not. I just mean...’ He stops talking and actually scratches his head. ‘I don’t know what to do here. I keep saying stuff and then realising how stupid it sounds once I’ve said it out loud.’
‘It’s not stupid to ask me if I’m okay. What
is
stupid is you thinking that you can’t ask me. You can always ask me anything.’
‘I just feel so useless. I want everything to go back to how it was before,’ Mark mumbles.
‘Me, too.’
‘I don’t know how to help you,’ he says, walking back to sit on the bed beside me. ‘It makes me feel like shit. Like I’m sucking at this. And then I realise I have no right to feel crap, not compared to you.’
‘Yes, you do. And I’m glad you finally told me. It actually makes me feel so much better. You know, knowing that I’m not the only one struggling to cope with all this.’
Mark leans close and kisses me. It’s the first proper kiss we’ve had since the accident. All my tension is set aside, and for a moment, I enjoy the warmth of my husband’s lips on mine.
‘How will we get through this?’ Mark asks, and I moan as he pulls his mouth away from mine. ‘Shit. See, that’s not a very helpful question. I told you I sucked at this,’ he says.
Finally, Mark is saying what’s on his mind. I smile. For the first time in weeks, I recognise my husband.
‘I don’t know all the answers either, Mark.’ I roll my shoulders. ‘Actually, I don’t know any right now.’
‘They gave me all this crap at the hospital last week.’ Mark points at a small pile of depressing-looking, pastel-coloured pamphlets on the bedside table.
‘Did you read them?’
‘I tried to. But it’s a load of bollocks. They’re all about ‘expect this, say that.’ Made you sound like a bloody washing machine that needed programming.’
‘Well, that’s it, then. There’s not a hope for us. You haven’t a clue how to use the washing machine.’
We both laugh. A real proper chuckle, not just something put on to fill the air.
‘Do they say anything about how to deal with being pissed off one minute and depressed the next?’ I ask when the silence returns.
‘Yeah. I think they do, actually.’ Mark races around the bed and starts flicking through pages.
‘I’m joking. I don’t need to read those. And neither do you. We’ll figure this out ourselves, okay? No handbook telling us life is shit now, yeah?’
Mark closes the pamphlet and looks at me. His eyes are less sad than usual.
‘Do you know what I do want though?’ I ask.
‘What?’
‘A cup of tea that doesn’t taste like monkey piss.’
Mark pulls a face. ‘How do you know what monkey piss tastes like?’
We laugh again. It was so much easier to laugh in the familiarity of our home than it was in the hospital.
‘I think we have some elephant wee downstairs. I’ll bring you up a cup of that instead.’
‘Perfect. Thanks.’
Mark is downstairs for a long time, and I drift in and out of fitful sleep. He arrives back up with the vile antibiotic that makes my stomach heave and a large glass of ice water. No tea.
‘Here,’ he says, handing me two little blue tablets. ‘These things smell a bit like sweaty feet.’
‘They taste like it, too,’ I say, gagging before I even put the pills near my mouth.
I throw the medicine into my mouth and slug back a huge volume of water to force them down my throat as fast as possible. ‘Ugh, yuck,’ I protest and stick out my tongue. ‘Were you on the phone downstairs? I thought I heard voices.’
‘I was talking to Nicole,’ Mark replies.
My face scrunches. ‘She’s here?’
‘Stop that,’ Mark says, as he pushes his index finger playfully against my wrinkled up nose. ‘She only stopped by to see how you are getting on.’
‘Getting on?’ I’m developing a habit of repeating most things that Mark says.
‘It’s no big deal. She mentioned calling over when you got out of hospital, but you must have forgotten.’
I don’t remember.
But, then again, I forget a lot of things lately. The bang to my head has affected my short-term memory, the doctor said. The doctor had to explain that to me about five times before I finally began to remember that I forget.
I also doubt very much I’ve agreed to Mark’s mother looking after the kids, but I can’t remember one way or another, and an argument over who said what is the last thing we need. Much as I hate to admit it, even to myself, I know I’m in no fit state to look after the children right now. And Mark is exhausted just looking after me. I can’t ask him to bring the kids home. Not yet.
I can only imagine the number of broken ornaments we will have to replace in my OCD mother-in-law’s house. I shudder at the thoughts of her passing out chocolate buttons for breakfast or letting them stay up half the night. I cross my fingers that Mark and I will have settled into a routine within the next day or two and we can bring them home then. I won’t be able to go much longer without them. The thoughts of seeing their gorgeous little faces are all that’s keeping me going right now.
I really wish my parents were still alive
. I miss their support almost as much as I miss the kids.
‘I have a bath nearly ready,’ Mark says, peeking his head out of the door of our en suite. ‘It’ll be good to wash that hospital smell off you.’
The fumble to the bathroom is almost comical, and I really hope we get better at moving about with some practice or Mark will need to see my physiotherapist too for his back. Tears trickle down my cheeks as Mark begins to undress me. It’s not his usual loving touch of each breast as it’s exposed. It’s more like a heartbreaking military operation. He sits on the edge of the bath with me awkwardly across his knee. My head is heavy and aching with the weight of holding itself up. It’s very much a balancing act between pulling off my t-shirt and not letting the weight of my dead legs drag us both to the floor.
Finally, when I’m sitting naked on his lap, he wraps his arms around me and holds me close.
Is he going to cry?
I wish he would. Maybe we could cry together.
‘I’ll get better at this. I promise,’ he whispers.
‘I wish you didn’t have to.’
Getting Mark to actually leave the bathroom is the most difficult task of all. He’s watching me like a hawk. Maybe he’s afraid I’ll slip under the water and not be able to pull myself back up. Or, more disturbingly, perhaps he fears I won’t want to. On some level, I understand how he could fear that. Of course, I’ve thought about how easily I could end all this crap. But I wouldn’t, I couldn’t.