Being Here (22 page)

‘Mrs C?' Carly sits up in her chair. Her eyes flash with alarm. ‘Are you all right?'

There is a numbness on the left side of my face. My mouth sags and a thin trail of drool leaks. I need to answer her. I am not all right. My brain sends orders to my mouth, but the message doesn't arrive. It is strange. I see the words ordered beautifully in my mind. I know which to select. But my body is an idiot.

‘Thomething …' I say. ‘Thomething

…' After that there is bustle and lights and movement. But most of it passes me by.

THE BEGINNING

And was all the time merging with a unique endeavour
To bring to bloom the million-petalled flower
Of being here.
Next time you can't pretend there'll be anything else …

CHAPTER 19

I
AM THE CENTRE.

Everything else is vague. There is a harsh light somewhere. I am lying in a sea of white. My body feels dry and shrivelled and weightless. A husk. The smallest breeze will sweep me away, tumble me towards a void. I close my eyes to seek it. Find it.

‘Mrs Cartwright?'

The voice is a summons I don't want to obey, but it is insistent. The only way to make it go away is to acknowledge it. I do not know how I know this. I just know. I open my eyes.

The light is still there. A face swims before it. I do not recognise the face, but I am not sure that means anything. The light paints a nimbus around it. An angel with pockmarked skin and a thin moustache.

‘Can you hear me, Mrs Cartwright?' says the mundane angel.

I attempt to send a message from the centre, but the practicalities are beyond me. I blink my eyes instead.

‘You are in hospital, Mrs Cartwright,' he says. ‘You have had a stroke, but you are stable now. Do not try to talk. What you need, more than anything, is rest.'

I was resting. Why summon me to tell me to rest? I don't understand.

She has red hair and a face I know. She holds my hand.

There are machines around me. From the corners of my eyes I see lights blinking and lines that run, fade, renew themselves. Tubes grow from the withered flesh of my arm. It is my flesh, but outside of me. I am the centre. Little else is real.

‘Oh, Leah,' says the woman with red hair. She is weeping and she holds my hand too hard. I know her. I think I loved her in another place and another time. She brushes her eyes with a hand and tries for a smile. Her aim is off. It comes out twisted.

‘You're looking
much
better, sweetie. We were worried about you there, for a while. But if there's one thing I've learned about Leah Cartwright it's that she's a tough old bird. Keeps coming back for more. You'll be on your feet before you know it, so you will.' She is gathering momentum. I feel her words are masking something, that maybe she spills them to avoid thinking. I don't know. ‘Everyone from home sends their love and warmest wishes for a speedy recovery. I have a card.' She holds it up before my face. It is full of writing, but I cannot make any of it out. ‘I'll put it on your bedside. And then there are the flowers. Have you seen the flowers? They are beautiful. A massive bouquet. Can you smell them? It's like summer in this room, Leah.'

Her name is Jane. I want to taste the word in my mouth, but I can't.

I find strength from somewhere, channel it into what remains of nerves and sinew and muscle. I squeeze her hand and watch her eyes widen, fill with wonder.

‘The baby, Leah,' she says and her voice is drenched in the exultation of mystery. ‘It moved. My baby moved. She kicked.'

She laughs, a hymn to life. My mouth twitches.

Everything is quickening. It is as it should be.

She continues talking, a torrent of language. I like the drone of words. They mingle with the hisses of the machines, become a lullaby that rocks me to sleep.

Time passes and I occupy a little more of myself. Now I feel myself as a centre that pushes outwards, nearly to the limit of a wasted body. I cannot control it. No, I cannot do that. But I am me. I am Leah Cartwright. My mind is battered, but working. Memories are more vivid than the room I know I will not leave. I can move parts of my body, though it takes an extraordinary effort of will. I even manage to speak one or two words, but they are poor and mangled things. I smile and it is lopsided. The muscles on the left side of my face refuse to cooperate. The building is crumbling, but I am a tenant yet.

Carly and her parents visit me. They come camouflaged behind a mass of blooms. Birnam wood has come to Dunsinane. A nurse relieves them of their burden and they sit by my bed. An awkward silence follows. I cannot break it.

‘We are so sorry, Mrs Cartwright,' says Carly's mother finally. I cannot remember her name. She smiles, but her eyes are filmed with tears. The room's lights are reflected in them. She takes my hand. Everyone wants to take my hand. Perhaps it reassures them I am still here. ‘We feel … responsible for what happened. For a few dreadful moments we thought it was the food. You know. That we had poisoned you. Botulism, or something. And then the paramedics said they thought it might have been a stroke and we, well we got to thinking that maybe it had all been too much for you, that we had brought this on somehow and we just felt dreadful about it, I can't tell you how dreadful we felt, still feel, but so relieved you seem to be on the mend …'

A dam has been breached and the guilt pours out. I want to tell her that I am the one who should feel responsible, that I nearly brought tragedy into their ordered lives, infected their home with the disease of death. But words are no longer my slaves. I smile and hope she listens to that.

Carly hovers in the background. I am impatient to see her, but must receive her parents' apology first. It takes an eternity. The father feels he must give an encore to his wife's performance. Finally, they bring the curtain down. Her mother bends and kisses me on the cheek.

‘We'll leave you with Carly for a few moments, Mrs Cartwright. The nurse said we shouldn't stay long, that you need rest. But we'll be back to see you very soon.'

They leave as if having shed a burden other than the weight of flowers.

Carly sits on a chair beside my bed There is something different about her and it is not just the concern she wears. Or the make-up, which has made a reappearance. She attempts a smile and that is when I see it. Her teeth. Strong, white, even and free.

‘Hey, Mrs C,' she says. ‘Had the braces off yesterday. Whatya reckon?' I think she must have read the direction of my gaze and the widening of my eyes. She parts her lips, offers an uninterrupted view. I want to tell her I am pleased for her and saddened for myself. That I miss her iridescent smile. I nod instead.

She edges her chair closer.

‘Got to tell you something. Josh has a gig tonight. It's major. Support band for a big name playing at this club in the city and he's hyper about it. So last night, he goes, “Do you want to come with us in the van with the band?” and I tell him I can't make it, that I'm coming in to see you. And he's, like, “What?” Doesn't compute with him, that I'd sooner visit you than be a hanger-on in a club. So I say there'll be other times.'

I would feel guilty, but it's obvious she's building to something.

‘So he says maybe I should get my priorities right, that there'll be other times when I could visit
you
. Then he comes out with something really shitty, but I can't remember exactly the words he used. It was more what he nearly said, you know what I mean? Anyway, he hints there are other chicks who'd be only too happy to come with the band, only he doesn't quite say it like that. So I say to him, “Would you do anything for me, Josh? Like without thinking about it?” and he goes “What are you on about?” as if it's the dumbest thing anyone has ever asked. So I say …' She laughs and it is pure and white. ‘I say, “Piss off, Josh.” Just like that. Out of the blue. You should have seen his face. It was like I'd smacked him.'

I look for sadness and regret in
her
face, but detect no signs.

‘And you know what, Mrs C? I'm glad I said it. Things had … I don't know. Got unbalanced, I guess. You made me see that. I was way too grateful for any attention he gave and that meant he had all the power. I mean
I'd
given him the power. And he was prepared to use it. Not only that, he was enjoying using it. So … well, maybe we'll make up and maybe we won't. But if we do make up then it'll be on my terms as well, not just his. And if we don't, then that's okay, too. Seriously. I reckon I'm developing a mind of my own. Are you proud of me, Mrs C?'

I am. I wish I could tell her. I try to write it on my face.

A nurse enters and tells Carly to leave. I cannot let her go. Not yet. So I grab her hand. Just that small movement drains me. I summon all my reserves of will, channel it into my mouth. My tongue is a slab of meat and my lips are dead. I force them to a semblance of life.

‘Story,' I say. The word comes out maimed and my voice is cracked and dry. I summon a little extra energy. ‘Machine. Carly.'

Her face clouds.

‘Hey, Mrs C. There's time to finish your story. When you get some strength back, okay?'

‘No.' This time, my voice is firm. It needs to be. Time is drifting, slipping away. ‘Tomorrow. Story.'

‘Jeez, Mrs C …' ‘Tomorrow.'

She reads my face for a minute or so. I do not know what script she deciphers, but it must be enough. She nods.

‘Sure. Tomorrow. I'll be here. And I'll bring my machine. Okay? Satisfied?'

I close my eyes.

‘Oh, I nearly forgot. I brought you a present.'

I open my eyes again.

‘It's a lousy photograph. I look like a total dork. Anyway, we bought a frame and everything, on our way in. I mean, you
did
ask, Mrs C. God knows why you want it. But here you are.'

I bring the frame close to my face. My right hand trembles under its weight.

Carly smiles at me from within the photograph. Her teeth are enclosed in a rainbow. The frame is thinly plated silver and has small hearts embossed at regular intervals around the perimeter. I close my eyes and hug it to my chest.