We Are All Made of Stars (5 page)

But I've had time to think, and I was thinking about our last big family lunch – the last one before the tumour changed all the time we had together. I was thinking about the way your children looked at you, the way they love you, the way they laughed, the closeness between you. You are more than their father; you are their parent. And I wished things had been different back when you were a boy. I wish I'd been home sometimes before you were asleep; I wish I'd been the sort of father that you are now. I wish I'd been a better dad for you, son. I wish I'd told you how very much I love you, and that every single time I've seen your face, it's filled me with pride and joy – more joy than I have known in my life. And the greatest pride I take is in the kind of man you are: kind, thoughtful, not afraid to be loving or loved.

You've given me more than I deserved; I only wish I'd done the same for you.

Dad

CHAPTER FOUR

A little after four, I am sitting with Thea for a while in the patients' lounge, just sitting in silence. I watch her watching the moon out of the window. Shadow is curled up on her lap, curled into a tight, black, featureless ball, as she rests her palm lightly on his back, her eyes slowly closing. It's something all the families need: that moment, that rest from the vice-like grip of waiting. As we sit there I watch her visibly relax, just a little. Her shoulders drop, the creases in her face become less deeply etched. And then it is over and she remembers, and her body clenches again, steeling herself for whatever is next.

The odd thing is that by being here I feel relaxed and at peace, useful and wanted. It's when I tie the laces of my running shoes and get ready to go home that my body clenches in self-defence.

We start as an unexpected flurry bursts into the corridor outside, voices and noise; they communicate an urgency. Shadow shoots off of Thea's lap and out through an open window. I get up, and Laurie, the other night nurse on shift tonight, stops just outside the room, looking at what I can see.

‘New admission?' I ask.

She looks at me and shrugs. We are not an emergency unit; people don't just turn up here, they are always referred and expected. Glancing at Thea, I follow Laurie into my serene kingdom of quiet corridors, which are now are filled with paramedics, a patient on a gurney and, at the heart of the activity, a face I recognise, although I've seen her only once at my interview: my boss, Keris Hunter.

‘It's Grace Somner,' she tells me through the crowd of people as they wheel her into our only vacant room. I know the name, although not the woman. Grace has been a stalwart of the Marie Francis fundraising team as a kind of uber-volunteer. There's a photo of her in reception: a woman in her late fifties, with an abundance of blonde hair piled atop a face that's seen harder times. She also runs the teen resource centre, not only for teenagers suffering from terminal illness, but also for those who have lost someone. She gives them a place to go and shout and swear, or play videos games endlessly, or talk or paint. ‘She doesn't have any family so it was me she asked the hospital to call when she collapsed. End-stage stomach cancer. I don't know why she's hidden it from us for so long, or even how. I brought her here. What else could I do? Otherwise she'd die in hospital without anyone she knows, or who knows her.'

‘It's fine,' I say. ‘No need to explain. Go and have a cup of tea. Laurie and I will settle her in; we'll take care of her.'

Our on-call doctor arrives, a little flustered as the paramedics officially hand over care, and Laurie and I follow his instructions for Grace's medication: set up the drip, deftly, painlessly insert the cannula in the back of her hand, smoothing down the cool sheets, adjusting the pillows to support her neck. But through it all she remains in a deep, quiet sleep, probably because of the level of pain medication they gave her at the hospital. Soon enough, the new levels will kick in and she will likely wake up and wonder where she is. After a word with Laurie, after the room is cleared, I sit down next to the bed and wait for Grace's eyes to open. I don't want her to be alone when she wakes up and remembers.

Remembering is the worst part.

Shortly the day shift will come on, and I will change into my running shoes and make my way home to the house, where my husband will have been up and awake for hours, crying until his eyes are red raw – unless he has drunk himself to sleep. And it is always now, at this point of the night, when dawn seems like a possibility, that I remember.

I remember that my husband can't stand to look at me any more.

It's just before six when I turn the key in the lock and open the front door very slowly so that it does not creak. I hold my breath. The house is quiet. I can hear the needle on the vinyl that Vincent has always preferred over CDs or downloads click, clicking away. I breathe out as I see he is sleeping on the sofa, still wearing his gym uniform, his Beats headphones, which he bought to stop the neighbours reporting us for the loudness of his music all night long, still covering his ears. He must have taken his prosthetic off at some time last night; it is propped up against the coffee table, where several cans of pre-mixed Jack Daniel's and diet cola lay discarded and crumpled.

Reassured that he is sleeping deeply, I tiptoe into the room and look at him, my heart in my mouth and full of longing and love. Oh God, how I miss being able to just look at him, never mind touch him, or feel his touch. His head is tipped backwards at an awkward angle that will surely cost him a stiff neck when he wakes up, and I see the long tanned stretch of throat, laced with scarring on the right side which extends up the side of his face and into his hairline, where the hair grows unevenly now. Edging closer, I sit in the armchair opposite, taking in the sweep of his thick, dark lashes, his wonderful, slightly crooked nose, his arms – muscular and toned, crossed over his chest, tightly hugging one of our sofa cushions.

The yearning to feel the warmth of his skin is almost unbearable. I wonder what would happen if I let myself carefully unclasp his arms, took away his protective cushion and slid my hand ever so gently under his T-shirt, feeling the firm abs that he works so hard to maintain, rising over the ridge of his pectoral muscles, tracing my fingers over the web of silver scars that track down his back and side. For a moment, unbidden and of its own volition, my hand floats upwards and out, stretching towards him. But I stop. I can't risk it. I can't risk him turning away from me again. Somehow I need to find out what happened the day he was injured that changed everything between us, because when I know what it was, then I will know why he can't stand to be near me, why he can't sleep unless there is rock music drowning out his thoughts, and if … I almost can't bear to think it, but I must … if we have a chance to stay together.

So I don't touch him. I sit back in the armchair and watch him for a few moments more, until just minutes before I know the alarm on his phone will go off to get him up for work. Then I leave him and trudge silently upstairs to our bedroom, hoping to dream of him instead.

Dear Keith,

No, wait, darling Keith.

Darling Keith, you are the one I have always loved; I hope you know that. I think you do, but I should have told you, shouldn't I? What a fool I am for not telling you more, louder, longer, ever. But I always thought you knew.

There'd be a look between us, a touch, a moment when the air just hummed with it, with our love for each other. We never needed to shout about it, did we, Keith? Shouting was never for us. Well, except at the footy, every Saturday afternoon – just our poor misfortune that we have to support the worst team to never grace the Premier League.

Every Saturday afternoon, we laughed, didn't we? Laughed and sang and had a drink on the way home. When all the others had peeled off, and we were the last two with the furthest to walk, our fingers would find each other's, and we'd hold hands for those last few yards.

Well, Keith, I have always loved you. I've never shouted about it, but now the words are here, on the paper. Put them in frame if you like, copy them a thousand times, and stick them to trees. Take out an ad at the ground; tell the world that I love you, Keith, and that the greatest joy of my life has always been knowing that you love me back.

I'll be yours always,

Michael

CHAPTER FIVE

‘Hello?' I let myself in and listen. And to my relief I discover there is no one else here, except for the cat – the only gift I have ever been given that I cannot return. The girl that stayed the night, a nice-enough girl called Joy, has let herself out and gone. I'd been worrying all day that she might have decided to stay and cook me something in a wok, because a lot of single women seem to like to cook things in woks, but she's gone.

The cat sits on the bottom step and regards me with a take-it-or-leave-it indifference. So deeply black that he almost has no edges, no features apart from his luminous green eyes, he regards me with what seems to be a habitually deep dissatisfaction.

‘Jake.' I nod at him politely as I go into the kitchen. It was never me that wanted a cat, it was Melanie, an ex-girlfriend who assured her permanent place in my life by leaving me this pet behind when she left. She bought Jake for me for Christmas as a surprise, a tiny black mass of fluff in a cardboard box. She cried when I said that I really didn't want a cat, and that actually I was a bit allergic. She cried and wept – big snotty, raspy sobs – so I gave in, thinking that after a couple of weeks I could take him to a shelter and pretend he'd been run over. But, as it turned out, Jake lasted longer than Melanie. I was just getting used to him when one night she said she couldn't bear my cold-hearted indifference for a moment longer, and stormed off to find the happiness she claimed to deserve. And I thought, am I really that much of a git? Because I don't feel that way inside; I feel like I have a regular warm-blooded beating heart. Although I wasn't that sorry to see her go; in actual fact, I was kind of relieved. But anyway, I thought I'd keep the cat, just to show the world that I do have a heart, should they care to look.

Jake follows me into the kitchen at a slight delay and looks pointedly at his food bowl, prepared for disappointment. Melanie, during her short tenure, bought him all sorts of food, different-coloured gourmet tins, special treats. We had an entire kitchen cupboard devoted to his dietary requirements, which were complex and many. He ate better than I did – mostly because Melanie was one of those very women that love to stir-fry vegetables. I grew up on oven chips. Now, though, since she's no longer cluttering up the fridge, I feed him the tuna every day that I bulk-buy at the supermarket. Take it or leave it. He takes it, and supplements his diet with small birds or mice, which he finds during the night and often brings home to murder in the kitchen. Carole, one of the other curators at work, told me that this means he loves me. I just assume that every mangled animal I sweep into the bin is some kind of death threat. It's safer that way.