A to Z of You and Me (15 page)

“So, what, you're saying it's
my
fault?”

“No, no, I'm not saying that—”

“You want me to give up nursing and come hold your hand, is that it?”

I close my eyes. Stop now. Absorb all the tension in the room. No point, no point. I will not snap back.

“But it's
so stupid
,” you say. “You're diabetic! What do you think you're going to say when the doctors start asking you about your history?”

Silence.

“What if you end up needing a kidney transplant one day? Because that's what happens. They'll put you at the bottom of every list. They probably won't even bother putting you
on
the list. Jesus, who
are
you?”

“I wanted you to know,” I say. “I've done it like three times. Ever. And I'm not going to do it anymore. It's stopped.”

Well, there it is. There you have it: me.

All of me.

“Are you going to say something?” I say.

“I don't have anything to say,” you say.

And you leave.

I pick up the gun and point it at the customer's fertilizer, watch the red laser dance across the bar code. It beeps.

“That's fifty-four eighty-six in total, please,” I say, the automatic words feeling good in my mouth. Trusty script. “If you'd like to put your card in the machine. And type in your PIN.”

The old guy squints down at the keypad and thumbs in his number. It's 1593. We wait, and I look across at Laura, Mal, and Becca as they stand awkwardly nearby. I cannot
believe
I've had to get them to come in. I cannot believe I forgot to bring my insulin with me to work.

The printer blurts and chops out the receipts, and I pair them up with the card and hand them back to the old guy, who takes them and trundles his heavy cart away.

“You can't work twenty-four hours a day,” says Laura, stepping forward once more.

“I'm not,” I say in a quiet voice. “I just want to keep busy. Keep occupied. Get paid.” I can barely bring myself to speak at a normal volume these days. I slot the laser gun back into its holster.

“Have you spoken to her?”

“We've talked on the phone a couple of times.”

“And what did she say?”

“She says she's got her exams to get through and she doesn't want to jeopardize them. She doesn't want to see me.”

“So do you reckon that's it then?”

“Sounds like it, doesn't it?” says Mal.

“I don't know,” I say, miserably. “I'd say like 99.9 percent certain.”

Another customer wanders up, and Laura, Mal, and Becca step back once more, wave her through.

Work is good. They've been good at giving me extra hours here, and once you've been in the job long enough, colleagues start to recognize the patterns. Someone suddenly wants extra hours, no-questions-asked, you oblige.

I'm grateful.

“I don't see what the big deal is,” says Laura, when the coast's clear. “Why's she looking to control everything you do anyway?”

“It's not like that,” I say. “It's more complicated than that.”

“Well, why?” she says.

“It's not something I can really talk about. It's a private thing.”

“Come on, you can tell us. It's not like we're going to tell her. You won't say anything, will you, Becca?”

Becca shrugs. “Nothing to do with me.”

“It's a basic trust thing, isn't it? Look, her dad was an alcoholic, and it kind of screwed up her family, and—”

“But that's totally different,” says Laura. “You're not an alcoholic, are you? I don't see why you should be the one who has to pay for whatever mistakes her dad's made in his life.”

I close my eyes and try not to boil up at Laura. But it's hard, it's hard. She will not read the signs. I don't want to talk about it. I pray for another customer.

“And anyway, has she never made a single mistake in her life?”

“She's a nice girl,” says Becca. “But, you know, maybe she's not quite the right one for you, Ivo. Going out at four in the morning, decorating the town. It's a bit…” She wrinkles her nose.

I can't answer this. I'm struck silent; the thick sort of silence where I'm trying to hide the fact that I'm choking back the tears. I clear my throat noisily and find myself exhaling like a horse. I smile broadly and mirthlessly at Becca.

Becca's brow knits in sympathy, and she puts her hand on my hand and squeezes it.

“Tough times,” she says.

I nod, tight-lipped.

“Seriously, Ivo, you're better off out of it, if you ask me,” says Laura. “People like Mia… I mean, she's a lovely girl and everything, but she makes you be someone you're not, maybe to fit in with what she's doing, you know? You need to make sure you're doing what
you
want to do.”

A smile, a nod, and it's Becca who finally reads me right.

“Come on,” she says to Laura. “I want to buy some cut flowers.”

“Over the other side, by the aquatics,” I say.

They move away, but Mal hangs around and watches another couple of customers drift through the checkout.

“So where're you going to go?” he asks. “Back to your mum's full-time?”

“Ah, I don't know,” I say, feeling a bit foolish now to be so low.

“Listen, I was thinking,” he says, “between you and me, I'm going to be getting my own place soon, I reckon.”

“Really? What about Laura?”

“Laura's place has always belonged to her, and I've always meant to get my own place; I just never got around to it. C'mon, what do you reckon? We could move in together. Get a bigger place, if we pool resources.”

My absolute instinct is no. I'm still hooked on the idea of you and me: you and me living together, and if I move in with him, that's like saying good-bye forever. Like it's never going to be OK again.

“Listen,” he says, “I don't want to say the wrong thing, but”—he reaches over and tugs the laser gun out of its holster, starts targeting things with its dancing beam—“well, there's nothing in this world that's
all
bad, you know? There's different choices now.”

“Yeah.” A dead yeah.

“We'd be able to do what we wanted. We could hire a big TV, get a new console. Have tourneys, man. Have a bit of a smoke, you know, get the pizzas in, beers. Get Kelvin around, maybe.”

“I'll have a think, man, yeah?”

“OK, yeah. I'm going to look into it meantime.”

“Yeah…yeah, all right.”

• • •

The light flicks on outside. The garden is flung into being once again.

Or was it just me opening my eyes?

I can't be sure. I can't be sure.

“Are you OK, lovey?” Sheila's in at the door in a second.

“Ugh.” I knuckle my eyes. “I don't want to be the kind of person who complains about lights—”

“I know, I know. I'm so sorry. We've got the contractors coming in again tomorrow or the next day, and they're staying until they've ironed out the problem.”

I frown and scratch at my bristly face. “Were you waiting out in the corridor?”

“You what?”

“You came straight in.”

“Oh yeah, I'm keeping vigil outside your room every minute of the day, sweetheart. And it's only a coincidence that's where we keep the cookies.”

Jugular

“There's a way,” says Mal. “There's definitely a way you can kill someone. If you know the right pressure points.”

He grabs Kelvin at the base of the neck. “It's to do with the jugular.”

Kelvin's like, “Ow! Get off!” He squirms to get away.

Mal keeps a grip. “It's around here somewhere.”

Kelvin seriously thinks he might actually die. “Get off!” Definite note of panic in his voice.

Mal lets go, and Kelvin hops out of reach and twists to inspect himself.

“Fucking hell, look at that!” Red fingertip marks now begin to take hold around Kelvin's neck and shoulder.

“See?” says Mal. “It's somewhere around there.”

• • •

The door unsticks again, and Sheila's footsteps return.

“Well, well,” she says.

“What?”

“It was nothing to worry about. It was a visitor. It was that man who was here before with your sister.”

“Kelvin?”

“That's right.”

“I don't want to see him.”

“Don't worry. I sent him away. I don't think he was too surprised. He didn't put up much resistance.”

I hide my face in my hands. “I don't need this. I don't need it.”

“Now come on, there's nothing to be worried about. Honestly, there isn't.”

She comes and sits down, and I'm a little surprised when she takes up my hand and holds it. Dimly wonder whether they're supposed to do that sort of thing anymore. It feels nice. She strokes the back of my hand tenderly, and the assortment of rings she has on her fingers clink reassuringly. Reminds me of a gypsy. Sharp twinkle in the eye.

“This panicking's not going to do you any good,” she says gently. “You've said it yourself, haven't you? You know it's true.”

I nod. Frown and try to keep my anxiety down.

Everything's so close to the surface now.

“Sheila, can I say something to you?”

“Anything you like, lovey. Anything at all.”

I sniff and catch my breath, exactly like a little child who wants his mum.

“I can't let it go,” I say.

“What do you mean?”

“I try to let it go, all these
things
, these anxious
things
. But I
can't
. They just keep coming back to me.”

She strokes my hand tenderly.

“It's invading. Even playing this stupid game, it's like it's invading me—it feels like every body part brings it back to me. Every part of me wants to tell the same story. It feels like maybe, maybe it's
meant
to be that way.”

Insane to even think it.

Embarrassing.

But it's possible to think it might be true.

Sheila looks at me, unembarrassed, and with calm collectedness. “I know. I know, lovey. I know. I can see it. And is there no way you want to talk about these things? Share the problems? I'm all ears.”

She puts her fingers behind her lobes and dinks them out sideways.

Silly.

Silly woman.

“Listen,” she says, “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I ought to tell you these accumulated problems would benefit from… Well, if you're still dead set against the morphine solution…”

“Ah, I don't know anymore.”

“Or if you didn't want to go there, at least a little bit of massage, and maybe some gentle exercise.”

“Mmm.”

“Nothing too strenuous, just something to take your mind off things. And we've got a woman who'll come and do that for you—Karen. You'll like her; she's lovely. I can book you in for one, if you like? I'd like to see you up and about more, please.”

“Mmm.”

“Or there's a Reiki healer? Some of our residents get a lot from that; the woman comes in and realigns your chakras for you.”

She does an admirable job of saying it seriously, though I suspect at the center she thinks it's nonsense. I shake my head. No, no.

“No, I didn't think that would be quite your bag, somehow.” I give her a smile. “Honestly. You've got to help yourself as much as you can, and I'm not saying that because I don't want to do it myself. I can do whatever you want. But you've got to help yourself.”

“Mmm.”

“Promise me you'll at least think about it.”

“OK.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Kidneys

I've put off making this call for as long as I can.

I must have picked up the phone fifty times today and put it down without pressing a single digit.

Now I've pressed them all, and it's ringing.

It's six weeks and four days since we split up, and we've spoken—what?—four times? And each of those calls has stuttered to a halt in the end. You need space. You don't know if it's worth it. At any rate, you need to concentrate. You don't know if it's even possible to keep a relationship going and get through what you're trying to get through.

“So many of the other women on the course have split up from their partners,” you said. “I sometimes wonder if nursing and a private life mix at all.”

And in each of our halting conversations, with a leaden heart and closed throat, I've said, “Can you tell me absolutely that there's no hope of anything happening at all? Ever?”

And that's what's left those long static silences. You haven't been able to kill it completely.

There has always been that finest thread of hope.

The finest thread, which I'm about to snap forever.

“Hello?”

Heartbreaking warmth in your voice when you pick up. You're showing a guarded pleasure from seeing my name light up on your phone.

“Hello,” I say simply. And then I realize I've not really thought this through. What can I say? “I'm…I'm sorry for ringing you.”

“No, it's nice to hear from you.”

“How are you doing?”

“Ah, not brilliant, if I'm honest. I've got my final exam coming up, so I'm flat-out busy and completely stressed. It's a bit of a classic deadly combination.”

“It's never-ending,” I say.

“But it's good to have a break. I was quite hoping you might call.”

Oh, don't be nice to me. Don't. I don't need hope now, when I'm about to throw the whole thing away.

“Look,” I say, “I…I wanted to say something, but I don't really know…”

“OK…”

“I've got some…some shit news from the doctor's.”

“Oh no, what?”

Think quickly. I need to get this out there quicker—because you think I might be dying now, and I don't know… I don't know if I
am
dying or something—

“I've been trying to get to grips with a few things since…you know, lately…and I've been for a bunch of checkups. I've been referred to the renal consultant.”

“Oh my God.”

“I had the appointment this morning.”

“And what—”

“He says I've got high levels of…creatinine? In my blood.”

Silence. I think for a moment you might hang up.

I think you might say
Serves you right
.

I think you might say
I told you so
.

You say, “Shit.”

“He says there are signs of kidney failure.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn't you
tell
me? I could have come along with you. What—”

“I'm sorry for phoning you. I just… I've been such a dick. You're the only person I know who I could talk to about it. And you're a nurse, so I thought you might know something.”

You sigh heavily, and you sound much more shocked than I thought you would. The tiny ember of hope still glows in the middle of all this suffocating ash.

“I don't know. I don't know,” you say. “Is it a stable result? Did they test a full day's samples?”

“He was talking about Stage 2 kidney failure.”

“Ivo, why didn't you say anything? You must have been beside yourself.”

“I didn't think you'd want to know. You said you don't need to watch someone else fuck themselves up.”

“How could you think that?”

“Kidney failure. Exactly what you said.”

“I would never turn you away like that,” you say. “Come on, you know that.”

I heave an exhausted sigh. “I don't know if I do anymore.”

“Listen,” you say, slotting into a practical gear, “I've got a whole load of notes about renal care. Let me dig them out. I might be able to find some pamphlets I can send you that explain it all.”

“Thank you,” I say, touched that you might care. “I'm…I'm really—”

“Sorry, yeah,” you say.

• • •

“OK, lovey, here we go.” Sheila's got a bottle and a spoon. “Nothing to it. What I'm going to do is measure out an amount in here”—she waves the spoon—“and then you'll take that as you might some cough medicine, OK?”

I'm scared. I want you. I want your arms around me. Where's my blanket? I want my blanket. Should I ask now?

“And you'll start to feel the benefits more or less straightaway. All right? So by the time the local news comes on TV, you should be feeling more together.”

“They should give this to everyone who watches the local news.” Weak smile.

Sheila laughs.

I want you—I want you to tell me. Am I doing the right thing? If I take this, I'm not coming back.

Fetch my blanket. It's in the cupboard, isn't it?

I want to ask Sheila. I should ask her. I'm not sure about this. But you can't even ask doctors, can you? They're not allowed to tell you what to do. You've got to decide for yourself.

Your health in your hands.

But I'm not the one who's been through seven years of medical school.

“I don't know,” I say to her.

“What's that, lovey?”

“I don't know if I want to. Do…do you think I should?”

“Yeah.” She smiles. “I'd take anything that's going.”

Oh. She is allowed to tell me what to do. Is she?

“I just…I don't want to get addicted. I know, it's stupid. But…I've been addicted, sort of. I mean, why does it have to be down to me? You've got all”—breathe—“all these people who are supposed to help you and…and all they say is, ‘I don't know. What do you think?'”

She pauses a moment and sits down in my visitors' chair, unhurried, offering all the time I need.

“Listen. No one's going to make you do anything you don't want to do. I'm not. Dr. Sood's not. But I've seen a lot of people go through what you're going through. Every day. I don't want you to do it the hard way.”

“No.”

“And it's only a light solution, OK? It will ease the anxiety. It will ease the symptoms. It'll stop you worrying. Give you a bit of space in your head.”

“Right.”

“So let's pause a moment, OK? Let me get your blanket for you.”

“Yeah.”

“In here, is it?”

“Yeah.”

She fetches it from the cupboard and helps me draw it around my shoulders. I hook my fingers through the knots.

“I tell you what. I'll make you a deal. You take this now, and I'd say by late this evening the effects will have worn off. So, I promise to come back to you this evening, and if you don't want it, you won't have it ever again, and that is my absolute solemn promise, OK?”

“OK.”

OK.

“Are you ready?”

She takes up the bottle, carefully charges the spoon, and proffers it.

“Down the hatch.”

Down the hatch.

Tighten fingers, clutch through crochet. Feel the knots.

“Now a sip of tea. It'll take the taste away. There.”

Sip.

Cup rings back into saucer.

“All right?”

“Right.”

“OK.”

“Is there anything else I can get for you? Your wish is my command.”

“No. Thank you.”