Be Careful What You Wish For (39 page)

‘Heather, you’re here – finally.’ I’m struck by how everything she says sounds like an accusation. Still clutching her handbag, she stands up, then hesitates, as if unsure how to greet me. Eventually she kisses my cheek awkwardly. She smells artificial, like air-freshener, and I stand stiffly, my hands clenched into fists. I dig my fingernails deep into the palms of my hands, but I can’t feel anything.

‘Where’s my dad?’ I don’t want to call him Lionel. He’s my dad. My flesh and blood. Mine, not yours, I think, staring defiantly at Rosemary.

‘He’s in Intensive Care.’

‘I want to see him.’

‘We can’t just yet. The doctors—’

‘Doctors? What do the doctors know?’ Memories of my mother flood back.

Rosemary is horrified. ‘Heather, please.’ She shushes me. ‘Your father’s had a massive coronary.’

My throat tightens, and suddenly all the love I have for him mutates into anger for her. ‘How?’ I gasp accusingly. ‘How did this happen? You live with him, you’re supposed to look after him!’ Even as I’m saying it, I know I’m being a bitch. It’s not her fault – it’s not anyone’s fault. But I can’t stop myself: it’s as if all the hurt and resentment of the past years are rising to the surface like bubbles.

But Rosemary doesn’t react. Her face, with its rouged cheeks and powdered nose, remains impassive. ‘Heather, you’re upset,’ she says stiffly, smoothing her skirt before she sits down again. ‘I did everything I could. As soon as it happened I called for an ambulance. The paramedics were so very good . . .’

As she talks I feel as if a huge weight is crushing me and have to sit down – if I don’t I might fall down.

‘. . . but he arrested twice in the ambulance. They had to rush him straight into theatre . . .’ She leaves the sentence hanging as if she’s too afraid to finish it, and clutches her bag tighter in her lap.

And then neither of us speaks.

The terrible thing that should have brought us closer together is pushing us further apart. Instead of comforting each other, we sit silently side by side, staring at the mustard-coloured walls, our weary bodies folded uncomfortably into hard, plastic chairs. Two people, one fear and a million insurmountable miles between them.

A few moments later the clanging of the fire doors causes me to turn my head sharply. An older man in a green surgeon’s gown and cap is walking towards us.

‘Mrs Hamilton?’ He looks at us both, his expression grave.

So, this is it. Fear crushes the breath out of my body. ‘I’m Miss Hamilton, his daughter,’ I manage.

He holds out his hand. ‘I’m Mr Bradley. I performed your father’s angioplasty.’

As he speaks his voice seems to be fading, as if he’s moving down a long tunnel. All I can hear is my own breath, rushing in and rushing out, like the waves on the beach less than a mile away. And now I’m remembering Lionel teaching me how to swim in the sea, my arms flailing in bright orange armbands, his strong hands holding me under my tummy. ‘I won’t let you go, Heather, I won’t let you go,’ he booms, over and over again. But, of course he does and, kicking my legs and arms as hard as I can, I manage to stay afloat.

Just like I’ll stay afloat now, I tell myself, forcing myself back to hear Rosemary ask the question I’m too afraid to. ‘How is he?’

I brace myself.

‘The operation went well . . .’

Like a drowning man, I come up gasping for air. Relief is flooding me.

‘We had to perform an angioplasty to remove the blockage in the coronary artery . . .’

Rosemary clasps her hands beneath her chin as if in prayer.

‘. . . which is entirely normal in these situations,’ continues the surgeon, his deep voice reassuring. ‘We’ve done an ECG and other tests to confirm the diagnosis, and at the moment he’s heavily sedated and in recovery . . .’

As he’s speaking I’m standing statue-still, anaesthetised by the shock of everything that’s been happening.

Unlike Rosemary who breaks down and sobs almost hysterically. ‘Oh, thank you, Doctor, thank you, thank you . . .’

The surgeon glances at me. I know he’s expecting me to comfort her, but I don’t move – I can’t. I’ve never seen Rosemary betray emotion before and stare at her blankly.

There’s an awkward pause.

‘Now I know this has been a tremendous shock . . .’ The surgeon puts his arm round Rosemary’s shoulders, easing her gently into her chair. He beckons a passing nurse. ‘. . . and I know this is hard, but you must try to be strong. I’m afraid I must warn you that your husband isn’t out of danger yet. The first forty-eight hours after a heart-attack are critical and he will need you to be there for him.’

As the nurse arrives, he gestures for her to take over and I watch her crouch to offer Rosemary tissues and words of compassion.

‘Miss Hamilton?’ The doctor’s grey eyes are searching my face, and for a moment I think he’s judging me. But then he smiles kindly. ‘Would you like to see your father?’ and I realise the only person judging me is myself.

The room is quiet, but for the faint beeping of the heart monitor. After the starkness of the corridor outside, it seems strangely calming. In the corner, a bed is surrounded by a cluster of machines and monitors attached to the network of wires, tubes and drips that are keeping my father alive.

I creep up quietly and gaze down at his ashen face. My legs buckle and I have to cling to the side of the bed for support.

This isn’t my dad. My dad is a giant of a man who could pick up Ed and me together as children and swing us round until we yelled for mercy. Who greets me with a bearhug so strong he almost cracks my ribs. Who loves food, art and life with a burning passion. Who, from the moment I was born, has wrapped me in a blanket of unconditional love that makes me feel safe and protected.

In his place is a pale, shrunken figure, lying on a bed, chest slowly rising and falling. All his strength has disappeared. He looks weak, vulnerable,
fragile.
‘I’m here, Dad,’ I whisper, slipping my fingers round his hand and holding it.

And as I do, my whole world melts away. All those stupid lists of things I need to do. All those trivial worries about cellulite and what to wear, or finding Mr Right. All my dissatisfaction and the things I want to change, like getting a better job, more money, firmer thighs. None of it matters any more.

Squeezing hard, I stare at his face. I’ve been so stupid and selfish, wasting all this time wishing for things I didn’t have, all this . . . I think back over all the hundreds of trivial, irrelevant, unimportant wishes . . .
all this stuff.
Stuff that I don’t want, need or care about now that I have it. I took everything for granted – I didn’t appreciate what I had. And now I’m in danger of losing it all.

I press my lips tenderly to my dad’s forehead. Until now, wishing for things has been just a part of everyday life. But I was wrong. Wishes are sacred. They’re about magic. It’s just as the old gypsy woman said when she gave me the lucky heather:
Use it wisely and it will bring you your heart’s desire.

A lone tear splashes on my hand like a drop of rain. Then another, and another. Great big fat tears that spill down my cheeks, blurring my eyes and soaking my face, until I’m sobbing so hard my body’s shaking. Because now I know what the old gypsy woman was trying to tell me. But I haven’t been wise at all: I’ve been careless, irresponsible and so bloody foolish.

Well, I’m not going to be any more.

And it’s here, in a tiny room in Intensive Care, with the sound of the heart monitor keeping beat in the background, and my father’s hand in mine, that I make my final wish – and it’s the only wish that’s ever mattered.

I’m not sure how long I stand here holding my father’s hand, but the next thing I know the doctor arrives, and gently unlacing my fingers, tells me to go home, to get some sleep: my father needs to rest.

‘I’m fine.’

‘You look exhausted.’

I shake my head firmly. ‘I’m not going home. I’m not leaving him.’

‘Your stepmother said exactly the same thing,’ he says, gesturing outside to the corridor where she’s still waiting.

‘She did?’ I feel a jolt of surprise. I had assumed Rosemary would want to spend the night at home. She likes her comforts.

‘Lionel’s a very lucky man to have both of you,’ he smiles kindly, ‘and you’re lucky to have each other. Family is very important at a time like this.’

I’ve never considered Rosemary part of my family before: she’s always been a usurper, an outsider, someone who doesn’t belong. And for the first time it occurs to me that she might have felt like that too. ‘Thanks, Doctor.’

‘My pleasure.’ He leads me across the room to the door. ‘Just don’t say I didn’t warn you about the appalling coffee.’

 

‘
S
hall I get us some coffee?’

Rosemary looks up from the scuffed linoleum floor as she hears my voice. Her eyes are red from crying.

‘The doctor says it’s not very good, though,’ I add, smiling nervously.

We look at each other for a moment and it’s as if a few bricks in that invisible wall between us dissolve. Not many, just enough for us to see each other for the first time.

She smiles tentatively. ‘That would be lovely. Do you need money?’ She reaches for her handbag but I stop her.

‘My wallet’s in here somewhere.’ I rummage through all the rubbish in my bag and locate it, only to discover that the coin compartment is empty. ‘Can you change a tenner?’ I pull one out and waggle it hopefully.

‘Take my purse,’ says Rosemary, holding it out to me. ‘There’s change in the side pocket.’

‘Are you sure? Maybe I could ask someone else . . .’

‘I might be a pensioner, but I can still afford to buy you a cup of coffee,’ she says. ‘And, anyway, if it’s as bad as the doctor said we won’t be needing to buy another.’

Smiling, I give in, take her purse and walk down the corridor in search of a vending machine. After a few minutes I discover one in a waiting room filled with tired, frightened-looking people, some huddling close to each other in tiny groups, others flicking through out-of-date copies of women’s weeklies and nursing plastic coffee cups. Then there are those, like the old man in the corner, who are sitting alone staring blankly at nothing. I notice his fingers. Bent out of shape with arthritis, they’re twisting his gold wedding band round and round and round.

I look away. It dawns on me just how lucky I am that I’m not alone, that I’ve got Rosemary, that we’ve got each other. I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s going to be a long night.

I begin feeding ten-pence pieces into the slot. There’s a whir and a plastic cup appears, and begins to fill with powder and water. I retrieve it and balance it on top of the machine, then scrabble around for more change for the second cup. Some of the coins are wedged into the corner, and I’m tilting the purse to get at them when something falls out on to the floor.

I pick it up. It’s a photograph, small with a white border, a picture of Rosemary and Lionel, but they both look younger. Lionel’s wearing a flamboyant peacock green suit and Rosemary’s in a tasteful cream frock coat with a pillbox hat perched on her chignon. Absently I flick it over. On the back there’s an inscription in my father’s handwriting:

 

For my wonderful wife on our wedding day,

Thank you for making me happy again.

All my love

Lionel

Of course. This is a photograph of their wedding ten years ago. It was on a cruise ship, just the two of them. Ed and I couldn’t go. Didn’t want to go, I correct myself. I’ve never even asked to see their wedding album, though I remember Rosemary wanting to show it to me when I came home from university. I made up some excuse about being too busy. Too busy. I pause to let the words register. I’ve been too busy for the last ten years.

I feel a stab of guilt. All this time I’ve been resenting Rosemary but now, seeing this inscription, I realise I’m indebted to her. Somehow, over the years, I’ve blocked out the memories of how devastated Dad was when Mum died, how for years afterwards when he smiled there was always a lost, haunted look in his eyes, and how when he met Rosemary it went away.

‘’Scuse me, have you finished?’

A young guy in a beanie hat is gesturing at the machine with a handful of change.

‘Oh, sorry I won’t be a minute.’ I slip the photograph back into the purse, stuff it into my pocket and quickly feed more money into the vending machine. The plastic cup fills quickly and I grab it along with my own. There’s something I need to do and it’s long overdue.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Rosemary’s brow furrows as I hand her a plastic cup of coffee. Then comprehension floods her face. ‘Oh, I see. Is it really that bad?’ She peers suspiciously at the brown liquid that’s masquerading as coffee.

I stand in front of her awkwardly. ‘No, it’s not that.’ This is much harder than I imagined.

‘Heather, sit down.’ Rosemary pats the chair next to hers.

I do as she says and take a gulp of coffee. Yuk, it really is as foul as it looks. I glance at Rosemary. ‘I want to apologise,’ I blurt out. ‘I’ve been a total bitch. All that stuff I said before—’

‘It’s OK,’ she interrupts, laying a hand on my arm. ‘I understand.’

‘No, you don’t.’ I gather the courage to meet her eyes. ‘I want to apologise for the way I’ve behaved over all these years, for resenting you for taking Mum’s place, for wishing you weren’t part of our lives . . .’

There. I’ve finally admitted it. ‘I’m so sorry, Rosemary. I’ve been such an idiot.’ I swallow hard. She’s going to hate me now, and I don’t blame her. I hate myself too.

There’s a pause while she absorbs what I’ve said. ‘Thank you, Heather, I appreciate that,’ she says quietly, after a moment. ‘You have no idea how much it means to me.’