The Sun in Her Eyes (13 page)

Liz pauses. ‘It’s going to be strange having him home.’

‘We’ll be okay,’ I say, forcing myself to adopt the requisite positive attitude.

She smiles a tight smile and goes to the door. ‘See you later, then.’

‘Bye.’

I carry on with my mopping.

At around eleven a.m., I get a text message from Ethan, which simply tells me that he’s on his way. It sends a flurry of nerves racing through me.

Even though I’m expecting his arrival, I nearly jump out of my skin when the doorbell goes half an hour later.

He is standing, awkwardly, on the doorstep, proffering the keys, and I meet his eyes for a split second before taking them from him.

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘You still okay to do the PlayStation?’

‘Sure. It’s pretty straightforward.’

I stand aside to let him in, feeling on edge as I close the door behind him. He leads the way into the living room and kneels in front of the telly, pulling his PS2 down from on top of the DVD
player. ‘Do you have the remote control?’ he asks over his shoulder.

I pick it up and hand it over, then sit down on the sofa.

Neither of us says a thing about last night as he works away, plugging in leads and adjusting the television channel until
Medal of Honour
appears on the screen. Our normal, easy-going
banter has fled the house, and it’s clear he feels as uncomfortable as I do.

‘There we go,’ he says eventually, flashing me a quick glance before returning his gaze to the telly.

‘Are you going to show me how to play it?’ I dare to ask.

He looks at me out of the corner of his eye. ‘I thought you didn’t like shoot-’em-up video games?’

‘I don’t, but I’m going to have to find some way to entertain Dad once tomorrow comes.’

Empathy registers on his face as my statement sinks in. ‘Okay.’ He passes me the second control and sets up a two-player game, then comes to join me on the sofa, talking me through
the buttons I need to press. I ask the occasional question and, to an outsider, there would seem to be nothing odd about our conversation, but I can see that he’s apprehensive. When the game
begins, he perches on the edge of the sofa, rather than sitting back beside me.

I fix my attention on the TV screen and watch as a group of soldiers spill out of a ship onto a sandy beach. The fighting instantly kicks off.

If I thought I was tense before, it was nothing to how I am now. Gunfire is coming at me from all angles and I squeal as I run away, before turning to shoot at a Nazi soldier.

‘You’re shooting at
our
guys!’ Ethan yells.

‘What? Who…’

‘There!’ he shouts overexcitedly, pointing at some men up on a hill.

‘ARGH!’ I run towards them, gun aloft. This is terrifying!

Suddenly he cracks up laughing.

‘What’s so funny?’ I demand to know.

His laughs subside, but he still has a grin on his face. ‘You’re dead,’ he points out, casting me a sidelong glance, while still playing the game. Despite everything
that’s happened in the last twelve hours, my stomach flips at the precise moment that his green eyes lock with mine.

‘Well, I’m glad you find the thought so amusing.’ I pretend to be annoyed as he continues to fire manically at the Nazis, his thumbs working overtime and the muscles on his
back rigid with tension. Eventually he cries out with frustration and slumps back against the sofa, dropping the control disgustedly onto his lap.

‘Bastards,’ he erupts. ‘I’m out of practice.’

I smirk at him. ‘Feel free to go again. Do you want a cup of tea?’

He pauses before deciding. ‘Sure.’

When I return, he’s texting someone. ‘Mum,’ he explains, sliding his phone back into his pocket.

‘How far away is she?’

‘Twenty minutes. I wasn’t sure if she’d be collecting me from here or the Parade.’

I give him a quizzical look.

‘I didn’t know if you’d be here, or…’ His voice trails off.

Something has to be said.

I sigh heavily and hand over his tea, then sit back down. ‘I’m sorry about last night.’

He visibly stiffens.

‘I don’t know what got into me. I was drunk. It was a childhood crush, but I’m not in love with you.’ I pull a face, as if to say,
obviously
. ‘I’m in
love with my husband,’ I state assuredly. ‘Can we just forget the conversation ever took place?’ Thankfully he does the gracious thing and allows me to sweep last night’s
confession underneath the rug – metaphorically speaking, because the physical rugs are now in the outdoor shed, patiently awaiting a time when my dad will be well enough to step over them
again. If that time ever comes.

The next morning, Dad comes home. Liz has taken the day off work, so for the next three days, including the weekend, there will be two of us around to help get him settled. Not
for the first time, I find myself feeling thankful for Liz’s presence in our lives. It’s still an alien concept, admittedly.

The journey from the car to the front door is painfully slow. Dad is using a walking stick, but his right side is still weak. It’s hard to resist helping him along, but he’s trying
to be independent. We all have to learn to be tolerant.

I open the door, then freeze when Liz says, ‘Morning, Jenny.’

‘Hello, there!’ comes the exuberant reply. I look to my right to see Dad and Liz’s next-door neighbour standing, motionless, on her front doorstep.

Dad shakes with the effort of turning to look at her. He emits a hello.

‘It’s good to see you home, Len,’ she says, her smile wavering.

‘Thank you. Are you well?’ Dad asks, but it’s pretty clear from Jenny’s blank look that only Liz and I are able to understand him.

‘We’ll catch up with you soon, Jenny,’ Liz says firmly, nodding for me to move out of the way.

I quickly open the door and go inside, Dad shuffling after me. The look on his face is difficult to bear. He looks mortified.

Liz closes the door behind us. ‘Welcome home, darling,’ she says with more gentleness and compassion than I’m used to hearing from her. She rubs his arm.

Dad grunts. There are no words necessary.

Later, when we’ve set Dad up in the living room, propped up with cushions to support his weak side, just like his physiotherapist showed us, I get out the photo albums from my teenage
years. Reading – even listening to
me
read – is still tiring because of the levels of concentration it requires. I know this upsets Dad – he loves his books – but
he’s still able to enjoy music and art. I’m hoping that these pictures will give him something to smile about, too.

I make my first mistake only two minutes in, when he slowly goes to turn the page with his weak right hand and I take over, doing it for him.

‘Let me do it,’ he says crossly.

‘Sorry, Dad,’ I reply quietly.

People don’t like pauses, generally speaking. If there’s a gap, we tend to fill it. It’s the same with conversation. There’s only one thing more frustrating than having
to wait for a person to very slowly finish their sentence when you know what they’re going to say; it’s having your sentence finished for you when the listener is too impatient to
wait.

Dad asks what my friends are up to these days, so I fill him in. I point out the PS2 that Ethan brought over yesterday and he agrees to give it a go sometime.

‘Not today, though. Tired,’ he says.

‘Do you want a lie-down?’ I ask.

‘Later,’ he replies, closing the album. ‘Let’s see another.’ He points to the next album, so I pick it up and lay it on his lap.

The first page contains a photo of Mum, with me as a baby in her arms. I must be about six months old.

‘Katy,’ he mumbles, pausing a minute with his hands resting on the cellophane below her face.

‘Did everyone call her Katy, or was it just you?’ I ask softly, wishing I could remember the answer for myself. I seem to recall others referring to her as Kate in the years after
the accident.

‘Just me,’ he replies, staring down at his late wife. ‘I missed her birthday,’ he says with some effort. ‘Must go to her grave at some point.’

My heart pinches. ‘I didn’t know you still did that,’ I murmur. Going to the cemetery hasn’t even occurred to me since I’ve been back.

Dad sighs heavily, and turns the next page.

A week into Dad’s time on the Rehab Ward, his occupational therapist asked him to make a cup of tea. It wasn’t so much to check his physical capabilities, but more his sequencing of
events. Dad ended up boiling a kettle first, but forgot to put a tea bag in when he added water to his mug. His brain needed to be retaught how to do things in the right way.

Dad’s OT explained this to me using the metaphor of driving to work each day. A person drives to work every day on the motorway, but one day they get stuck in a massive tailback, so they
decide to go all around the houses instead. The destination is the same; they just needed to find a different way to get there.

When someone has a stroke, the dead or damaged brain cells mean that a person’s usual pathways in the brain can be interrupted, but the brain has the ability to create new pathways. This
is called neuroplasticity. It’s still possible to do some or all of the things that they did before – some people may see only a very small improvement, while others will have an almost
total recovery. The key is repetition. Eventually the new sequence should become second nature to the brain. It can take years to get it right, but it’s all down to the individual person and
their strength of character.

When Mum died, I came to think of my dad as weak. He totally lost it. He was so incapable of looking after me that, in hindsight, I’m surprised social services didn’t step in.
I’m sure he suffered from depression, and I still find it shocking that he didn’t get help sooner.

The man that I see these days, though, is a very different creature. Dad is right-handed, and he’s still very weak on that side. It would be far easier for him to do things with his left
hand, but no matter how much more energy is required, he persists. I’m overcome with admiration as he reaches the end of the album.

I gently take it from him and place it with the others, but when I turn back, his eyes are closed.

I touch my hand to his shoulder, but he doesn’t stir.

‘I’ll let you rest,’ I whisper, getting up and going to the kitchen.

Liz is sitting at the table, writing in a notebook. She’s so caught up in what she’s doing that she doesn’t notice me for a moment, but I have a clear view of the page before
her and words and phrases like ‘I’m terrified’, ‘not the same man’ and ‘it’s been hell’ scream out at me.

‘Liz?’ I prompt, feeling on edge.

She starts, involuntarily closing up her book.

‘Dad’s nodded off on the sofa,’ I explain.

‘Oh, okay,’ she says.

‘What are you up to?’ I ask, trying to sound casual as I get a drink from the fridge.

‘Just writing in my diary,’ she replies, looking slightly uncomfortable.

‘I didn’t know you kept one,’ I say. I knew Dad was trying to. One of his doctors suggested it, but I’m not sure his writing is legible, even to him.

‘I only began it recently,’ Liz says. ‘Dr Mellan thought it might be a good idea.’

I nod thoughtfully.

‘Would you mind if I went to a meeting on Thursday night next week?’ she asks, shifting in her seat.

‘What sort of meeting?’ I’m caring for Dad during the day while she’s at work. She’s supposed to take over in the evenings.

‘It’s a carer support group,’ she admits, looking uneasy. ‘I thought it might be useful.’

I shrug. ‘Sure.’ But inside I’m worried that this is all too much for her.

I speak to Ned that night. He texted this morning to let me know that he’d arrived home safely, but I was at the hospital collecting Dad and he was falling into bed, so
we had to wait to touch base.

‘How was your trip?’ I ask. It felt like he was away for longer than a week.

‘Good,’ he replies. ‘How’s your dad?’

‘Glad to be home, but he’s still very tired. He slept a lot today.’

‘Right. I see.’

‘Tell me about New York.’

‘What do you want to know?’ he asks.

‘How was it?’ I snap, experiencing an all-too-familiar feeling of frustration.

We barely spoke while he was over there. The time difference made it difficult, and we’ve never been very good at phone conversations. It’s even worse if we’re calling from
different time zones.

‘What was the office like? Were the people nice?’ I prompt.

‘Yeah, yeah, everyone was really friendly. I met all the creative teams, met some clients, got taken to lunch. Saw a lot of Soho House. There were some industry awards on while I was over
there, so that was a big night.’

‘It sounds like you had fun,’ I say, appeased by his effort to elaborate, even if I’m not enthralled by the idea of him going out and getting trashed with Zara.

‘It was. I loved New York. We’ll have to go back together sometime.’

‘I’d like that,’ I tell him, beginning to feel calmer. Then I ask the question that he won’t automatically offer up an answer to. ‘How were things with
Zara?’

‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Fine.’

‘Did you see much of her?’

‘Quite a lot. We were meeting the same people. She’s alright, Amber,’ he chides. ‘She didn’t come on to me, if that’s what you’re worried
about.’

‘The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind,’ I lie. Considering
my
recent cock-up, I wasn’t planning on bringing it up.

By Tuesday afternoon, I’m struggling with itchy-feet syndrome. Dad hasn’t left the house since Friday, and neither have I. Earlier I suggested that we take a wander
up the Parade, maybe go out for lunch, but he point blank refused the idea. He feels so self-conscious about the way he looks, moves and speaks, that he prefers to stay hidden away. I’ve been
trying to think of some way to help him get past this negative mindset, otherwise he could be housebound for months.

He was sent dozens of lovely cards from friends and colleagues when he was in hospital, but he shied away from all attempts to see him.

‘Too tired for visitors,’ he told Liz and me, every time we mentioned another person who’d been in contact.