One Moment, One Morning

  ‘Great.’ Lou is struck by how Karen is making her feel welcome, even with so much else on her mind. There are some people whose nature it is to look after others no matter what, she thinks. And others, like Lou’s mother, whose nature it is not to. In comparison, her mother’s hosting is self-conscious and showy. She pushes her resentment away. She is not here to think about her mother.

  ‘I didn’t think I would recognize you,’ says Karen. ‘But you were really helpful.’

  ‘Was I?’ Lou is touched.

  ‘Yes. I think you realized what was happening before anybody.’

  ‘Maybe. Everything occurred so fast.’

  ‘Yes.’

  A couple of beats of silence. Lou is at a loss. ‘I’m sorry,’ is all she can muster. It seems hopelessly inadequate. She tries to recall her actions. She shouted, tried to get people to act swiftly; wasn’t that it? ‘I wish could have done more,’ she admits.

  ‘I wish I could have, too.’ Karen twists the stem of her glass. Then her voice drops, and she says in a whisper, but with real ferocity, ‘God, how I wish that!’

  Anna moves closer to her friend, reaches out, puts one arm around her shoulder. ‘Sweetheart . . .’

  Lou can feel such raw pain she is almost knocked sideways by it.

  ‘I should have tried to revive him.’ Karen closes her eyes, as if she’s looking inwards, examining her failing.

  Lou has a rush of guilt: she didn’t try to save him either.

  ‘I don’t think you could have,’ says Anna, quietly.

  ‘But I’m his wife!’ Karen cries. It’s a fast track to her emotions, this conversation, and Lou has not been there five minutes. She’s used to outbursts from her students, but she feels involved in this so personally that she cannot be as distant as usual, and it shakes her. To emphasize what she means, Karen says, ‘I should have looked after him. That’s what wives should do . . .’ Her voice cracks. ‘He was always so good at looking after me.’

  ‘Yes, he was.’ Anna is wistful; once again Lou has the impression she is bereft of being fully cared for. ‘But you have been wonderful at looking after Simon, at looking after everyone, honey, including me. I can’t bear for you to feel you’re not. You’re one of life’s great looker-afterers.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Lou,’ Karen says suddenly, ‘you’re still standing. Please, do sit down.’

  This illustrates Anna’s point exactly. Lou pulls a chair back from the table. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Have you eaten?’ Karen reaches into one of the cupboards.

  ‘Um—’ Lou doesn’t want to put her out, but she hasn’t had anything since lunch.

  ‘You haven’t,’ states Karen.

  ‘No, but really – don’t worry—’

  ‘Well, let’s start with these.’ Karen pulls out a packet of Kettle Chips and empties them into a bowl.

  ‘That’s fine. I can eat properly when I get home, honestly.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘I’ll cook something,’ offers Anna. She looks sternly at Karen. ‘I’m worried you’re not eating.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’ Anna is firm. ‘You have to eat.’ She edges Karen out of the way and starts rummaging in the cupboard. She’s tall, reaches up high and retrieves a bag of pasta. ‘Got anything to go with this?’ Then she answers her own question: ‘Don’t worry, leave it with me.’ She opens the fridge and pulls out a half-finished jar of pasta sauce, onions, courgettes and an aubergine. She seems so capable, assertive, it gives Lou a glimpse of what she must be like professionally. Thinking of work reminds her. She pushes back her chair.

  ‘Ooh, I’ve just thought. I hope you don’t mind, but I printed something off for you.’ She heads into the hall and returns with a piece of paper, which she hands to Karen. ‘It’s all very obvious, I know, but sometimes it’s easy to forget the common-sense stuff.’

  Anna comes to read over Karen’s shoulder:

  Coping with Sudden Death

  It is important to focus on the basics the body needs for day-to-day survival:

  • Maintain a normal routine. Even if it is difficult to do regular activities, try to anyway. Keeping structure in your day will help you feel more in control.

  • Get enough sleep, or at least plenty of rest.

  • It may be helpful to write lists or notes, or keep an agenda.

  • Try to get some regular exercise. This can help relieve stress and tension.

  • Keep a balanced diet. Watch out for junk food or high-calorie comfort-food binges. Drink plenty of water.

  • Drink alcohol only in moderation. Alcohol should not be used as a way of masking the pain.

  • Do what comforts, sustains and recharges. Remember other difficult times and how you have survived them. This will help you draw upon your inner strength.

  ‘See? Just what I was saying.’ Anna taps the middle of the list.

  ‘Thanks.’ Karen starts to cry.

  Lou feels dreadful – she’s gauged it wrong. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘You haven’t.’ Karen half smiles. ‘I just find it almost worse when people are nice to me.’

  Anna gives her friend’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘Well, you may have to get used to that.’

  ‘It’s weird,’ sighs Karen. ‘Everything feels so surreal. Even this. I can kind of understand it, I know what it’s saying, but I just can’t get my head around the words. I can’t get my head round anything, right from the moment Simon – er . . .’ – she stumbles – ‘had the heart attack.’

  ‘I think that’s quite normal,’ says Lou. ‘It’s all been a terrible shock. It’s just your body’s – or rather your mind’s – way of dealing with it. When my Dad died, I remember, it was so incomprehensible, it was as if my head was lagging behind the rest of me. I spent ages trying to work it all out.’

  ‘And did you?’ asks Karen.

  ‘Kind of . . . I mean some of it still doesn’t make sense, or seem fair, rather.’

  ‘What did your Dad die of?’

  ‘Cancer. It wasn’t the same, obviously. It was pretty quick, but still, we had some time to get used to the idea. So it’s no surprise you can’t get your head around stuff.’

  ‘Sometimes I feel almost normal,’ says Karen. ‘When I’m organizing things, just briefly, for a few moments at a time. Then, next minute, it’s like I’m free-falling through space. There are no walls, no ceiling, no floor. I think I’ll never feel normal again.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s really common too. You’ve been through a massive, massive trauma.’ Lou pauses. ‘Would it help if I told you what I remember from that day? Sometimes it’s good to get another perspective.’

  ‘Um . . .’ Karen hesitates. Maybe she doesn’t want to go back there. But then she says, ‘Yes, I guess it might.’

  Lou continues. ‘I remember I was sitting opposite a woman who was doing her make-up. I was half asleep, almost, watching people out of the corner of my eye. Then I remember looking at you and your husband, Simon, isn’t it?’ She doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘And you were chatting. I couldn’t hear what about – I was wearing my iPod, but I recall thinking – honestly, I’m not just saying this – how happy you looked.’

  ‘Really?’ Karen inhales sharply.

  ‘Yes. He was stroking your hand, you looked so easy in each other’s company. I thought you had a kind of intimacy that seemed very special.’

  ‘Gosh, how funny you should notice that.’

  ‘I guess I’m nosy,’ Lou admits.

  ‘But it’s nice,’ interjects Anna. ‘Isn’t it, Karen? It means Simon’s last moments were really happy.’

  ‘I suppose . . . I hadn’t thought of that. It all seems such light years ago . . . What else did you see?’

  ‘Well, everything seemed to slow down then, for me, but actually, the whole thing must have been less than a couple of minutes. I remember Simon being sick, first—’

  ‘Me too, I remembe
r that.’

  ‘So I took off my iPod. Then I remember him clutching his chest, and I heard him say, “I’m sorry.”’

  ‘Really? He said, “I’m sorry”?’

  ‘Yes, he did, definitely.’

  ‘I don’t think I heard that.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s what he said.’

  ‘Bless him . . .’ Karen chokes. ‘What do you think he was saying sorry for? Probably for throwing up. How typical . . . Always worrying. And proud – he’d have hated that, being sick in public. Silly man, as if it mattered.’

  ‘Perhaps he was saying sorry for leaving you,’ observes Anna.

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘I do,’ says Anna, reaching in her bag for a tissue. As she hands it to Karen, Lou notices it is already damp – presumably Anna too was crying, earlier. ‘Were those his last words?’

  ‘As I heard them,’ Lou nods.

  ‘I didn’t hear him say anything else.’ Tentatively, Karen agrees. She takes the tissue, mops up her tears.

  ‘I think—’ Lou pauses, trying to recollect. She can picture Simon clutching his chest, his head lolling. Yes, she is sure: ‘He passed away immediately after that. It seemed like a very big coronary, and it was so fast.’

  That is what the doctors told me . . .’ Karen says, slowly. ‘But I still feel I could have done more.’

  ‘So could I,’ shrugs Lou.

  ‘No, you did loads.’

  ‘And you did loads,’ says Lou. ‘I saw you.’

  Karen sniffs. ‘I stood there and panicked. I was useless.’

  ‘You didn’t just stand there. You called for help. You knew which way the guard was—’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Middle carriage. I wouldn’t have known that.’ Lou laughs at herself. ‘I’d have sent someone the wrong way, probably, and we’d have lost more time. How did you know where he was?’

  Karen stops crying and sniffs. ‘I had to buy a ticket off the guard once. I was travelling up with Simon and we were running late. He has a season, so I got mine on board.’

  ‘There you are – perfect example of how un-useless you were,’ says Anna.

  ‘It was lucky the guard was there,’ says Karen. ‘I was in a complete panic so I just said the first thing that came into my head. He could easily have been somewhere else.’

  ‘But he wasn’t,’ says Anna. ‘And most people wouldn’t think that straight, I assure you.’

  ‘I think I understand a little of what you’re going through,’ Lou interjects. ‘I felt similar in some ways about the death of my Dad. At first I got so cross the tumour wasn’t found sooner, but then I came to see we don’t work that way.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, we only go to the doctor’s when we’re ill, don’t we? Not before.’

  ‘I do wish he’d gone to the doctor sooner,’ admits Karen.

  ‘Of course you do, that’s only natural. But there you are – that’s already one way it could have been different – and the fact he didn’t go is much more down to him than to you.’

  ‘I could have made him go.’

  ‘When did Simon ever go to the doctor because you told him to?’ asks Anna. She reaches for the bottle and tops up her wine, and Karen’s, then goes to the fridge for the white to replenish Lou’s, too. ‘You know he wouldn’t have, sweetheart, he just wasn’t interested.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ nods Lou. ‘My Dad was the same. He’d never have gone.’

  ‘I guess you’re right . . .’

  ‘And anyway, I ended up thinking about Dad, yes, he could have gone to the doctor, but who’s to say the doctor would have spotted his condition? He could have spent his whole life traipsing down to the surgery, but he wasn’t a hypochondriac, and actually I’m glad he wasn’t.’ She takes a sip from her glass. ‘I don’t think hypochondriacs have much fun.’

  ‘Simon had fun,’ says Anna.

  ‘But you didn’t feel your Dad dying was your fault, did you?’ asks Karen.

  ‘Actually, in some ways, I did. He could have eaten better, exercised more, and I could have encouraged him, helped him – I love sport, I take care of myself, so I could have shown him, and I didn’t. I certainly could have badgered him more to give up smoking.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘But now – and admittedly it’s years later, so it’s different – I can see that his death wasn’t the result of one single thing; and therefore one single thing couldn’t have changed it.’

  ‘I don’t quite understand what you mean . . .’

  ‘It’s like a whole lot of stuff came together to make my Dad ill; he smoked, he got stressed by my Mum, he ate rubbish, he worried, he hated the doctor . . .’

  ‘And some of it was just sheer bad luck, surely?’ prompts Anna.

  ‘Yes. Some people get cancer, some people don’t.’

  Anna affirms, ‘So you’re saying it was wrong of you to blame yourself.’

  Lou knows this is what Anna – desperately – wants Karen to believe, but as she’s talking it through, she realizes her own take on it is more complicated. She chooses her words carefully. ‘I don’t know, I think it’s what happens, this feeling of guilt. Certainly that’s what happened to me. And it’s quite understandable. With Simon, we were each involved in his death, I guess, in terms of how we reacted to it – you, me, the nurses, the doctors, and the other passengers. But no one single person is to blame, even if we – all – feel we could have done more. I’m really sure of that.’

  Karen takes a deep breath and lets the air out, slowly. ‘Thank you . . . That’s really helpful.’

  ‘I’m glad.’ Lou has surprised herself: she has had more to say than she thought.

  They are silent again.

  ‘Do you really believe he was saying he was sorry to leave me?’ asks Karen eventually in a small voice.

  Once more Lou is pierced by the magnitude of Karen’s loss. For all the echoes, it is not the same as losing her father: she had time to acclimatize. Although her father was young – sixty – he was not as young as Simon. Losing a partner – Lou can hardly imagine it. She is single and inevitably feels lonely from time to time, but the sense of being alone must be excruciating after losing your companion of twenty years. That’s the tragedy of falling in love; it brings with it the potential for loss. Poor Karen: half a lifetime of loving, suddenly torn away.

  Lou knows it is not necessarily what a trained bereavement counsellor would do, but then she isn’t a bereavement counsellor; besides, she’s not here in any formal capacity. And faced with Karen’s grief and need for reassurance, Lou is keen to offer as much comfort as possible. ‘Yes, I feel he was. And I truly don’t think you could have done any more than you did.’

  ‘No, maybe not . . .’ Karen looks down. ‘I just wish I’d got to say goodbye. I’d give anything to say goodbye.’

  Of course, thinks Lou. Here her father’s death offers no comparison: she did get to say goodbye.

  Again they are silent.

  Eventually, Lou can only reiterate what she is sure of. ‘Above all, I think you should remember his last few minutes were really, really happy.’

  ‘OK . . .’ Karen blows her nose. The tissue is so sodden now that it is falling apart, tiny pieces of mangled white. Then she struggles, smiles. ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘You don’t know what this means to me.’

  Anna gets home after Steve; he is on his knees in the kitchen rummaging in the cupboard beneath the sink.

  ‘If you’re looking for that bottle,’ she informs him as she walks into the room, ‘I threw it away.’

  He turns to look up. ‘You did what?’

  ‘I binned it,’ she declares.

  ‘What gave you the right to do that?’

  Anna hasn’t got it in her to be patient just now, or to moderate her language to mask her anger. She has used up her reserves during her evening with Karen and Lou. This keeps happening – now that she has someone else who needs her, she has little energy for Steve. There
isn’t the headspace to process the emotions required to manage him. Usually she would be soothing, deliberately non-confrontational, try to avoid being drawn into his irrational arguments. But tonight she simply cannot be bothered. If necessary, she will have a fight. Indeed, she almost wants a fight, not just because she is annoyed with him for letting her down, but because she is so angry with the world/God/Fate for taking Simon away. She wants to vent. So she says, ‘I put the bottle in recycling.’

  Of course, Steve is one of the worst outlets for hostility. He is not an impassive punchbag, and intoxicated he is not remotely capable of handling her in a mood like this, as experience should have taught Anna well. But she is on a roll. ‘There was hardly anything left in it, and you know I don’t like you having spirits in the house.’

  Inevitably, Steve rises to the bait. He gets to his feet. ‘Oh, little Miss Bossy Boots. You don’t like it, do you? I’d forgotten that, what a self-righteous madam you can be.’ He takes a step towards her. Although Anna is tall, he is taller, and broader, and strong from years of manual labour. He is very intimidating.

  But Anna is not as threatened as she might – or should – be, were she thinking straight herself; she’s too furious. ‘Don’t be rude to me, Steve.’

  ‘Don’t be rude to you?’ he mimics. His mouth twists. ‘I’ll be as rude to you as I want to be.’

  ‘Not in my house, you won’t.’ She knows this will strike a nerve.

  ‘Your house,’ he sneers. ‘That just about says it all, doesn’t it? I thought it was “our” house. Isn’t that what you said to me? “Come and live at my house, sweetheart, and we’ll make it ours.”’

  ‘Oh, give over, Steve.’ Anna goes to hang up her coat, then returns to the kitchen doorway. ‘If you want it to be “our” house then try treating me – and it – with a bit of respect.’ But this holds no sway with Steve. It is not an argument he can follow at present, or is interested in fathoming.

  ‘You’ve always thought this was your house, haven’t you?’ He is shouting by now. ‘That’s the bloody problem.’ It is true. She bought it long before meeting Steve and he pays her rent; she pays the mortgage. But his contribution is minimal – far less than half, so he does pretty well out of the arrangement. ‘Me? I’m not good enough for you. I’m just the bloody in-house decorator.’