things and the horrendous becomes normal.
Your arms still tremble and rise and I try to handle them like Barbara would but I don’t think my grip is that subtle. My own body aches from the activity of the night and I think maybe I bruise your wrists a little as I put your thin limbs back under the duvet from which they are determined to escape.
‘Sorry, Daddy,’ I whisper. ‘I’m sorry, Daddy.’
Eventually, I perch on the bed next to you so that I can stroke your head and rest mine on the wall behind us. The plaster is cool and feels good and I let my eyes shut. They sting a little.
I don’t know how long Penny has been gone but it feels like hours. It probably is. I wonder if Simon is on the train yet. I wonder if I’m ever going to see him again. I wonder what he and Penny said about me in the car. For a second I try to remember what I said to Paul in that white rage, but I can’t bring the words back. I wonder if they’re even important. I doubt Penny remembers them. She just remembers the
way
I said them. I think about the way she looked at me and I wonder if maybe I’m showing through my cracks.
When I realise I’m whispering aloud, I open my eyes. My hand is squeezed tight around your thin hair and you’re looking up at me. You’re definitely seeing me. I let go immediately, shocked by myself.
‘Oh God, Dad, I’m sorry. I was drifting a bit. I’m sorry.’ I stroke your hair back into place and kiss the top of your head.
Your mouth is working hard trying to speak. ‘What is it, Dad? Do you want a drink?’
A slight shake. More in the eyes than the head.
‘The toilet? Do you need the loo?’ A nod.
‘Hang on, I’ll just get Davey to help.’ I kiss your head. It’s hot. You’re sweating. ‘Are you sure you don’t want a wash, Dad? I can do it. I won’t get the nurses.’
I see hesitation in your eyes. You do want one. I can see. I think about that lost dignity you must be feeling and I want to tell you it doesn’t matter. Not in the great scheme of things. This is just
the end
. It isn’t
the everything
of you. And it’s the everything we’ll remember when the memory of this fades. I remember me and Penny in the bath splashing bubbles, you smiling behind the camera. Or maybe I just remember the yellowy seventies photograph, but either way those things are the everything. All moments that have arrived here.
I can’t explain this, though. The words are tangled on my tongue and I’m not sure they would make a difference. Because I guess for you the everything is done and there is only the now. And in the now your loss of dignity is everything.
So instead of talking I go and get Davey to help me get you up.
*
We get you sitting on the side of the bed, the morphine driver hanging from your arm.
‘He wants the toilet and a wash,’ I say to Davey.
‘Well, he’s not using that thing.’ His voice is indignant.
I know what my little brother is talking about without even looking out into the corridor. Maybe he can hear the ghosts in the commode too. I nod.
‘I’ll run a bath and if he sits on the loo then I can sponge him down. Can you help me get him in there?’
Davey looks at me. ‘You start the bath running, but I’ll wash him. You change his bed sheets. Make it nice and fresh.’
I am surprised. ‘Are you sure? I can do it …’
Davey smiles at you. ‘This is blokes’ stuff, isn’t it, Dad? Now come on, let’s get you in the bathroom.’
Davey is gently firm with you in the way Barbara is and I watch with awe as he half carries you, pushing the bathroom door shut behind you both. I watch the glass there for a minute or two and listen to the tone of Davey’s voice as he talks to you. He talks as if this is the most normal thing in the world. Davey has surprised me again. He fights so many demons, but in the here-and-now he’s got what it takes.
I’m crying as I change the stained sheets and I don’tknow who for. Maybe for all of us. Maybe just for me.
Your arms still tremble and rise and I try to handle them like Barbara would but I don’t think my grip is that subtle. My own body aches from the activity of the night and I think maybe I bruise your wrists a little as I put your thin limbs back under the duvet from which they are determined to escape.
‘Sorry, Daddy,’ I whisper. ‘I’m sorry, Daddy.’
Eventually, I perch on the bed next to you so that I can stroke your head and rest mine on the wall behind us. The plaster is cool and feels good and I let my eyes shut. They sting a little.
I don’t know how long Penny has been gone but it feels like hours. It probably is. I wonder if Simon is on the train yet. I wonder if I’m ever going to see him again. I wonder what he and Penny said about me in the car. For a second I try to remember what I said to Paul in that white rage, but I can’t bring the words back. I wonder if they’re even important. I doubt Penny remembers them. She just remembers the
way
I said them. I think about the way she looked at me and I wonder if maybe I’m showing through my cracks.
When I realise I’m whispering aloud, I open my eyes. My hand is squeezed tight around your thin hair and you’re looking up at me. You’re definitely seeing me. I let go immediately, shocked by myself.
‘Oh God, Dad, I’m sorry. I was drifting a bit. I’m sorry.’ I stroke your hair back into place and kiss the top of your head.
Your mouth is working hard trying to speak. ‘What is it, Dad? Do you want a drink?’
A slight shake. More in the eyes than the head.
‘The toilet? Do you need the loo?’ A nod.
‘Hang on, I’ll just get Davey to help.’ I kiss your head. It’s hot. You’re sweating. ‘Are you sure you don’t want a wash, Dad? I can do it. I won’t get the nurses.’
I see hesitation in your eyes. You do want one. I can see. I think about that lost dignity you must be feeling and I want to tell you it doesn’t matter. Not in the great scheme of things. This is just
the end
. It isn’t
the everything
of you. And it’s the everything we’ll remember when the memory of this fades. I remember me and Penny in the bath splashing bubbles, you smiling behind the camera. Or maybe I just remember the yellowy seventies photograph, but either way those things are the everything. All moments that have arrived here.
I can’t explain this, though. The words are tangled on my tongue and I’m not sure they would make a difference. Because I guess for you the everything is done and there is only the now. And in the now your loss of dignity is everything.
So instead of talking I go and get Davey to help me get you up.
*
We get you sitting on the side of the bed, the morphine driver hanging from your arm.
‘He wants the toilet and a wash,’ I say to Davey.
‘Well, he’s not using that thing.’ His voice is indignant.
I know what my little brother is talking about without even looking out into the corridor. Maybe he can hear the ghosts in the commode too. I nod.
‘I’ll run a bath and if he sits on the loo then I can sponge him down. Can you help me get him in there?’
Davey looks at me. ‘You start the bath running, but I’ll wash him. You change his bed sheets. Make it nice and fresh.’
I am surprised. ‘Are you sure? I can do it …’
Davey smiles at you. ‘This is blokes’ stuff, isn’t it, Dad? Now come on, let’s get you in the bathroom.’
Davey is gently firm with you in the way Barbara is and I watch with awe as he half carries you, pushing the bathroom door shut behind you both. I watch the glass there for a minute or two and listen to the tone of Davey’s voice as he talks to you. He talks as if this is the most normal thing in the world. Davey has surprised me again. He fights so many demons, but in the here-and-now he’s got what it takes.
I’m crying as I change the stained sheets and I don’tknow who for. Maybe for all of us. Maybe just for me.
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