Sometimes I Lie

I hear someone come in – a man, I think, based solely on the faint smell of body odour. Whoever they are, they don’t speak and I can’t tell what they are doing. I feel fingers touch my face without any warning and then someone opens my right eye, shining a bright light into it. I’m blinded by white until they let my lid close again. Just as I start to calm down, they do the same to my left eye and I feel even more disoriented than before. Whoever it is leaves shortly afterwards and I am glad. I never would have thought lying in bed could be so uncomfortable. I’ve been on my right side for over six thousand seconds, I lost count after that. They should turn me soon. Nothing good ever happens when they leave me lying on my right side, I think it might be unlucky.

I feel something drip on my face, something cold. Then it happens again. Tiny drops of water, landing on my skin. It feels like rain but that doesn’t make any sense. Instinctively, I open my eyes and see the night sky above me. It’s as though the roof has been lifted right off and it’s raining inside my room. I can open my eyes, but I can’t move. I look down to see that my hospital bed has become a boat floating on gentle waves. I tell myself not to be afraid, this is a dream, just like the others. The rain falls harder and the sheets that are pulled over my limp limbs start to feel damp and cold. The body that I am estranged from starts to shiver. Something moves beneath the sheets and it isn’t me. The girl in the pink dressing gown emerges from the covers at the foot of the bed and sits herself up so that we mirror each other. Her hair is already dripping wet and she still doesn’t have a face. She can’t speak but she doesn’t have to, silence is our common language. She chose it, I live with her choice. She points up at the black sky and I see the stars, hundreds of them, so close that I could reach up and touch them, if I could move. But they’re not real. They’re assorted luminous stickers, which start to peel off and fall down onto the bed, pointy corners of white plastic curling up at the edges. There are star-shaped holes in the sky now. The little girl starts to sing and I wish she wouldn’t.

Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream.

She takes her hands out from under the sheets and I see a flash of gold on her wrist.

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily…

She grabs the sides of the bed that has become a boat and starts to swing from side to side. I try to tell her not to, but I cannot speak.

Life is but a dream.

I close my eyes before she tips us over completely. The water is cold and dark. I cannot swim because I cannot move, so I sink helplessly deeper into the black like a flesh-coloured stone. I can still hear her distorted voice beneath the waves:

Life is but a dream.

There is a loud beeping sound and a lot of watery noise but I’m no longer underwater. There are voices I recognise and faces I don’t.

My eyes are open.

I can see the doctors and nurses fussing around me.

This is real.

Then the voices are silent, except for one.

‘That’s VF, we need to shock.’

Those aren’t my initials.

‘Stand back.’

The faces disappear and all I can see is the white ceiling.

Everything is white.

I close my eyes because I’m scared of what they might see. Then I hear my dad’s voice at the end of the bed.

‘Hold on, Peanut,’ he says. It’s like hearing a ghost.

I open my eyes again and he smiles at me, I realise that I really can see him. He looks so old to me now, so frail, so tired. Everything else is white, it’s just me and my dad and I feel the tears start to roll down my cheeks.

‘I’m sorry about what happened,’ he says. I want to tell him that it’s OK but I still can’t speak. I want to hold his hand one more time, but I still can’t move.

‘If I had any idea that that would be the last time we would speak, I never would have said those things. I didn’t mean them. I love you, we both do. We always did. Life is but a dream.’ He turns to leave and he doesn’t look back. I am her again; that little girl desperately trying to keep up with her father. He’s slower than he used to be, but he still leaves me behind.

Then

Thursday, 22nd December 2016 – Morning

‘And if you’ve just joined us on Coffee Morning, welcome,’ says Madeline. ‘So far today we’ve been talking honestly and openly about adultery. We’ll be discussing here in the studio why some women feel they could never turn a blind eye to a cheating partner, while others have chosen to forgive and forget. We’ll also be talking to women who cheat. I’m joined now by Amber, who says that you can never really know a person, including yourself. Amber, tell us more,’ says Madeline, before rolling her eyes and checking her script to see what’s next on the show. She looks up at me then: ‘Well? What have you got to say for yourself?’ Her voice changes with each word, as though her batteries are dying. Then she is sick all over the desk in the studio. She looks up, wipes her mouth and carries on.

‘Amber?’ Paul’s voice is now coming out of Madeline’s mouth.

‘Amber?’ I sit up in the bed. ‘You were having a nightmare,’ says Paul.

I blink into the darkness. My skin is covered in sweat and I don’t feel right.

‘You’re OK now,’ he says.

But I’m not. I pull off the duvet and run to the bathroom. I grip the toilet bowl with one hand and hold my hair out of my face with the other. It doesn’t last long. I hear Paul get out of bed and I close the bathroom door.

‘Are you OK?’ he asks from the other side of the pine border.

‘I’ll be fine. It’s cold, go back to bed, I’ll be there soon,’ I lie. It isn’t long before he retreats without protest.

I flush the toilet, wash my face and watch myself brush my teeth in the mirror. A crazy woman stares back so I look at the floor instead. I spit out the toothpaste, tiny bits of red mixed in with white, then wipe my mouth. My index finger and thumbs come to meet and my hands move up to my face. I pull at each of my eyebrows in turn and sprinkle tiny bits of hair into the sink. Only when I can count ten tiny black pieces of myself on the white porcelain do I stop. There always have to be ten. When enough time has passed I turn on the cold tap and wash myself away.

I open the door as quietly as I can and check on Paul. He’s already gone back to sleep, gentle snores escaping from his open mouth. I take my dressing gown from the back of the bedroom door and creep along the landing to my little study. Everything is neat and tidy, just how I left it. I take out my white gloves and my fountain pen and stare at the blank sheet of paper. I’m too tired to think of what to write and then I remember Mrs MacDonald from school and her Three Things rule. The words come and I smile to myself:

Dear Madeline,

I hope you’ve been enjoying my letters so far. I know how much you like reading letters from your fans.

I am not a fan.

There are three things you should know about me:

1. I know you’re not the woman you pretend to be.

2. I know what you did and what you didn’t.

3. If you don’t do what I ask, I’ll tell everyone who you really are.

I’ll keep writing until you get the message. Ink doesn’t last for ever of course, so let’s hope we don’t have to hear from each other for too much longer. If the ink runs out, I’ll have to find another way to make you listen.

‘What are you doing? Why didn’t you come back to bed? What’s with the magician gloves?’

Paul is peering round the study door in just a t-shirt and his boxer shorts. I’ve been caught.