Page 14 of The Notecard
‘Hi,’ I say.
‘Oh, hi, hello.’
Normal accent. Middle class. Educated.
‘I’m your neighbour, Meg.’
‘Nick.’
He’s either a doctor because he’s wearing navy blue scrubs or he’s going to a fancy-dress party.
‘Are you a doctor or are you going to a fancy-dress party?’ I say, and then I laugh because I think this is quite a witty thing to say.
‘Doctor but wishing I was going to a fancy-dress party,’ he says quickly, and I laugh again.
Then there’s the pause. The introductions have been made. I smile again and so does he. That smile. God. The dimples. But then I think of James, my heart starts racing, and I feel like I’m going to be sick. I can't help it, but I think about The Incident. The thing I don’t like to think about. It happened soon after James and I broke up. We don’t talk about it. It suddenly comes back to me in a flash, and I have to get away from Nick and back to the safety of my flat. Back to Keri and her non-vegan vegan chocolate cake. I sort of half-smile at Nick. It’s meant to be an apology (I’m sorry but my boyfriend of seven years broke my heart six months ago and I still can’t cope with life sometimes and definitely not men with gorgeous smiles and dimples). I have no idea if that’s how it comes across. I imagine nothing like that. I mumble a quick goodbye, then I scurry back inside my flat. I hate this is how I am. I hate that James did this to me because it’s not who I am. But I can’t help it. I think about Beth to calm myself down. I think about Bali. About travelling. About warm sandy beaches. I think about Dad and his cardigans. And breathe.
Nick
THEN
Iwalk into the room where Dad is sleeping. They have converted the dining room into a makeshift bedroom for Dad because he can’t make it upstairs anymore. The room where we used to have roast dinners on Sunday and where Dad and I set up my Scalextric set on my tenth birthday. The room that used to smell of gravy and roast chicken now has a musty feel to it. There’s a tinge of disinfectant and of Dad. The room is different. It’s lost all of that feeling it used to have. All the love and memories are gone and instead they’re replaced with Dad dying in a temporary bed. At least that’s how it feels to me. Mum’s just getting on with things. Keeping busy.
‘Be careful, he’s tired,’ says Mum. ‘It’s the drugs. They knock him out.’
Dad just finished his last round of chemotherapy. They don’t know if it’s worked yet. Dad’s weak and the chemo has changed so much of him. His skin, his hair, and just the essence of who he was. It’s trying to kill the cancer, but it’s also killed so much of who he was too. The man lying in the bed is almost unrecognisable from my father.
I walk across and sit on the chair next to his bed. It’s one of the old dining room chairs. I look down at him. The same man that only a few months before was hugging me and telling me he loved me on New Year’s Eve. He was drunk and we were having a house party. He only told me he loved me like that when he was drunk. He didn’t just say, I love you, but he grabbed me and held me tight and said it with such passion like a Shakespearian actor. As if it took all of his soul to get it out. Then he kissed me on the cheek and said how proud he was of me. My father, usually so stoic, lost in the moment. I love to think of him like that. Life felt so different then. Everything felt possible. Now he’s just lying there, deflated by the lack of weight, his skin dried out and diminished by the chemotherapy. His deterioration feels impossible. How could he have gone from big, brash, bullish Dad on New Year’s Eve to this in a matter of months? It really puts life into perspective. How fragile we all are. How close to the edge everything is.
‘Hello, Dad, it’s Nick,’ I say, reaching out and holding his hand. It feels dry and crisp. I can feel the bones beneath the skin.
He slowly opens his eyes and looks at me. It takes a moment for him to recognise me and then he does, and he smiles. It’s a wonderful smile. It changes his whole face. Dad is still in there.
‘Nick, you came,’ says Dad, and then he laughs a little, which turns into a cough. ‘About fucking time. In case you haven't heard, I’m dying.’
And I laugh, and before long the laughter turns to tears, and I have to leave the room because I don’t want him to see me like that. I have to be strong the way he has always been strong for me.
NOW
I’m sitting on my bed getting ready for work. Ready for work is navy scrubs and a pair of black Nike trainers. It’s comfort over fashion. Practical over everything else. I’ll spend most of the night on my feet. Being a doctor, you get used to being on your feet for lengthy periods of time. It isn’t in the job description, but it’s one of the hardest parts. Standing up for twelve or fourteen hours a day. You need comfortable shoes. The first few months on the ward and god, the pain was unbearable. Luckily, you have so many other things to worry about and think about, and you’re exhausted, painful feet are the least of your worries.
I’m putting my socks on and I’m thinking about what Mum said about me not taking risks. Is she right? She probably is if I’m honest. I think I’m hard-wired that way. I like things to stay the same. I like the familiar patterns of life. If I eat out, I’ll go somewhere I know, and I’ll probably order something I’ve already had. That’s just the way I am. I find life easier that way. When I’m working, I have to think quickly. I have to act and think outside of the box. I have to rely on instinct and training. But once I leave the hospital and I have to deal with life instead of death, I withdraw to safety. I overthink and over-analyse everything until the fear of making a choice, of actually doing something, becomes too much and I don’t do anything.
I think about Rob and Fee trying for a baby and along with Mum’s damning verdict on my ability to deal with change, it makes me think about my situation. It’s been four months since Molly. Maybe it’s time I dipped my toe in the shallow end of relationships again. Test the water. See if I’m ready to dive back in again. As much as I try to ignore it, I feel the slow pressure of time building within me.
I grab my keys, my packet of cigarettes, my phone and I head out. I close the door behind me and walk out into the hallway, and that’s when I see her. She’s coming in and I’m going out. She must be the other girl who lives in the flat opposite. She’s slim with blonde hair cut into a bob with a fringe. She has the most incredible bright green eyes, and the palest of skin. We both stop for a second and within this second, this pause in the universe, I feel it. She’s a complete stranger, but it feels like, and this will sound stupid so prepare yourself, it feels like I know her. She feels like someone I once knew so well, so fully and completely. I smile at her and she smiles back at me. She has a beautiful smile.
‘Hi,’ she says.
English accent. Southern. Nothing extraordinary.
‘Oh, hi, hello.’
I love what she’s wearing. A pair of grey tracksuit bottoms that are tight at the bottom, a baggy yellow jumper that hangs over her slim frame, and a cool pair of glasses.
‘I’m your neighbour, Meg.’
Meg. I roll her name on my tongue for a moment. Meg.
