Page 74 of The Notecard
‘It’s often the little things, Nick. The idiosyncrasies. The way someone smells or the way they walk or listen to particular songs.’
‘Dad loved The Beatles. He had all of their albums on vinyl. He used to play them all the time when I was growing up. Rubber Soul was his favourite. They played it during my birth. I came out to ‘In My Life’. He always said it was his favourite Beatles song.’
A tear slips out and I wipe it away. He was my hero.
Dr Wells looks at me. She smiles. A crooked, thin smile. She has a box of tissues on the table in front of me, but I don’t use them. I can control it. I just need to think of something else. Being a medical student requires hours and hours of study. It’s ridiculous the number of things we have to memorise for exams. Most of it stays in my head, some of it doesn’t. When I get sad about Dad, I try to remember all the things I’ve forgotten. It’s useful having so much information in my head. I can’t imagine if I had lots of time to indulge my grief. Instead I work as hard as I can and fill my head with medical terminology. It’s an ideal career if you want to forget something painful because you’re constantly exhausted and don’t have the time to process your feelings about anything.
We talk more about Mum and Dad. Dr Wells wants to talk more about Dad next time. Deep dive into our relationship. Unpack everything. I don’t know if it’s helped to be honest, but I suppose it hasn’t hurt. I get up to leave, but before I do, Dr Wells looks at me and says.
‘It’s easy for people like you to bury yourself in work, Nick. You can spend a whole life on the ward not dealing with anything but everyone else’s pain, but at some point, you’ll have to take a moment for yourself. Don’t let the years go by Nick because otherwise you’ll wake up one day and realise you haven’t really dealt with it. It will still be there, but just buried deeper. It will become who you are. The pain will define you.’
‘Of course,’ I say with a smile. ‘Thanks.’
‘See you next week.’
‘Goodbye, Dr Wells.’
I walk outside and light up a cigarette. I look up at a bird that’s flying high in the sky, swooping and soaring. I think about Dad, about us playing chess, and the Wotsits. I know I won’t go back to Dr Wells again. I don’t want to lose the grief inside of me. I want it to become a part of who I am because that means that Dad is a part of me. I’d rather keep that inside of me than let it go for good. For better or worse, it’s who I want to be.
Part Six: August
Meg
Iwake up in the hotel. It’s seven o’clock in the morning on the day of Laura’s wedding. It’s finally here. The hotel is deep in the heart of the Hampshire countryside. It’s a 19th century stately home that’s been converted into a five-star hotel. I feel like I’m a character from a BBC period drama. My room is on the ground floor and looks out to the glorious English countryside. A sea of green like a painting sweeps away into the distance. The bed linen is the softest I have ever felt. I haven’t slept this well in years. Egyptian cotton is apparently the secret to a good night's sleep. The entire room smells wonderful. I have no idea what the smell is, but I wish it was my scent for life. It smells like a fresh summers’ day, a brisk walk at the beach, somewhere foreign and yet somewhere close by. It’s woody, earthy, and bright and I fucking love it. The ensuite is like something from a high-end magazine; ‘contemporary, bright, spacious, and oozing class’. I wake up and look around. In two days, I’m leaving for my six-month trip around the world. I booked my hostel in Bangkok the other day. It’s the exact opposite of this. It’s an eight-person dorm with bunk beds and I’m sure the only smell will be eau de backpacker sweat.
7:05am. I have Laura’s schedule for the day. That’s right, she gave me a schedule. I have to wake her up at exactly seven-thirty. Sharp! Or heaven forbid. Then I have to help her get ready for breakfast. I literally have no idea what this means. Help her get ready for breakfast. She’s not an old lady or disabled. How can I possibly help her? What could she need from me? Put her bra on for her? Slip on her underwear? After breakfast, she has the morning blocked off to get ready. The wedding ceremony is at three o’clock. Sharp! Getting ready comprises massages in the hotel spa, followed by showers, hair, make-up, relaxation time, time to talk and reflect, photographs, and then the all-important getting dressed. I feel like I’m Laura’s personal maid for the morning instead of her sister and bridesmaid. My schedule goes long into the evening. I haven’t read to the end, but I imagine it finishes with me putting the used marital condom in the bin then tucking Laura into bed.
I get out of bed and get dressed. I look out of the window at the view. It’s stunning. The countryside goes on for as far as I can see. Blue sky, birds flying to-and-fro, and in the distance, a few fluffy clouds float as though they’ve been hung in the sky for effect. Bushy clumps of trees like spongy brown paint on canvas. It’s going to be a gloriously sunny day. Laura’s good luck strikes again! The perfect weather for the perfect day. I’m tempted to pop outside for a quick cigarette, but I don’t think I have the time. Heaven forbid I get off the schedule. I’ve barely been awake for ten minutes and I already hate the schedule. Instead of a cigarette, I go into the ensuite and brush my teeth. I look in the mirror (it’s a lovely mirror) and staring back at me is the reason why Laura was angry with me last night. Pink hair. I have pink hair. Laura is seething. I honestly didn’t intend to ‘steal her thunder’ or ‘look ridiculous in the photos’ or ‘act like typical fucking Meg’. To be fair, it’s not that pink. I’d say if you were looking at it, you might say it’s pink-ish.
The pink hair happened two nights ago. With me going away for six months, Keri and I had a proper girlie night in. Just the two of us. We got alcohol, ordered from Keri’s favourite Greek restaurant, and bought a bucket of ice-cream. We watched Friends and dyed our hair pink. Admittedly, the decision to dye our hair pink was taken after we had drunk most of the alcohol. I think it looks quite nice.
7:24am. I’m sitting on the bed waiting to wake Laura up when my phone rings. I have a look at the caller and it’s Keri. I answer right away. She never calls this early. I’m worried. I only have six minutes until I'm due at Laura’s door to officially help her get ready for breakfast.
‘Keri?’ I say, still trying to wake up. I need a large coffee.
‘Oh fuck, Meg. Fuckety, fuck, fuck and fucking fuck,’ says Keri.
I’m not one to shy away from the occasional swear word, but Keri seems to have gone all out on the fucks. It must be bad.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I haven’t slept all night, Meg. I’m in a total flap. I don’t know what I’m going to do.’
‘About what?’
‘I think I’m pregnant,’ says Keri, and I’m completely stunned. The P word.
‘What did you say?’
‘I’m pregnant. Think I’m pregnant. Although now that I say out loud, I know that I am because I took a test, four tests actually, and they say they’re ninety-nine percent accurate, and that’s basically one hundred percent when you think about it. I mean, it’s basically never wrong, and so I must be pregnant. Four tests. I’m pregnant with Hugh’s baby, Meg, and I’m freaking out and I don’t know what to do.’
‘Does Hugh know?’
‘No, Hugh doesn’t know. Hugh can’t know. Oh my god, we were so drunk the other night. My baby is going to be an alcoholic.’
‘I don’t think it works like that, Keri.’
There’s a pause. I sit on the phone listening to Keri breathing, and then I hear her crying. Poor Keri. She must be freaking out. I know I would be. She’s usually so safe because she isn’t ready to have a child, and things with Hugh are going so well. Timing. Moments.
