Page 23 of The Day Shelley Woodhouse Woke Up
‘He was violent, my husband,’ she says.
I’m shocked. Not Fern, who is so put together and ordered. I cannot imagine her standing in front of a mirror, trying to use concealer to cover up the marks of a home life in disarray.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. What else do I have to offer?
‘I don’t usually tell people, especially not patients. But I wanted you to see that there’s something beyond it, something on the other side of it. When I was in it, I couldn’t see that. But hopefully you can see me, and see that I’m well and reasonably happy, and know that that will be you, too.’
It’s like a present she’s given me, and I don’t know what to do with it.
She looks at her watch, glances so briefly at me that I can’t read what is in her eyes. ‘I have to see another patient. I’ll see you later, Shelley, all right?’
And she’s gone, her neatly braided hair swinging behind her. She doesn’t look like a victim. Do I?
In the end, I sit in the chair for about half an hour. When Angela comes back and asks me if I’m ready to get back in bed, I surprise myself by realising that I am. I’m shattered from the effort of it. It’s a reminder that none of this is going to be easy.
‘Reckon we can do this, just the two of us?’ Angela asks.
I nod. I do. She holds out an arm and I cling on to it while I stand, and then we do what we did before in reverse. Over to the bed, swing the legs, adjust the bed until I’m more horizontal. And I must fall asleep almost immediately, because I don’t remember her leaving my bedside.
There’s a voice, calling my name. I blink a few times and look up. It’s Dr Jenkins.
‘Sorry to wake you,’ she says, not sounding remotely sorry. ‘I’ve arranged for another scan. We need to see whether that bleed has stopped.’
I feel disoriented, the way you do after a daytime sleep. A bit cold, too. I try to sit up, but I feel dizzy.
‘Take your time,’ Dr Jenkins says. ‘Angela’s on her way to help, and there’s a porter coming with a wheelchair.’
And I know, as soon as she says it. I feel hot, prickly, like my skin is too tight.
‘No,’ I say. ‘No.’
Her brow furrows. ‘What is it? Are you worried about something? Because I can talk you through the process, and it really isn’t anything you need to…’
He arrives, then. Pushing a wheelchair. Older, of course. His hair white and his body heavier. Mick. I haven’t seen him since Granny Rose’s funeral. I freeze, waiting to see if he’ll recognise me.
‘Ah,’ Dr Jenkins says, ‘here we are. The patient’s just a bit nervous, aren’t you, Shelley?’
His head snaps to attention at the sound of my name, and there’s a horrible moment when we make eye contact.You little slut. I remember that first slap, and the ones that came after. Always when my mum wasn’t around. His mouth drops open and Dr Jenkins sees that there is something between us, some kind of history, and she looks back and forth from me to him, unsure.
‘I can’t go,’ I say, surprised by how calm and strong my voice is. ‘I won’t. Not with him.’
14
THEN
It’s hot for September, and I am at Annabelle’s, waving her off to university. When we hug, I can feel that she is scared.
‘I wish you were coming with me,’ she says.
‘Me too.’ I say it automatically, but it’s not really true.
I am aware that my relationship with my best friend has been equal parts supportive and toxic, and I don’t think it’s such a bad thing that we’re going to be in different places, meeting different people. But there is definitely a sense of being left behind. Annabelle is moving away, moving forward, and what am I doing? I have half-decent A level grades but I am too restless to spend another three years studying before starting my real life. I want to start it now. I want, if possible, to have started it already. Since our exams finished, I have been putting in upwards of forty hours a week at the pub, and I’m going to carry on with that. I need money, because going to university isn’t the only way of getting out. I want to move out of home, want to cut all ties with Mick and, if necessary, Mum, and I want to do it as soon as possible.
‘Come on,’ Annabelle’s mum says. ‘We need to get going if we want to arrive by lunchtime.’
It is an hour’s drive to Nottingham, where Annabelle is going to study Geography. I was at work last night until gone midnight, and I got up earlier than I usually would to be here for this send-off.
‘You’ll be so great,’ I say. ‘They’re going to love you.’
