Page 35 of The Flowers of Bay C
‘I was shocked, to be honest. To be fair, most of you lot are always kind and go out of your way. That’s why I was so upset about it and had to tell you, Sister.’
‘Thanks for letting me know.’ Sister Harris’ face is set in a firm grimace, barbed with ominous purpose, and I’m slightly afraid for the staff in question. Not sorry for them, though.
I’ve seen it before, with patients with dementia or just confused in their illness, like Barbara. I’ve seen them dehumanised and laughed at and wondered how it will feel when I get to that age and it’s me they are mocking.
In my head I know I was mocking her, too, because I didn’t try harder to stop it.
Chapter 11
Magazines make me weary these days. Karen used to pass her copies ofCosmoandRedon to me, and I would curl up on my sofa with a cup of tea, all eager to escape into their shiny, scented pages, to gape in awe at the prices of the fashion I would never dare to wear. They were a window on another world, a life that I craved but seemed scary at the same time. When Jake was born I traded them in forMother & BabyandTake a Break, scouring the pages for tips on how to breastfeed, how to be a better mum, how to get stains out of carpets, how to be happy. The pages were full of busy mums juggling their work and play and their children’s activities with ease; vitality shining from their perfectly made-up faces, bursting with health and wellbeing, living their best lives. As the years went on, I stopped buying them, only flicking through in the waiting room or when I was in hospital and someone brought me one for a treat.
Only it’s not a treat, not really, not anymore. It’s a reminder of my frailty and my lack. It’s the same with Instagram, which I installed in the hope it would transform my life into something that looked a little more perfect than it was, that if I could capture the good bits in little filtered squares that gave off the pretence that I had it all sorted, maybe I would be a little more sorted, after all.I didn’t take pictures of my hospital bed or my thousands of daily pills, because honesty was too brutal for me, and before long I ran out of things to take pictures of. So I deleted the app and deleted my best life all in one go.
Jodie buys new magazines every day and Kane brings more in for her,HeatandHelloandOK.She flips through them, crowing over the outfits and perfect homes, reading out the quizzes; what sort of Disney princess are you? Who were you in another life? Kat scorns them and says they are shallow and only propagate envy. Violet likes to read them and complain about the terrible manners and lifestyles of the celebrities, she would never do things like that, how common. Amina doesn’t touch them.
Jodie tries to pass them on to me. ‘You’ll love this one. It’s got Ed Sheeran in it.’
I smile politely and thank her. Today it’s a scraggy copy ofWoman’s Own. There’s an article about building yourself up when you’re feeling tired and low. I turn the pages slowly, scrutinising the page numbers, until I find it. A picture of a perfect woman with bouncy auburn hair holding a plate of avocado salad and smiling with her perfect teeth. She doesn’t look very tired or low. ‘Ten pick-me-ups for down days,’ goes the headline, and I read through, sighing. Eat more fruit. Do more exercise. Try meditation. Try mindfulness. Sleep better. Read more books. Put your phone down. Make things. See friends. Hug people.
That easy.
It’s like when Marcus used to tell me that his brand of exercise would cure me. He went slowly with me, his voice full of kindness, taking it an exercise at a time, patiently standing with me while I lifted weights and shook with the effort of it, guiding me as I dragged myself painfully slowly through the hills programme on the bike. My muscles became more defined, my stomach flatter, my legs stronger, and I stood up straight, holding myselfdifferently. He’d fallen in love with me, he told me one glorious day, he thought about me all the time. If I could just keep on following his programme, I’d be cured for good.
It’s like all those miracle cures. All those multi-level marketing schemes promising the world. People telling me that if I buy their products I will get better immediately, so what am I waiting for? If I don’t reply, or say no thank you, I see those cold edges of disappointment creeping over their faces, so better to obediently swallow down the smoothies and aloe vera drinks, and get sick anyway.
People in this ward are not like that. How strange it is that it’s when I’m in hospital I feel most understood, most at home.
‘Let’s have a ward feast,’ Jodie says. ‘I’m bored of the food in this place.’
‘A ward feast?’ Kat says, sitting on Jodie’s chair and watching out for Sister Harris or any of the other staff who might tell her off. ‘You mean like order in? I’m down for that.’
Jake is here, and Kane is here too, slouching on Jodie’s bed, pushing her over to make space for himself. Sister Harris wouldn’t like that at all. ‘You don’t need more food,’ Kane says, munching through a family size bag of crisps. ‘You should take the opportunity to lose a bit of weight.’
Jake glares at him but he takes no notice.
Jodie flushes. ‘I meant… well, I meant for Penny, and Amina and everyone really. I mean, Penny is veggie and they give her fish and such, and they don’t always even give Amina something if there’s nothing halal or whatever.’
Kane sneers. ‘She should take what she’s given.’
Violet nods vehemently, flicking a disdainful gaze over at Amina.
‘I think it’s a lovely idea,’ Kat says. ‘Should we get Dominos? Maybe Kane could go and pick it up for us, if they don’t deliver to hospitals?’
Kane grunts.
‘Please,’ Jodie says. ‘You’d do that for me, wouldn’t you?’ She pushes herself up against him, pouting up at him and batting her eyelashes. He pulls her in tightly, squeezing that little bit too hard. She coughs and gasps and he doesn’t let go.
‘Anything for you.’
I squirm inside, exchanging a glance with Kat. Marcus held me tight, too, squeezing in hard as he told me that he loved me so much that he needed me to be better for him, that I just wasn’t quite pretty enough, or fit enough, or funny enough.
‘Can I have some?’ Jake says.
When Kane comes back with the pizza, we descend on him like a pack of hungry labradors. Even Amina is up, face all animated, digging out her purse and pressing too many notes on him with copious thank yous. He doesn’t give her any change.
Jodie is grinning widely. Her wonderful boyfriend, doing this for all her new friends, going out of his way for us like that. She’s a beacon of light, all sparkly eyes and glowing cheeks, delighted that Kane is, after all, what she needs him to be.
‘You can have one slice,’ Kane says to her, ‘and I’ll have the rest. Take it home for my dinner.’
