Apple of My Eye. Claire Allan
I know she’s still sore from the break-up of her own marriage, which ended after her husband had an affair. Or, to be more accurate, numerous affairs.
I change the subject. I don’t feel comfortable falling down this particular rabbit hole with her.
‘I have to nip out to pick up my car from the garage,’ I tell her.
‘Let me run you there in my car,’ she offers. ‘I’ll pick us up something nice for afternoon break.’
I notice the sandwich I made has barely been touched. It would be churlish of me to refuse her offer of a lift, so I smile and thank her, and we grab our things and climb into her car.
‘Excuse the mess,’ she says as she throws an empty McDonald’s paper into the back seat, which is strewn with empty drinks bottles, a dog lead and a pair of rather smelly football boots.
‘It’s no messier than it was last night, don’t be worrying,’ I tell her.
‘At least last night the darkness hid the worst of it,’ she laughs.
As we drive to the garage, I know I’m too quiet. My head’s full of words, but I don’t know how to say them without sounding like I’m a paranoid wreck. I hate this feeling. Normally, conversation flows really easily between Rachel and me, and we can share each other’s worries and concerns.
‘He loves you very much, you know,’ Rachel says as we drive over the Foyle Bridge towards the garage. ‘That’s what’s on your mind, isn’t it? That stupid note. But you really shouldn’t worry. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more devoted husband. I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn yesterday. He’s one of the good guys.’
And he is. Without doubt. I remind myself not to make problems where none exist.
*
At 3.43 p.m., we watch a sixty-three-year-old man hold his fifty-nine-year-old wife’s hand as her chest stills. The rattle that’s come with each breath for the last twelve hours slows then stops, and the grip she’s held on his hand releases. I watch a man, still alive in every physical way that matters, die a little in front of me as he kisses his wife of thirty years on her lips before they have the chance to turn cold.
Then, very tenderly, Rachel and I do what we need to with his wife who we’ve cared for over the course of the last week. We remove the tubes and wires. We tidy the bed sheets around her. We open the window, an old hospice tradition, believed to let the spirit of the deceased move on. Then we stand back and let her family begin their grieving process.
‘Some are tougher than others,’ Rachel says as we leave.
‘Yes,’ I reply. I can’t bring myself to say more. I’m afraid I won’t be able to keep it together.
‘Almost home time,’ she says.
‘And we get to do it all again tomorrow,’ I respond, too worn out to say anything else.
I’d told myself if I saw her again before the end of the week, it’d be a sign from God that I was right. This baby was the one I’d been waiting for.
I’d been on edge since I first saw her. Always looking at the door of the café, watching every person come in, feeling frustrated when it’d been someone else.
But then, I was in the supermarket, half-heartedly throwing a sad selection of meals for one, to be washed down with a bottle of wine, into my basket, when I saw her hovering around the fresh fruit aisle.
She looked more tired than before. The dark circles under her eyes only highlighted her pallor. She probably needed iron, I thought. She had apples and grapes in her basket, but really she should’ve been stocking up on leafy greens, red meat. That kind of thing. I was tempted to talk to her, but what would I have said?
What would it have looked like? A mad woman in the supermarket telling her that she needs more iron in her diet.
I followed her from a distance. Watched as she put some fresh bread into her basket. Wholemeal. That was good at least. As was the fresh orange juice she chose. It was good to see she could make some decent choices for her baby. The chocolate biscuits, the tinned soup – neither of those were particularly nutritious. Not for an expectant mother. I shook my head.
Her baby needed to be well. I needed this baby to be well.
I wasn’t one of those crazies who thought a woman became nothing more than an incubator when she fell pregnant, but the baby always had to come first. Anything else was selfish. A mother shouldn’t just eat what she wanted, do what she wanted without considering the life she was growing inside her.
Every baby deserved the best start in life.
That’s how it had been with me. Not that it mattered in the end.
Maybe I knew nothing. Maybe this woman with her tinned soup and her packet of biscuits knew more than I did. It wouldn’t matter in a few months’ time anyway. I’d be able to feed my baby all the healthy food they needed.
My mother’s car is parked outside my house. I smile when I see it, even though I know she’ll probably drive me mad within an hour of being in her company.
As I pick up the couple of bags of shopping I’d left on the passenger seat, I watch the rain bounce off the ground outside, remembering how my mother told me that the splashes of water were actually fairies dancing. I believed her for so long. If I’m honest, I think a part of me still believes her now, or chooses to at least. I rub my tummy. I’ll tell my baby that story. Create a bit of magic for them just as my mother had for me. Even when we didn’t have much, we’d always had some magic.
I’m still watching the fairies dance and jump, when I see the door to my house open and the porch light switch on. My mother stands there, pulling her cardigan tightly around her as she looks out through the rain. She blinks, looks at me and waves, and I wave back.
Suddenly, I’m the overexcited primary school pupil seeing her mother arrive in the playground at the end of a long day of colouring in and learning to write my letters. I just want a hug from her, so I open the car door and trample through the dancing fairies into my mother’s now open arms, still holding the shopping bags.
‘Sweetheart, I was so worried. Where’ve you been? I was expecting you home an hour ago.’ The genuine concern in her voice warms my heart.
‘I just called into town to pick up a few things. I’ve not had time to do a big shop so our cupboards are bare. It’s just some basics.’
She ushers me in through the door and takes the bags from me. Sitting them on the floor, she helps me out of my coat.
‘There was no need. I’m sure you’re wrecked after your day at work and the last thing you needed to be doing was running round the shops. Besides, you should know by now that I always come prepared.’
The smell of her special chicken soup hits me and I’m shocked to feel hungry.
‘Is that your soup? Oh! Mum, it smells delicious. I got some lovely fresh bread that’ll go down a treat with it.’
‘We make a great pair,’ she says. ‘Of course, if you moved back to Belfast we could make a great pair all the time.’
‘Mum,’ I say, teasing. ‘Enough. You know we’re settled here. Martin’s practice