I Don't Know What's Going to Happen

Downstairs – fleeing the awful airless room as soon as my eyes open, trying to be silent so as not to wake Marnie – not just out of politeness, but because I desperately want some time alone. It’s hard - old houses are so full of creaks. The worst place is the stairs – at the turn, leaving you about two centimetres of space in which to put your feet, there is a wonderful harpsichord – walnut, inlaid with something darker – mahogany perhaps. Broken of course, but Zachary reckons he can do something with it. On the wall above is a cupboard door from Joe’s bedroom, still covered with band stickers and backstage passes. I feel light-headed from holding my breath.

It’s cooler downstairs, but still airless, and thick with the smell of stale woodsmoke. The chimney lining that serves the dining room fireplace needs replacing. The smoke comes out instead of going up, and because all the windows are kept shut it has nowhere to go to – it just hangs in the air, making your eyes sting, filling the room with a kind of acrid fog. Marnie doesn’t seem to think it’s big deal – a minor inconvenience. When the National Trust came about something else, they told her she mustn’t light a fire there, then they saw her gas poker and said there was a reason why you couldn’t buy them anymore, and on no account was she to use it again. After they’d gone she said it was health and safety gone mad – people were so over cautious these days. Then she lit another fire.

I make a cup of coffee and open my laptop. Almost everything in this place is broken or dangerous, but we have managed to sort out the broadband for her. There is a message from Tucson – it’s been months and months – eight he says – lost months

I still read your stuff on abc

Ah – so he will know then – about things

I read your emails – all of them! three times each!

I skim read – it’s worse as the page goes down – worse and worse, although he’s upbeat – he’s always upbeat, even when he tells me about being evicted from his apartment, and how he’s living in a cheap, extended stay hotel

.. this simple clutter free existence really does help
focus the mind....

I remember those hotels –I remember him telling me how low you had to get to live in one of those

... and you must have guessed – I’m up to half a gram a day now…. I don’t think they’ll have me at work for much longer – every Friday I expect to be let go..

Mentally at this point I have packed a small bag and am halfway to Tucson, ready to – ready for – anything, whatever it takes. I have enough air miles for a one-way ticket. I want .. I want to go and fetch him back, bring him here – anywhere – somewhere safe. I know I can’t. I know he wouldn’t come. Zach thinks he might, if we give him time… I’m not sure how much time there is though

I close my eyes. There’s nothing we can do except wait. Zachary’s right. Suddenly – the airlessness, the stale smoke – I can’t bear any of it, and I push my chair back and go into the kitchen

As I open the back door – there’s a flurry – I look over to where the rustling noise is coming from just in time to see the brown back of a rabbit – they are surprisingly shy here – I don’t know why – it’s not as if there’s ever anyone around. There is nothing around – no people, no cars, no noise – except for the sheep. It is breathtakingly beautiful – breathtaking…

****************************************

In the surgery waiting room, sitting opposite us, is a woman wearing a small pearl necklace and a white shirt. She has her legs crossed, and you can see her ankle socks made out of flesh coloured tights, and her long narrow feet in polished loafers. She smiles briefly over the top of her Daily Telegraph, then rustles it back into place. Marnie is wearing a buff coloured sheepskin waistcoat with Japanese characters painted on it, and navy blue linen - loose and flowing, and black cowboy boots – she looks fantastic.

While she’s in with the GP I go and wait outside – it’s such a beautiful day and I’m full of hope. Now she’ll get some help – or at least set things in motion – and then I can go home and I can go back to normal, I can concentrate on my life. We can all move forwards

It isn’t long before she’s out - pausing at the front door, blinded by the glare of the sun, looking for me. I call her name, and we walk together to the car

“Well? How did it go?”

She looks down at the cobbled paving stones

“…..did you manage to fix your memory test?” She’s been so frightened – I’m so glad she’s finally done something about it.

“He says he’s more worried about my back, where I fell.. and my legs..”

“Did you tell him about your memory – how worried you’ve been?”

I have to strain to hear her reply – she won’t look at me

“He thinks it might just be stress or something”

She’s lying – making it up. It’s so obvious. I can’t believe it. I try one last thing

“Did you ask about perhaps changing your medication?” She’s been on the same anti-depressants for fifteen years

Again she looks down, lowers her voice

“I don’t want them to send me to some ghastly therapy group…..”

There’s nothing I can do. Nothing. I can’t force her. We get into my car and I drive her home, telling her to call me if she needs anything. I’m exhausted and I need to go home. I don’t know what’s going to happen now.