Do The Right Thing 2/3 - Denial

I lie listening to the phone knowing if it’s important he’ll leave a message. It’s not unusual for Tam to be phoning at two in the morning. We both have irregular sleeping patterns and I did tell him to contact me any time, I’d probably be awake. But that was months ago. I didn’t know when I said that he’d still be here and calling every night. He’s got more lives than a cat.

I’ve been lying in bed for about an hour trying to switch off. Sleeping pills are still not considered in case something happens and I have to drive. I prefer wrestling with the quilt, turning pillows, listening and trying to identify the occasional night-time traffic and counting the squares on the curtains as they twitch in the breeze. It’s a ritual performed every night with obsessive compulsion.

It takes a few minutes before a single feint beep breaks the silence and signals the voicemail’s arrival. It takes another few minutes of wishing I was sleeping and this would all just go away before I struggle out of bed and lift the phone. To my surprise and dismay it’s not Tam that’s left the message.

My partner Daisy arouses from her deep sleep and, with eyes half open, asks, “Is everything okay?”

“It’s Tam. I have to go right away.”

“Was that him on the phone?”

“No. It was Rita.”

Rita had been Tam’s on/off girlfriend for years. When he found out he was dying it was on again and they married not long after. She has her own issues with drugs and alcohol but tries her best to care for him at home so he doesn’t have to die in a hospice. On receiving a similar call from my cousin Margaret three years before about my mum, I’d raced along a short four mile journey like Colin McRae only to arrive minutes too late. This time, although the drive is nearer fifty miles, I don’t feel any sense of urgency.

The fuel light on the Mondeo has been on for a couple of days. At least there’s a 24 hour garage not too far from home. I’ll get a latte for the drive.

Considering the time of night, getting out of town is proving painfully slow. There’s no other traffic on the one-way system but the lights don't understand the circumstances of tonight’s pilgrimage, and with jobs-worth commitment they perform their role without favour or prejudice. I look at the huge billboard advertising HBO’s latest blockbuster The Pacific; a silhouetted soldier carrying a wounded comrade and a single brush-stroke of red paint stand out over the otherwise plain white background. Daisy curses the stupidity of sequential lights with a selection of her finest language straight from the streets of Pollok.

There’s a choice of two routes; one passes through the back roads which, although slightly longer, I know well, and have driven at high speeds for many years on route to work or the golf course. I know it’ll give me the feeling that if I’m driving as fast as I can then I can say I tried my best to be there. The other route, although straighter and shorter, has an average speed limit of 40mph imposed over many miles. It might be hard not to break that limit in these circumstances. Still, I choose the latter; convincing myself it’ll be safer.

Driving along the motorway at 55mph hour I listen to 5Live without any opinion. Daisy rests her hand on my thigh and attempts a smile. I squeeze a smile back at her and see Tam, broad smile across his face, dressed in grey school uniform and green blazer, turning to wave before heading off with schoolbag on his back. Even standing on the couch I can barely see through the net curtains hanging on the small window of our Gran’s aluminium prefab. I’m so excited for him. The memory passes as I take the next junction for the M80.

The 40mph limit’s good for fuel consumption. I know Tam will agree. He’s never been one for academia, which makes his savant-like numeracy skills all the more pleasantly surprising until he drives you mad with his obsession for all things financial. But that’s what a lifetime of dealing and dealing some more can do. His only prize at primary school was for diligence. Secondary school was a concept that never appealed to him and his only prize there was a Leaving Certificate.

His real education came from the schemes of the East End of Glasgow as we moved around frequently during our teenage years. There was no money in school. Long-term goals and career prospects were for others. He had a life to be getting on with. Places to be and people to see, and all that nonsense. As both a kid and adult he lived for the moment without ever thinking about the consequences. God knows where he studied the intricacies of Latin but his first tattoo at the age of fourteen spelled Carpe Diem.

Back on the motorway I speed up for a few miles only to catch up with the lights of a police car ambling along. I slow down even though I’m only doing 60mph on a downhill stretch. There are no other cars on the road but I’ve never liked overtaking a police car. I know how curious they can be. Anyway, I can do without a routine pull-over tonight.

I remember the one time the police took me home. My parents were out but Tam wasn’t and told the officers he’d pass on any information, giving me a cuff around the lug and hard stare for good effect. As soon as they’d left the real price of my crime was revealed. His silence cost me a fish supper, bottle of Irn Bru and a Twix. A levy repeated many times throughout my childhood. He kept his word, though. Over the years this level of integrity, over the issue of silence anyway, cost him a lot in a currency he can’t buy now no matter how much money he has in the bank: time.

After crossing the Kincardine Bridge, flashing neon signs indicate a diversion along another back road, dragging the journey out even further. I turn 5Live up to hear the news headlines. It’s a slow news day according to the newsreader and they end on a flippant note with a light-hearted story of a cat being rescued from the inside of a pipe. I proceed with due care and attention at a steady 30mph.

On arrival the scene’s busier than expected. Margaret and her husband Jack have already arrived, having driven at speed through the back roads. She nursed my mum through her last weeks and sees herself as more like the daughter my mother craved than a niece. When mum finally passed away peacefully in Margaret’s house surrounded by extended family and close friends, neither Tam nor I made it in time. Some tried to explain to us what her last breath was like but, if truth be told, neither of us were really interested. She’d been unconscious for days as everyone sat around staring, waiting for her heart to stop.

Rita thanks us for coming right away. Her eyes have huge bags and she’s lost a lot of weight recently. It hasn’t been easy caring for Tam. He isn’t cut out to be a patient. I remember he left Casualty without getting stitched-up after being glassed because they wanted to shave a part of his beard off. During his sometimes lengthy stays in various hospitals and hospices over the last three years he’s always looked out of place. At times, convinced there was nothing wrong with him and feeling like a fraud for taking up the doctors and nurses time and effort, he tried to reduce his medication in a vain effort to persuade himself he was on the road to complete recovery. The ensuing pain proved a stark reminder that the high amount of morphine he was taking not only kept the pain at bay but also provided him with the crazy notion there was nothing wrong with him in the first place.

Tam lies on a hospital bed in the spare room, emulating the last days of our mother, but without the numbers of well-wishers. Admittedly, it’s the middle of the night. But that provides an excuse rather than a reason. Above him, on the pale blue coloured wall, hangs a photograph of him and mum taken during a trip to The Caribbean, paid for by him. Mum wears a broad smile as in all her photos, especially those with her sons. Tam, surprisingly, also looks genuinely happy. He was a big lad back then: five feet eleven inches, over sixteen stone and mostly muscle but with more than a fair share of curries too.

I stare at the frail old man beneath me and sit down on the bed beside him. His eyes are open but only milky bloodshot whites show. I reach for his hand. It’s cold. I say his name but he doesn’t stir. I squeeze his hand gently and clasp my other hand around his, trying to give him some of my warmth. His pale fingers are merely skin and bone now but I swear I can feel him trying to squeeze my hand.

“It’s me,” I whisper. “It’s John.”

I think of mum telling us about Mother Theresa and the importance of the warmth of a human hand to the dying and the lonely and wonder how it feels to Tam. We’ve never held hands before now.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m here, bro.”

His breathing’s short, shallow and very irregular. At times he stops and I resign myself the end has come only for him to rally and fight for air, before settling once more into a series of intermittent half-breaths, providing an opportunity for me to attempt to raise forlorn hopes.

“I don’t believe this is it,” I remark.

My words float around the room looking for support but nearly everyone sits in silence, either staring at Tam or me. Margaret sits eyes closed, grasping rosary beads and mumbling some Hail Marys.

“He was great on Saturday,” I add.

For many months he’d been too weak to travel. Only two days before I took him to visit one of his longest friends who he probably wouldn’t see again, as the friend was just starting another lengthy sentence in Barlinnie. While out for the day he also volunteered to visit my new home for the first time; something I’d been hoping he would do before the end but had long since given up on. We also drove through our childhood hometown of Balloch, stopping to feed the ducks and swans on the River Leven, watching the children paddling and splashing just like we had many years before as the boats sailed past heading to or from Loch Lomond. He enjoyed spending a while in the sun just watching life go by in an old, familiar haunt.

“Remember your mum two days before she died?” Margaret whispers, putting her hand carrying the rosary beads on my right shoulder. “She too wanted to feel the sun on her face for the last time, so you carried her outside and sat her down. Remember?”

“Yes, I carried her. But Tam walked under his own steam. He was as good as I’ve seen him for a long time.”

“Everybody’s different. Maybe that was his last day in the sun.”

“Maybe he’s not ready to go.”

“Give us a hug. Your mum would be so proud.”

Tam gasps for another breath like it could be his last. I’ve watched him grow and fight his way through life. Now, as an old man before his time, he wilts and fights for life. At least he’s not in pain. As I rearrange the quilt and pillows to make him more comfortable his t-shirt folds up his arm and reveals his tattoo of a swooping green, white and gold eagle clutching a banner with the word ‘LUCKY’ on it.

I smile, hold his hand tight and prepare to let him go for good, still hoping for the best.