A few strands of her wavy brown hair have escaped from her bun and bounce down towards me just inches from my face. Her blue eyes crease a little as she smiles, a dimple on her left cheek, and, yes, there it is … there’s the gap between her teeth; like a tiny secret cave, it only shows when she smiles. She told me once that when she was a student she tried to save enough money to have the gap closed up, but she went on holiday instead.
‘Hi, Frank, Happy New Year. Hope your Christmas was all right. It’s good to see you.’ I want her to touch me, to put her hand against my cheek, to tell me like my mum told me that she’s back and she’ll stay with me now. I don’t think even Alice knows how long ten days can be trapped in here. She chatters away about her Christmas, her niece and nephew, but I know what she’s thinking about as she bites her bottom lip. If I could, I’d tell her I know how loneliness gnaws, how rage blisters, I’d tell her we may be different, but she’s not alone.
She picks the tinsel off the end of my bed and I think, Cheers, Alice, not my sort of thing, to be honest. She hesitates for a moment by my Christmas cards, but she doesn’t take them down, and then she’s gone, off for rounds. I’m grateful she leaves the cards; I’ve only seen them once, when Lizzie opened them just before Christmas. The rest of the time they’ve been stuck onto the side panel of my bedside unit and it’s rare they move my neck far enough to the right for me to see them. I only got three this year, which is fair enough, I suppose, considering I didn’t send any. I can remember them fairly well; my brain’s good at taking photos now. Small mercies. There’s one from my little brother Dex who about a year ago moved to Costa del Somewhere with his new wife. My mum moved out of the house in Swindon we grew up in, where she lived on her own since Dad died, twenty-nine years ago, to live with Dex and his new wife, Bridget, in Spain six months ago. I was amazed Dex had done something for Mum, for the family, but then I found out the minicab company he’s set up is in her name for tax breaks, and she has to be registered as living in the Costa del Somewhere. Their card is of a cartoon Santa in his sleigh landing on a roof. My mum would’ve chosen it; when Lizzie hovered the card in front of my face, I saw the writing is in her spidery hand.
All OK here. Dex’s business is going well and most shops sell English food so I can get my Branston and cheddar so I’m happy! No one told me it gets so cold down here over winter but it should pick up again soon. We’ll come and see you next time we’re over. Sorry we couldn’t come for Christmas, love, but things have been tight since the move. Hope you’re keeping your chin up! Love Mum, Dex and Bridget.
Dex and Mum visited me before they left for Spain. I didn’t see Mum properly; she didn’t like looking at me. I don’t blame her. Instead she sat in my chair and cried softly while Dex paced around me, wincing at the tubes that plunge into me, and said something about how we’re kinder to animals. He’s never been the tactful type.
My other card is of a wintery scene with a hare running across the snow. It was from my old mate John, another site manager I worked with for years, before the redundancies rolled in. He didn’t say much, as I recall. No one ever does when they think you’re as good as dead.
The last one – an ice-skating polar bear – was from my Luce. She knows, of course, that someone will read out my cards so she doesn’t say much either but she included a photo: me dressed as Santa Claus and a five-year-old Luce sitting on my knee with dark pigtails and a red tartan dress, in our new-build semi on Summerhill Close just outside Brighton. Moments before the photo, she’d pulled down my beard, and seeing me underneath, stammered, her eyes wide with the magical truth, ‘Daddy! You’re Santa Claus!’ It became a Christmas tradition for me to tell that story every year. Imagine if she could pull away my breathing tube, look beyond my putrefying body and see, really see, me here, now – ‘Daddy! You’re here!’ – but I shoo the thought away. It’ll mess with my head.
Celia, George’s wife, visited for most of Christmas Day. She’d been to church and brought along some of her church friends after the service for a visit. I get the impression church is Celia’s interest and George’s triple bypass and the pneumonia that has led to his incarceration here on 9B have provided Celia the perfect platform to really try and hammer Jesus into George’s re-upholstered heart. On Christmas Day, the prayers muttered around George were longer and said with even more gusto than usual, Celia’s soft West Indian accent floating above all the other voices for the ‘Amen!’ One of the members of the congregation started humming ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’ and by the time they’d got to ‘Glory to the newborn king!’ everyone else had joined in, and before I knew it there was an impromptu carol concert here on 9B and for a moment the ward felt as much like home as any house I’ve lived in.
At the end of the carol, I heard the curtain between George and me slide back, exposing me. Someone sucked their teeth. Celia stepped towards me and peered into my face. I’d only seen her properly once before, although I hear her weeping over George most days. I’ve only had a glimpse of George; he’s so covered in tubes he looks like a drawing a child tried to scribble out. I suppose he might think the same of me. I saw just a puff of white hair and his lower arm and hand, his skin must have been dark once, but now it’s almost chalky; so different to Celia’s which is the colour and silky texture of milky coffee. On Christmas Day, her eyes were alight either with the Holy Spirit or with the sweet sherry I smelt on her breath.
In a voice that seems to freshen the air, she said, ‘Merry Christmas, Mr Ashcroft, here’s a little something from us all at The Risen Lord church.’ She leant forward and whispered, ‘It’s a bible’, into my ear as if she’d just given me the elixir of life and everyone else on the ward would try and steal it if they knew. Still, it’s a happy surprise when someone thinks it’s worth whispering to me at all. She left the bible on my bedside unit. It must still be there now.
Lizzie opened my other present for me, which was a scarf from Luce. It prickled and scratched my skin like sackcloth all day. Although I’m sure the nurses felt sorry no one visited, I’m pleased Lucy didn’t come. I’d only make her feel low.