But what had I expected? In truth, little, for even now when I look back, the madness of it all fills me with nothing other than my wrenching feeling of loss, a loss that came in waves, like a separation of self, of Amy, my daughter, of life, a separation from everything that counted.
I do wonder why I had ever agreed to go on holiday to that place to begin with. Why I didn’t just say no. I hadn’t wanted to go, that much I am sure of. Joe knew this, of course, but he insisted on the trip, over and over. Such a trifling thing really, the repeated monotones of another, but I just couldn’t listen to his harping on any more. It was easier to agree. He never told me his brother would be there. If he had, I would not have gone. That much I do know.
I hear sounds outside, the morning trolleys being pushed up and down corridors. Bridget will be in soon, and she will expect me to swallow my tablets, she will expect me to get up and wash and go down to Living Room 1, where we will all have breakfast and clear our plates. I will do all this, I always do. Bridget will say something like, ‘Beautiful day’ or ‘How are we today?’ or ‘Look at you still in bed, while I have half the day behind me.’ Bridget likes to talk about the day, she feels comfortable talking about it; to her, it is safe territory. To Bridget, the day is innocent, normal, new. To me, the day is the same as it was yesterday; it just surprises me that it keeps coming back.
Right on cue, she opens the door. She is quiet for a change. I want to ask her if the cat has caught her tongue, but I don’t. She might think I want to talk; no point encouraging her.
It doesn’t take her long. It never does.
‘Morning, Ellie, how are we today?’
‘Fine.’
She has a kind face, non-offensive. Her brown hair is the colour of mine, but soft, short and curly. The rest of her is much the same, ordinary, not fat, not tall. Bridget has green eyes, ‘cats’ eyes’ she calls them. She must be sixty. She wears regular clothes, nothing too fancy. Bridget has been a cleaner all her adult life. Her children are well grown up now. I know this because she talks about them endlessly. She tells me about each one of them with pride. They’ve all ‘flown the nest’ as she puts it, looking upwards to some imaginary sky as if by chance she might see them somewhere up there, for when she talks about them ‘flying the nest’, it’s as if they have all joined the imaginary birds within it. She still has her husband. She calls him ‘himself’. ‘Himself was watching the football yesterday’, ‘Himself cut the grass’, ‘Himself doesn’t want to get out of his armchair’, ‘Himself knows everything.’
Bridget is like the sun, she keeps coming back, even though she makes no difference.
‘Nice bit of sunshine.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Makes a change, cheers you up.’
‘Do you think?’
She’s not impressed. Bridget doesn’t like it when she’s challenged, she likes to keep things simple.
‘The weather man predicted rain, heard him on the telly last night, should have known. They always get it wrong.’
She looks out the window. ‘A great day for drying.’
It is not a comment she expects an answer to. I sit up in bed. She hands me my tablets and I swallow them with a glass of water. It tastes of metal. Of course, most cleaners would not be trusted to give out medication, but with Bridget, they all turn a blind eye. In truth, she is probably more familiar with the routine than a lot of the nurses. She’s only allowed to do this with the long-term patients, the ones on medications that are as predictable as the hours in the day.
‘Believe you’ve met the new doctor.’
‘Indeed.’
‘He’s supposed to be very experienced, worked all over the world, I understand. But, then, you can tell that about him, he looks like a man of the world.’
‘Are all men not of this world?’
‘Now, Ellie, you know what I mean. Don’t go taking advantage of me being less educated than you.’
Again she says this without expecting a response. We have over time developed an acceptable banter between us. She knows I don’t mind her talking about her grown-up children or ‘himself’, and she turns a blind eye to my indifference. For Bridget, her family give her an identity, something that comforts her, protects her. When she talks about them, part of her lights up, although it’s different when she talks about ‘himself’. When she talks about ‘himself’, it’s as if she is talking about a broken-down washing machine.