Cath Staincliffe - Blink of an Eye

‘The job market, Alex getting his job. And Naomi told me about her interview. For a teaching assistant?’

‘Yes.’ I stopped writing. If they’d only left five minutes earlier or later, if she had driven just that little bit slower, she might have a job now. Lily Vasey would still be alive. Alex and Naomi might be moving into a place like this.

‘And apps,’ Pip said, ‘for phones: what we’ve got, what we like. She was into Angry Birds.’

Not any more. I suspected she was not allowing herself to do anything that could be considered fun or pleasure.

‘Was she drinking?’

Pip’s face fell, ‘Some,’ she said. ‘White wine.’

My stomach turned over.

‘When was this? Can you remember?’

‘When we were dancing. So sometime between seven and eight? Jonty said you don’t know yet if she was over the limit?’

‘That’s right – they couldn’t breathalyze her and the blood test they do takes a few weeks for them to get the results. Did she seem drunk?’ I was apprehensive about the answer.

‘Bit merry, perhaps. Not pissed, though.’

Sober enough to drive? ‘Did you see them leave?’

‘No. I’d gone to the loo, and on the way back I got talking with Jonty.’

What Pip said echoed Suzanne’s account. They’d left at eight, so Naomi hadn’t had time to process anything she had been drinking. Not pissed, though. Was that enough? Oh God. Please, please, not pissed.

‘I Got You Babe’. I thought about it as I drove home, I’d played it non-stop, the UB40 and Chrissie Hynde version, when Suzanne was tiny. For the next twenty-one years, Phil and I were no longer just a couple, but a family. Then Suzanne left home, followed by Naomi. I’d been anxious about how I might feel, but I didn’t really suffer with empty nest syndrome when Naomi went off to uni. Yes, the house was quieter, there was an absence of interaction, a period of getting used to there only being the two of us, but my relief at her getting into university was the dominant feeling.

All the little chores felt easier too, the shopping and cooking, washing. Naomi, the girls between them, had generated a disproportionate amount of housework. With only Phil and me it was a doddle.

We began to rediscover some of the freedom we’d had before becoming parents. Spontaneity returned. We could decide to go and see a film or have a meal at the last minute, go to bed on Sunday afternoon if we fancied it, book a weekend away without having to worry.

I had more time too. I was still doing my shifts with the emergency duty team and of course I had my regular visits to Mum to fit in. But there was space in my week to take up new interests. I began to learn massage. I’d a vague idea that if social work got too grim, if I became burnt out, which I’d seen happen to many colleagues of mine, it would be useful to have some other skill. Something I could trade where I’d work for myself.

We didn’t get too complacent. Naomi came back at the end of each term and her summer breaks lasted several months. Nevertheless, it was a shock to the system when she and Alex first moved in with us.

They had stayed on in Newcastle for almost a full year after graduating. She had a part-time job in a video rental shop and he was working in a bar. Then the video shop closed and they couldn’t manage their rent any more.

They spoke to both Monica and then us, sounding us out. If they split their time between the houses, would we be happy for them to live with us until they found work? Well, we weren’t going to say no, though I did wonder whether it might be simpler all round to just base themselves in a single place instead of toing and froing all the time.

But once they’d come back, I saw that we would have struggled to accommodate all Alex’s possessions as well as Naomi’s. This way, most of his stuff was at Monica’s and most of Naomi’s at ours. They kept their old postal addresses and we gradually got used to the situation.

Naomi had a TV in her room and they made their own food. There were some niggles: their version of tidying the kitchen after having a meal was a long way from mine. Our fuel bills leapt up; they were in much more of the daytime and there were all the extra showers and loads of washing. But we rubbed along all right and we didn’t think it would be for ever.

Now for the first time I wondered whether Naomi would ever be able to build an independent life. If she did go to prison, securing work afterwards would be even harder. It was still unclear whether she’d have any long-term health issues as a result of her injuries. The biggest risk was infections; without a spleen, her immune system was compromised, and being in prison was a terrible place to be on that score.

I tried not to dwell on it, not to worry when it was all uncertain and unknown, but it was hard.

Naomi

Monica brings Alex to the hospital. She came in with him the first time, after he’d been discharged and was visiting. She was friendly and everything but sort of professional – I bet she’s like that when she’s dealing with her passengers. No real connection. Not that we ever did have much of one, anyway. She used to try and pass clothes on to me. I know she was being kind because Alex and I were really skint and Monica’s my size. But I like boho stuff, or skate/surf-type clothes. There are little stalls in town where you can get recycled clothes and I like some of those. She wears completely different things, smart and tailored. At first I just used to thank her and put the things in my drawers, but then one time, when she had a roll-neck mustard sweater and a tweed pencil skirt, I said, ‘Aw, thanks, but I’m not sure they’re really me. I could take them to the charity shop unless there’s anyone else you know who would like them.’ I was blushing like mad; I really didn’t want to upset her, but I had to find a way to stop her doing it. Because sooner or later she’d see I wasn’t wearing any of it.

‘If you really don’t want them…’ she said.

My cheeks were on fire. ‘No, sorry, thanks, but…’ I said in a rush.

‘I’ve a friend might like them,’ she said. And she smiled.

We left it at that. It felt awkward but I think it was better than never saying anything.

Alex is her only child and there’s probably no woman out there who’s good enough for him. But I bet she’d rather he found some clever lady lawyer to date instead of the no-hoper who totalled her son’s car, broke his bones and killed a little kid.

It’s getting so I dread his visits, because it’s like this massive reminder of the mess I am in, the terrible thing I’ve done, the thing we can’t talk about because what is there to say? And so we talk about stuff that means nothing. Each time he goes, there are angry red arcs on my palms where I’ve dug my nails in.

How long will it take for him to come to his senses, to go off me? To realize that I can’t be cheered up? That I’m hard work and could get harder? That I might be left with health problems as well as a criminal record? He won’t dump me, you see – he’s loyal. He feels sorry for me, he wants to show he forgives me for the accident, for the nightmare I set in motion. But I don’t want any of that. I haven’t earned it. I don’t want him visiting me in prison.

And if he won’t leave me, then I’ll have to leave him.

He’s talking about our friends Becky and Steve, who are planning a wedding and can’t agree on a venue. I cut across him, interrupt, no preamble or anything, straight to the bone. ‘I don’t think we should carry on.’

He’s confused, a half-smile flickering around his lips, and I put him straight, stop him trying to find a way to reinterpret my statement: ‘We should stop seeing each other.’