Cathy Glass - The Girl in the Mirror

Mandy looked at her father and Gran sitting beside the bed watching Grandpa. All that could be heard was the sound of Grandpa’s laboured breathing, the breaths deeper than normal breaths, with more time in between; exaggerated, she thought, as though each breath was a statement of living that shouldn’t be ignored or taken for granted.

‘How’s Jean?’ Gran asked her father quietly after a moment. ‘She didn’t come with you?’

‘No. She sends her love, and apologies. She’ll visit next time.’

‘Don’t worry, Ray,’ Gran said. ‘I understand. I’m glad you felt you could come. When Evelyn first suggested Dad and I came here to stay I was worried you wouldn’t visit. Evelyn said she would phone you and make it all right. It would have been dreadful if you hadn’t visited and been able to say goodbye to your father –’ She stopped as her voice broke.

Her father took her hand between his and patted it reassuringly. ‘It’s OK between Evelyn and me now, Mum. Honestly.’

Mandy looked at them. What Gran had just said – her worry that the past would stop her father from visiting – was the most she’d ever said in front of her about ‘the situation’. First her father had referred to it earlier, and now Gran. She wondered when someone was eventually going to tell her what had happened all those years before. At twenty-three she was able to deal with a skeleton or two in the family closet. She was beginning to resent her exclusion. She doubted that whatever had happened could be that horrendous, not in their family. They were squeaky clean. And Mandy now wondered, as she had before, if it had anything to do with her mother and Uncle John – Sarah’s father. As children Sarah and she had giggled that they seemed to like each very much and always kissed each other hello and goodbye on the mouth rather than the cheek.

Her thoughts were broken by a change in Grandpa’s breathing. His breaths had suddenly become shorter, and then the next didn’t come. She sat upright, senses alert. There was a short rasp followed by a dry cough. ‘He’s waking,’ Gran said.

Mandy rose and crossed to the bed where she stood next to her father. They looked at Grandpa and his eyes slowly opened. Turning his head towards them, he smiled. His eyes were moist from sleep and his skin was so pale and thin it was almost translucent. Mandy could see the effort it took for him to speak. ‘Hello,’ he said, his voice catching. ‘Good to see you. Can you get me some water, please?’

‘Of course, Dad,’ her father said, patting his shoulder.

‘It’s on the desk,’ Gran said to Mandy.

Mandy crossed to the desk where a silver tray with a water jug was at one end, away from the laptop, printer and phone. On the tray, beside the covered jug, were a glass and a plastic feeding beaker.

‘Use the beaker, love,’ Gran said. ‘He can’t manage a glass any more. It spills down his front.’

Mandy glanced over and saw the shock on her father’s face – that Grandpa could no longer drink from a glass but was reliant on what looked like an adult version of a toddler’s training cup. She took the lid off the beaker and poured the water, then snapped the lid on and carried it to the bed.

‘Evelyn usually gives it to him,’ Gran said anxiously. ‘I can’t lift his head.’

Mandy glanced at her father, wondering if he wanted to help Grandpa with the drink, but he shifted uncomfortably, unsure of what was required.

‘Grandpa, shall I hold the beaker?’ Mandy asked, leaning forward so she was in his line of vision.

He gave a small nod. Her father eased back his chair so she could get closer to the bed. Leaning over, she wriggled her left hand under the top pillow and slowly eased Grandpa forward and upright. His dry, lined lips closed around the funnel of the feeding beaker. Mandy gradually tilted it as he sucked and then swallowed. He took three sips and collapsed back, exhausted. Mandy lowered the pillow and moved to one side.

It took a moment for him to gather his strength again to speak. ‘I’m pleased you came,’ he said slowly, forming each word separately and with effort. ‘I’m not very good at present. Have you spoken to Evelyn and John?’

‘Yes, Dad,’ her father said. ‘I’ve seen Evelyn and everything is fine.’

Grandpa smiled, reassured, and allowed his eyes to slowly close. Mandy watched as his hand came from under the sheet, searching for his son’s hand. Her father took it in his and his mouth quivered as he fought back emotion. Men in her family rarely showed their feelings; it wasn’t considered the ‘manly’ thing to do. It was more than Mandy could bear to watch her father and Grandpa exposed and their emotion raw. Thank goodness we came, she thought. Thank goodness Dad was able to surrender his pride and take the opportunity to see his father at his sister’s house.

‘Is Jean with you?’ Grandpa asked as Gran had done, his eyes still closed.

‘No, Dad. She sends her love. She’ll come next time.’

‘If there is a next time. I’m very tired, Ray, and the pain is getting worse.’ It was said without self-pity, but Mandy saw her father flinch.

‘Are you in pain now?’ he asked, sitting forward and still holding his father’s hand.

Grandpa shook his head.

‘The nurse gave him something,’ Gran said. ‘But it wears off too quickly.’

‘You shouldn’t have to suffer in this day and age,’ her father said. ‘I’ll speak to Evelyn and we’ll have a word with the doctor.’

Grandpa nodded, but his eyes stayed closed. Then his breathing slowed and deepened as he drifted once more into sleep. Her father eased the bedclothes up round his neck with a tenderness Mandy found exceptionally touching. He stood. ‘I’m going to the bathroom,’ he said and Mandy knew it was to hide his emotion.

‘Will you tell Evelyn that Dad has taken some water?’ Gran called after him. ‘She’ll be pleased. It’s a good sign, isn’t it?’

He nodded without saying anything, unable to give Gran the false hope she desperately sought. Glancing pointedly at Mandy, he left the room. Mandy moved into the chair her father had vacated, next to Gran and beside the bed. She looked at Grandpa, his chest rising and falling beneath the sheet as his laboured breathing once more filled the air. Until now he’d always appeared much younger than his eighty-five years, but now his illness had aged him enormously. Mandy found it almost impossible to equate the upright, agile person that had been her grandpa a few weeks ago with the shell of a man before her now, who hadn’t even the strength to raise his head for a drink.

‘It is a good sign, isn’t it?’ Gran said again. ‘Water is good for you. You can do without food, but not water.’

Mandy gave the same non-committal nod her father had done, feeling the same reluctance to fuel what was obviously an unrealistic hope. She wondered if the seriousness of Grandpa’s condition had been explained to Gran. Had the doctors, Evelyn or John said that her husband wouldn’t be getting better; if so, had she accepted it?

‘So tell me about your painting,’ Gran suddenly said, her voice lightening as she changed the subject. ‘Have you finished that masterpiece yet? I want to be the first to see it.’

Mandy gave a small, dismissive laugh. ‘No, not yet, but I promise you’ll be the first to see it, if and when it happens.’

‘You mean when, not if,’ Gran said.

Somehow, in the strange intimacy of the sick room, with Grandpa’s laboured breathing as a backdrop, Mandy now found herself able to share her thoughts and frustrations with Gran in a way she couldn’t with her parents or even Adam. ‘You see, Gran,’ she began, ‘I think I’ve got the equivalent of writer’s block. It’s nearly eight months since I stopped work to paint and I haven’t painted anything. I might just as well give up the idea and return to work. When I had little time and I was under pressure, the ideas seemed to pour out. I painted at weekends and some evenings after work. Now I have all the time in the world I can’t do anything. I’ve lost confidence. I haven’t a single thought in my head.’