Douglas Kennedy - A Special Relationship

'Dinner ready?' I asked.

'Sally, what were you doing on the floor?'

'I don't know, really. Little fainting spell, I think'.

'But you looked like you were trying to claw your way out of the room'.

'That's what I get for drinking three glasses of champagne on an empty womb'.

I found this witticism hugely funny - and suddenly couldn't stop laughing. Once again, Tony just stared at me and said nothing.

'Oh, come on, Tony' I said. 'You've got to give me an A+ for bad taste'.

'Maybe you shouldn't drink anything more tonight'.

'With bloody Indian food? You must be joking'.

Only we weren't eating Chicken Tikka Masala (that was Tony's idea of a joke); rather, a wonderfully high carbohydrate Spaghetti alla Carbonara, with lots of freshly grated Parmesan cheese, and a big green salad, and a loaf of buttery garlic bread, and a decent bottle of Chianti Classico, all courtesy of Marks and Spencer.

It was pure comfort food. Days of hospital muck had left me suddenly ravenous. I ate like a hostage on his first full night of freedom. Only I didn't feel free of anything. Rather, the food was simply acting as a momentary diversion against...

What? I thought I'd rid myself of all the furies that had seized hold of me. But now... what the hell was that bad piece of surrealism in Jack's room? Maybe Tony was right: throwing back copious amounts of champagne after a long stretch of sobriety probably wreaked havoc with my equilibrium. And the sight of Jack's empty crib simply sent me over the edge.

'You seem to be nursing that glass of wine', Tony said.

'After that performance on the floor, I thought I'd better turn Mormon for the night. I'm sorry'.

He shrugged.

'Not to worry', he said in a flat tone of voice that wasn't reassuring.

'Thank you for this beautiful dinner', I said.

'Ready-made food isn't exactly beautiful'.

'Still, it was very thoughtful of you'.

Another of his shrugs. We fell silent. Then, 'I'm scared, Tony'.

'That's not surprising. You've been through a lot'.

'It's not just that. It's whether Jack will turn out...'

He cut me off.

'You heard what the nurse said yesterday. All vital signs are good. The MRI showed nothing. His brain waves are registering as normal. So, in fact, there's little to worry about'.

'But Dr Reynolds wasn't definitive about that...'

'Sally...'

'And I'm absolutely certain that Reynolds is trying to cushion us from the possibility that Jack has brain damage. I mean, he's a very straightforward, decent man, Reynolds - especially after that uppity prick, Hughes - but he's also like every damn doctor. As far as he's concerned, we're his problem... but only up until that point when Jack is discharged from the Mattingly. So, naturally, he'll keep as much from us as he can'.

'Please stop sounding like one of those batty conspiracy theorists...'

'This is not some fucking conspiracy theory, Tony. This is our son, who is now entering his second week in intensive care...'

'And whom everyone says will be just fine. Do I have to keep repeating that over and over? Have you lost all reason?'

'You're saying I'm crazy?'

'I'm saying, you're being irrational...'

'I have a right to be irrational. Because...'

But then, out of nowhere, I applied the emotional brakes. I was shouting. Suddenly, like somebody changing rooms, I found myself back in far more sensible surroundings, truly appalled (yet again) by such a temperamental overload, let alone the way it had just abruptly ended. This wasn't like anger's normal aftermath - where, once the exchange of words was over, I'd fume for a bit and then, when it was clear that Tony wasn't going to apologize (something he seemed genetically incapable of doing), I'd take it upon myself to sue for peace. No, this was... well, strange was the only word to describe it. Especially as the anger just fell off me. One moment, I was in full throttle fury. The next...

'I think I need to lie down'.

Tony gave me another of his long, nonplussed looks.

'Right', he finally said. 'Want me to help you back to bed?'

I haven't been in bloody bed since I've come back home, Tony... or hadn't you noticed?

'No, I'll manage', I said.

I got up, and left the kitchen, and went to the bedroom, and changed into my pyjamas, and fell into bed, and pulled the blankets up over my head, and waited for sleep to come.

But it didn't arrive. On the contrary, I was shockingly wide awake, despite a deep, painful fatigue. But my mind was in high-octane overdrive - ricocheting from thought-to-thought, worry-to-worry. Entire horrendous scenarios played themselves out in my head - the last of which involved Jack, aged three, curled up, ball-like in an armchair, unable to focus on me, or his general surroundings, or the world at large, while some hyper-rational, hyper-calm social worker said in a hyper-rational tone of voice, 'I really do think that you and your husband must consider some sort of "managed care" environment for your son. A place where his needs can be attended to twenty-four hours a day'.

But then, this catatonic child sprang up from the chair, and abruptly commenced the most extreme temper-tantrum imaginable - screaming non-syllabic sounds, upturning a side table, and knocking out of his way everything that strayed into his path as he charged across the living room, before falling into the bathroom and smashing the mirror with his fist. As I struggled to calm him down - and get a towel wrapped around his now haem-orrhaging hand - I caught brief sight of myself in the shattered glass: aged beyond recognition in the three short years since Jack's birth; the perma-crescent-moons beneath my eyes and the cleaved lines giving a clear indication of my so-called 'quality of life' since my poor brain-damaged boy had been born.

However, my moment of exhausted self-pity was quickly over - as he began to slam his head against the sink. And -

'Tony!'

No answer. But, then again, why would there be - as I was in bed and the door was shut. I glanced at the clock: 2.05. How did that happen? I hadn't been asleep, had I? I turned over. Tony wasn't next to me in bed. All the lights in the room were still on. Immediately I was out of bed and in the corridor. But before I headed downstairs to see if he was up, watching a late night movie, I saw the light on the still uncarpeted stairs leading up to his office.

The attic conversion had been finished while I had been in hospital, and Tony had evidently expended considerable effort on putting it together. His fitted bookshelves were now stacked with his extensive library. Another wall was filled with CDs. He had a small stereo system and a short-wave radio in easy reach of the large stylish desk that he chose with me at the Conran Shop. There was a new Dell computer centre-stage on the desk, and a new orthopaedic Herman Miller chair, upon which Tony was now sitting, staring intently at a word-filled screen.

'This is impressive', I said, looking around.

'Glad you like it'.

I wanted to mention something about how it might have been nice if he'd concentrated his energies on unpacking the more shared corners of the house... but thought it wise to hold my tongue. It had been getting me into enough trouble recently.

'What time is it?' he asked absently.

'Just a little after two'.

'Couldn't sleep?'

'Something like that. You too?'

'Been working since you went off to bed'.

'On what? Something for the paper?'

'The novel, actually'.

'Really?' I said, sounding pleased. Because Tony had been threatening to start his first foray into fiction when I met him in Cairo. At the time he intimated that if he ever got transferred back to dreaded, prosaic London, he was finally going to try to write the Graham Greeneesque novel that had been rattling around his head for the past few years.