The Hand, part 2

          My husband appears at the end of the bed, a handsome man with his black hair combed straight back and his shades, like a bit player in The Sopranos. A vain man, not for him a white cane to signal his disability: an ebony cane with a silver handle in the shape of a sharp-­beaked griffin.

            His long fingers grope for the edge of the curtain and he pulls it across.

            We’re alone.                                               

           `I’ve not brought you grapes, Joy. They're difficult to digest.’ His voice is strong, mellow. I’m sure he’d have a beautiful singing voice, but I’ve never heard him sing, even in the shower.

            `The Grapes of Wrath,’ I say. This will annoy him; he does not care for books.

            `Just ordinary grapes. Seedless.’

   He purses his lips, so full and sharply rounded I wish they were mine. I’m a secret smoker, outside the house, but my lips betray me with their faint, radiating lines. Not that he can see them.

   `So, when are you coming home?’

            I do not answer and he walks along the edge of the bed, trailing his fingers over the bedclothes. And then he is standing over me. The supple fingers move up over the thick cotton of my gown and grasp my neck. Pressing tightly, he leans down and whispers in my ear.

            `I want you to understand exactly what it feels like to lose your sight. Lose everything, because your stupid cow of a wife left the chip pan on.’

            It’s true that I left it on. I was summoned and left the kitchen without hesitation. Did I know what I was doing? Did I know what it meant, when I smelled the smoke? These are questions I often ask myself. I certainly knew enough not to mix troubled oil and water. Knew my husband wouldn’t listen to my panicked screams.                                                               

          I wonder what he has in mind, but I’m not able to speak. The pain is intense. My right hand pulls ineffectually at his fingers. I’m making strange sounds, like a turkey. My left hand does nothing apparently helpful, but decides to rub my breast. As it does so, my elbow brushes against his groin.
            I wish I’d thought of that. He relaxes his grip immediately, distracted by what he cannot see.

            `What are you doing, you sick cow? I’m trying to have a serious conversation here, trying to make you understand.’

        I’m still not speaking, I’m bent over, coughing, drawing ragged breaths, rubbing my throat with my right hand.

            `Please,’ I manage, finally. `I just need the toilet. Please let me past.’

I fling back the bedclothes and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I’ve got strange, thick stockings on my legs, are they afraid I’ll develop deep vein thrombosis, lying in this bed? At least it means I don’t have to put my bare feet on the floor, which looks like it needs a more vigorous clean. The kind my husband likes me to do, down on my hands and knees, with a toothbrush.

            It does mean that these white legs don’t feel like mine, as I raise my knee. My husband moves towards me and I flick out my arched foot. I’ve often dreamt of being a Ninja, moving silently about the house in black silk. He lands on his knees at my feet and the cane clatters to the floor. I reach down and pick it up.                                                                 

       `Clumsy cow,’ he groans. `I’m the one who’s blind here.’ He places his hand on the edge of the bed to help himself upright. His shades have fallen off, exposing the shiny scar tissue around his eye sockets.

I toss the cane up high, feel the rush of air, as if the griffin swoops down.  I catch the end of the cane like I’m a gentleman in a film, trying to impress a lady and we will both shortly burst into song. Then I swing the head towards my husband’s face.

         `The grapes of wrath,’ I sing to cover his scream.  `He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword. His truth is marching on.’ I like a nice hymn.

        The curved beak smites him again.

`I’m in charge now.’ And then I sit down on the bed and wait. I can hear shoes squeaking on the lino beyond the curtain, coming closer.

         I’ve already switched the cane to my left hand. The consultant was right, it helps to have something to hold on to.

 

 

           

The Hand, First Half of a Short Story

The Hand                                                                                         

His fingers squeeze my throat. The nails I manicured for him press into my skin. My chest feels like something is trying to tunnel a way out, escape into the explosive air. Pinpricks of light.

            Then, abruptly, he lets go. He always knows when to stop, when bruises are too deep to flower. Coughing, I touch my neck with my right hand, rub the soft skin, like a lover,  remembering.

            I’m in bed in a long, gloomy room, thin curtains between the beds. Alone in my flimsy tent. A dream, then? But the pain in my throat is real enough.

            I open my mouth to call for help, but I can’t remember the name of those kind souls dressed in white. I reach for the red button. I can smell disinfectant, watery cabbage and my own sweat. Except it doesn’t smell like me, at all.

            I wait, I don’t know for how long. They’ve taken my watch. It’s early morning, perhaps, but I can’t see a window from my bed.

            A woman appears at the end of my bed. She smiles: a warm, generous smile, like she’s bringing me a bowl of fruits, red, yellow as the sun, green as a parrot. She’s holding a  wide band that she wants to put around my arm.

            `Hello, Joy. How are you feeling?’

            `How…?’ What’s the word I want?  `I can’t… remember.’

            `You’ve had a little stroke,’ she replies, strapping my arm with cool fingers. `I just need to take your blood pressure.’ She pumps up the band till my arm goes numb and fizzy at the same  time.

My left hand reaches out and tweaks her nipple.

 I didn’t want it to do that. I have a very clear sense of how long and warm the nipple was, pressing against her uniform, caught briefly between my finger and thumb.

`Stop that now! What do you think you’re doing?’

I’m a naughty child, the kind I never dared to be. What’s the word I want?

`Sorry!’ That’s it, I plucked it from the air like a ripe banana. `I…’ What was I going to say? It’s hard to know, because the slap comes swift and hard, pushing my cheek against my teeth. It doesn’t seem right. I make my eyes big and round, stroke my cheek with my right hand.

She’s frowning, shaking her head. And then it comes again, a big, hard slap, like you see mothers do sometimes in the supermarket, when they’ve completely lost it with a little girl who won’t be told. I’m staring at the woman as it happens. She’s crossed her arms over her substantial chest, shielding it from me, perhaps.

`You need to calm down,’ she tells me. `They’ll be doing the ward round soon. Let’s see what the doctor suggests. Here’s some water. Sip it slowly.’

I shake my head at her. I don’t think water is a good idea.

My left hand reaches out to take it and then suddenly the water is dripping from the twin peaks of her… The word has gone, swallowed as quickly as her patience.

                                        ***

There’s a man in a brown suit at the bottom of my bed. The suit looks expensive, but old; the cloth bags out over his bony knees. There’s a huddle of white-coated men and women around him. They all have clip boards.

My left hand tugs at the front of my hospital gown. I can't bear for them to see the initials he carved on my right breast, using his little pen knife with the mother of pearl handle.  The one his granddad gave him, when he was a boy. He likes to run his thumb over the ridged scars, when I get home from work. Just to check it’s still me, he says.

            There’s a fight going on: my right hand yanks the night gown up, my left hand pinches the skin on the back of my right hand. They say you can tell a woman’s age that way: how quickly the pinched skin rebounds. Is that the word?  I used to be good with words, before this happened. Words are my only escape. I read as I cook our meals and clean the house, hang up the washing, mist the orchids. I turn the pages so quietly he doesn’t know. It’s perhaps the only thing I get away with at home.

            `Good morning, Joy. How are we feeling?’ The voice scrapes along my spine.

How does this man suppose I’m feeling? I haven’t heard my name in a man’s mouth for a long time, it’s not the way my dad used to say it, an admonition, is that the word? Spare the rod and spoil the child, as he used to say. The children at school all call me `Miss’ and my husband uses other nouns- that aren’t proper.

`Try to wedge your left hand between your legs,’ the man says. I wrestle it under the bedclothes, press down hard with my right hand. I must look like a child in class who needs to go to the toilet.

`What’s wrong with me?’ I ask. My voice sounds different. I used to hate the sound of it, all timid and apologetic. But this voice is mellow, like I drink whisky deep into the night, smoke cigars, tapping the end into an ashtray on a mahogany stand.

            `You’re recovering from a mini stroke affecting your left side. As a result, you appear to be suffering from a rare neurological disorder. It’s called Alien Hand Syndrome.’

            `Oh no, that sounds like something out of, what’s his name? Pole. No, that’s not it.’ My left hand points at the man’s groin and I can feel myself blushing, heat shooting up my neck. Someone stifles a giggle.

          `Sorry. Poe, that’s who I meant. Is there a cure?’

            `I’m afraid not, though in time it’s possible your hand can be controlled by giving it a task, such as holding an object. Shall we try that now?’

            He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a thin gold pen. My husband has a pen like that from the signing of some deal or other, when he was an investment banker. Before the accident.

            The man walks along the side of the bed and his students make way for him soundlessly, like the parting of the Red Sea, a story I tell the children sometimes in RE. He reaches his hand towards me, holding the pen. I drag my left hand out from under the bedclothes with my right, hold it by the wrist and stretch it out towards him.

            Take it! I urge my left hand. Don’t embarrass me here!                                                                                            

           The man pushes the pen into the loose fist my hand has made. There’s something obscene about the gesture; it reminds me of adolescent boys.

            My left hand rearranges the pen into the correct position and my right removes the cap. No one has thought to provide any paper. I smile at the nearest student. It’s meant to be my best primary-school-teacher smile, but my mouth doesn’t want to co-operate. I’m hoping he’ll give me his clip-board, but he hugs it against his chest. Maybe I’m not supposed to be writing anything, just holding the pen.

            My left hand has other ideas. My arm swings forward so that I feel the loose flesh quiver slightly. And then I’m writing right to left across the front of my hospital gown, so that everyone can read it. I hope it’s washable ink.

            Help me! it says.

Second Letter to my Son, Bullied for being Adopted

It's hard, when people bully you about things you can't change. I was bullied at Primary School because my mum was a single parent. Girls used to ask me if she had lots of boyfriends. I remember, aged 7, advancing the argument that cavemen- since we were studying them in history- didn't get married, so why should we. It didn't make me many friends. Some girls were told not to play with me.

 

There was a time- before speech- when you were completely fearless, like Little Red Riding Hood, venturing alone into the dark wood. You could crawl faster than any baby I've ever known and your palms developed little calluses because you were always moving off in the park along the concrete paths. I had to run ahead and kick away the broken glass and plastic bags, scoop you up to avoid the dog shit. You loved our cat and tried to follow her out of the cat flap one day and got your head stuck. I had to hide my own fear, so you wouldn't become distressed. I put on a silly voice and pretended to be Fireman Sam, scraping my hands between your head and the opening so I could angle your head to draw you back inside. We had a good chuckle about that afterwards, but I was so relieved I almost cried.

You were fascinated with dad's shaving and he used to put a bit of foam on your face. He turned away for an instant and you'd grabbed the razor to scrape away the foam. There was blood everywhere and dad panicked and called me in. I pretended you were Father Christmas with your white beard that had turned red because I had red hair. I told you my granddad said I had red hair because they'd left me out in the rain as a baby and it had got rusty.  I'm sure you didn't understand a word of my story, but you forgot to cry.

When I gave you your bottle at night, you'd make little contented sighs and your eyelids would droop and you'd put your hand on mine to urge the bottle higher. I'd sing you songs because I thought no one else could hear, but sometimes they'd listen at the door, because I never sang. At Primary School the teacher told me I was to mime the words because I had the voice of a frog with a sore throat.

You loved slides, especially those giant ones in the park by the big library, racing down, climbing up them, being pushed on the swings, the roundabout, laughing and dizzy, staggering around as if drunk. Or the giant spider's web, but sometimes you'd climb so high, you'd get stuck and I'd have to conquer my vertigo and fetch you down. When you were older, I explained that I had vertigo because my granddad used to hold me over the side of bridges and pretend to drop me into the water.

 

So when the wolf comes, I will always try to be the woodsman and kill him for you- with words, because that's all I have at my disposal.

. 

 

 

Letter to My 12 Year Old Adopted Son

You've asked me for some early memories of you, so you can begin to make sense of who you are:

 

Before we first met you- aged one- we were warned that you always wanted to be in the one room everyone else wasn't and would crawl there at great speed. You also had a habit of climbing up bookcases, knocking books and DVDs off as you ventured ever higher, completely fearless. You had no interest in books, but loved animals.

 

The first afternoon we all came to meet you, I could see at once why you behaved like this. As you know, your foster parents had a severely disabled adopted daughter who took all of their care and attention. I watched you crawl over to your foster mother, who was holding the little girl, look up, wait in silence and finally realise you wouldn't be noticed. Then you took off in the opposite direction.

 

Your foster mother shared your evening routine with me: I watched you sit in the bath while she shampooed your hair and dumped a jug of cool water over your head. You blinked, but didn't protest. Your buggy was in your room. She would strap you into it and leave you alone while you gave yourself your bottle of milk. She said you had a sweet tooth and so she'd put Nesquik- either strawberry or banana flavour- on your Weetabix.

 

Your favourite toy was The Hungry Hippo that `ate' the coloured balls, if you rolled it over them. You liked to sit on that and push yourself around. When we drove from Birmingham to Bromley, there was no room in the car for it, so I had to have it on my lap all the way! You weren't interested in soft toys, just your blanket that had a house on it and has survived many a secret wash.

 

A few days after we arrived back home, you became very ill with a high temperature. I picked you up and held you on my lap for an hour, before I took you to the doctor's and I could see you were surprised. You slowly realised in that hour that you could get comfort from another person, when you were in pain. After that you didn't crawl into empty rooms any more. And you loved to sit on people's laps and couldn't get enough of the books we showed you.

 Photo courtesy of CS Lee

 

How Neuroscience can make you a Better Writer- Y. Douglas

I should have given the guy's first name in the title, but wondered whether Yellowlees would fit in. It's a great name and names, as I was forever being told throughout my therapy training, are vital to our identity and always significant.

Beware the man/woman whose name is the same as your father/mother/ex/childhood sweetheart/abusive teacher. It's the name with all its loving or tender, rejecting or scary, heart wrenching or guilty associations that is luring you in, not the person. And be even more wary of a new lover, if you discover your own name matches any of the significant people in their past. One of my ex clients startled me (somewhat of an understatement) by declaring via email that he was now living as a woman and had chosen to be called by my own name.

Amanda means `fit to be loved' and my pregnant, single mum picked it when she heard someone in an adjacent garden calling a child in for tea. I can see that it has a lilting cadence when called outside, in summer, but for everyday use (except when the interlocutor, almost invariably my mum, was angry), it's invariably shortened. Even though I've always ruled out Mandy as sounding too Barbie-like, over the years I've been called: Manda, Ami (by a German friend; it's also what they called Americans), Mand, Randa, Rands (but never Randy).

But back to Yellowlees Douglas and his wonderful book. Never start a sentence with but, I was always taught. Maybe I became a writer to be rebellious and break all the rules I'm too timid to break in real life.

I've only read the first 25 pages but this is what I've gleaned from a book that isn't as easy to read as it should be, given the subject matter, using the word `chordate' in the first sentence and the word `maven' twice on the second page! I feel he should perhaps have followed some of his own rules, but then maybe he's a rebel too:

* `Readers process sentences most easily when the verb closely follows the grammatical subject.'

*`If, God forbid, you slavishly adhere to the guideline of sentences optimally containing an average of twenty words, an entire document containing sentences of such uniform length will put your readers to sleep.'

*Here (when reading a sentence) the brain's tendency to anticipate the most common scenario dovetails rather neatly with the old chestnut beloved of professors in medical school: When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras.'

*`Researchers have established that readers assume that sentences that follow one another inevitably reflect events that follow one another, what linguists have dubbed the iconicity assumption.'

*`We're unable to see anything without having a schema that enables us to perceive and process what our eyes tell us.' He cites as an example, Virgil, the blind massage therapist in Oliver Sacks' `An Anthropologist on Mars'. When he regained his sight at 50, Virgil still relied on touch to decipher the `bewildering images he encountered.' He had no visual schema to make sense of the world.

What I want to know is whether Virgil managed to develop a new schema over time.

 

Musings on Beauty and Writers

     Confucius said: `Everything has beauty, but not everyone sees it.'

     When I went to the Festival of Writing last month, it was the first time I'd seen several hundred writers gathered together. Perhaps I should amend this to: several hundred, largely unpublished writers, with enough money to attend the event and perhaps this skewed the result, for I would definitely say that beauty was poorly represented- to my (myopic) eyes.

     There were notable exceptions, of course: stylish older women with exquisite jewellery, a young man who looked like Ian McShane in the 60's movie, `The Pleasure Girls' and could only afford to come from London for the day, but in the main we were a slightly unkempt (particularly the men), overweight, grizzled and scruffy lot or young and cadaverously sombre. Not so the agents, successful writers, editors and book doctors, who were largely beautifully elegant or elegantly beautiful, if female, and at the very least, charming and roguish, if male.

     I'm not sure whether this reflects the importance of beauty for success in many fields of life, particularly those in the public eye or whether many writers, who lead the life of the mind and create beauty rather than trade in it, aren't especially interested in the physical self. (`Ink on paper is as beautiful to me as flowers on the mountain- God composes, why shouldn't we?' Guillemets).

     Sadly, perhaps that stance works better for men than women, in all walks of life; men can afford to be admired and courted for their minds alone- Salman Rushdie, Stephen Fry and Howard Jacobson come to mind. For women, I fear, this remains more difficult. As Cindy Crawford said: `Even I don't wake up looking like Cindy Crawford.' So maybe what we female wannabe writing successes need to do is undergo a total restyling and rejuvenation programme. I'm sure that would help the confidence- and thus the perfect pitch- no end.

    

 

The Importance of Tips, New Short Story

           I'm sharing with you a short story I wrote for the recent Guardian competition. I didn't get anywhere, but as a few friends enjoyed it, here it is:

He spent his last £30 on a plate of oysters and a glass of champagne.  Plus the tip. Important not to forget, Emily always gave an extra note. It would have been her birthday today and this was exactly what she’d ordered last year, sitting at the same table, by the window. The young waitress with the mournful, spaniel eyes hadn’t wanted to serve him at first, until he pointed out the sign to her.

`How are you going to pay?’ she’d asked, smile like a curtain drawn back. `They’re very snooty in here. You’d be better...’

            He shook his head, indicated the little leather purse hanging around his neck. Her smile reminded him of Emily. He’d left the funeral crowd gathered around the graveside on the muddy grass. He’d wanted to jump down on top of the coffin and stay there, feel the dark clay pelt down on top of them both. It was Emily’s sister who’d restrained him.

            `I know, Sam, I know. How are we going to manage without her, eh?’

He wasn’t, couldn’t.  What is the point of me now? he thought and left, loping off among the skewed gravestones, out through the wrought iron gates and along the blaring road, over the roundabout and the lights, finding the river and his bearings.

            The waitress brought the bill and emptied out the purse for him. He pushed the final note towards her and she smiled again, rested her hand with its bitten fingernails on his back for a moment.           

            `Thank you. So much.’

            `No, thank you,’ he would have said, if he’d been able.

            He left the restaurant, ignoring all the people who stared at him and shook their heads,  waving their arms like the long reeds in the lake, where he used to go with Emily.

            It was night now; the light had been fading by the time he’d finally reached the restaurant. It hadn’t been possible to stay close to the river all the way and he’d had to climb towards rushing roads with roaring buses, the dank, mulchy smell still in his nostrils, a wet leaf sticking to his leg.

            Now he made his way up onto the bridge; at least no one paid him any attention here.  He found he was tired, head fuzzy from the champagne the waitress had poured so carefully over the shallow bowl of salty, shucked oysters. He wondered whether she could tell that oysters would never have been his own choice, that he was celebrating the short life of sweet Emily, who’d relied on him alone.

Every morning she’d started a poem on her laptop, sitting by the window, fingers curled around her coffee cup. Some days she finished the poem and they’d go to the park or along the High Street to the RSPCA charity shop or out to lunch with her mum and her sister. At night she’d recite the day’s poem, correcting it, while he dozed by the fire. The only time he envied cats; the way they could purr, with dignity. That was important too, like proper tips; Emily had written a poem about it.

        Which is why he’d made the decision. He’d seen the way they looked at him at the funeral, smelt their pity.  He’d wait here on the bridge till there were no more people crossing over and then he’d jump into the water. Emily had told him how fierce the current was, how easily you could get sucked under. She let him swim in the lake, but never in the river. She could be fierce sometimes: he thought of her voice, rich and sweet, like chocolate drops, changing; that hurt, like scalding water.

            He sat down by the railings, could smell the river, calling, welcoming him into her embrace.

            `Oh, it’s you!’

            It was the waitress. She paused beside him, leant her elbows on the rail and stared out over the water at the tall buildings and the sparkly lights.

            He tilted his head.

            She reached out a hand, laid it gently on the back of his neck.

            `Got fired! The customers complained. Said it was unhygienic. Told them to read the sign, access is allowed. For guide dogs.’

            She scratched him deep behind the ears and his tail flicked with joy.

            `Will you come home with me? After I got fired, the chef told me about Emily. My mum’s got AMD- macular degeneration. Won’t leave the house. You’re exactly who she needs.’

He stood up, shook his stiff limbs. Now he could wag his tail properly. He licked her hand. He had a purpose, dignity. And would always remember the importance of tips.