Open Your Eyes Page 10

  He also knew that the dreams he’d had while in the medically induced coma – about visiting Alaska, being awestruck by the mountains, the snowscapes, the migrating whales – were just that. Dreams. But they’d made such an impression on him that he was now planning to emigrate to Alaska the minute he got out of the rehab unit. Gloria thought the whole Alaska thing stemmed from Leon’s head being packed in ice to lower the intracranial pressure, but Dr Letts wouldn’t commit.

  ‘If he can only remember parts of his life from before the attack,’ I said to Dr Letts, when she discussed Leon’s progress, ‘and you’re saying that the post-traumatic phase is over, then when does the rest of his memory return?’

  ‘Possibly never,’ she said bluntly.

  She went on to explain that he would probably always suffer from short-term memory problems and we would need to find ways of dealing with this. The position of the nails in Leon’s brain might even have caused long-term memory issues.

  ‘So, he might never remember being married to me?’ I said.

  Dr Letts had no answer.

  And if that wasn’t enough, now we had another problem: Leon had begun to have episodes of violent behaviour.

  If we could have predicted the triggers for these, then perhaps they would have been easier to deal with. As it was, he could lash out when he was tired, when he was frustrated, when he was quietly sitting, seemingly lost in his own thoughts, and someone made the mistake of disturbing him.

  I’d witnessed it only once since his brain injury, when he struck a porter, and so when it happened to me I was completely unprepared. Leon had never shown violence of any kind during our relationship, so when he raised his hand to me, I was mortified. I’d misjudged what I thought was a happy mood, absently gone to dust toast crumbs from his chest, and he’d grabbed my wrist. He’d held me fast, refusing to let go, because he knew I’d tried to kill him, he said. And when he still wouldn’t let go, and my skin was beginning to burn, and he warned me – the whites of his eyes bulging, his voice low and menacing – that he could kill me so easily now if he wanted to, I’d had the first flash of awakening that I might not be able to see this through.

  I might not be able to keep doing this, I’d realized, and that thought shocked me.

  ‘Why don’t you have a couple of days off?’ Leon’s sister suggested now.

  Juliana was over from Manchester with her son Eden. Eden’s dad had never been in the picture, so pretty much wherever Juliana went, Eden went too. Juliana had taken a week’s holiday from work to spend some time with her brother; she missed him, she said, and she wanted to be with him. But I knew she was secretly hoping that she might be the one to unlock Leon’s mind. I think we were all secretly hoping that.

  ‘You look bloody awful,’ she said to me. We were in the Ladies’ washing our hands. ‘And my mother says you’re barely eating. She says she never sees you eat. Says you’re living on fresh air.’

  ‘I’ve not had much of an appetite,’ I admitted.

  ‘So, go. Stay away from here for a while. Go and see friends. Go shopping. Get drunk. Do normality for a bit, Jane. My brother will still be here when you return. You don’t get a badge for running yourself into the ground and being no use to the kids in the process.’

  ‘But what if he needs me?’

  ‘He doesn’t know you.’ She saw how that wounded me. ‘Sorry to be blunt,’ she said, ‘but what difference does it make whether you’re here or not?’

  ‘It makes a difference to me,’ I said quietly.

  Juliana regarded me levelly. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I get it. You can’t let yourself off the hook. You can’t not come here because that would be abandonment, and what sort of wife would do that? But only you see it that way, Jane; we all know how challenging Leon is. The nursing staff are worried about you. They—’

  ‘What have they been saying?’

  ‘Don’t get all defensive. They’ve just pointed out the obvious. That you’re knackered. That you’re rail-thin. That—’

  ‘They said that?’

  ‘They said it in a nice way,’ explained Juliana. ‘But so as to make sure we got the message.’

  Usually, it annoyed me when women said other women were too thin. ‘She’s soooo thin,’ they’d say, as if they were being complimentary. But the subtext was clear: she’s not coping; she’s stressed out with her life; she’s unhappy in her marriage … Something is going on here!

  But I was stressed out. Something was going on. And so today, I didn’t mind so much that people had noticed. I felt kind of relieved. Perhaps someone else did need to take the reins even if it was for just a few days.

  ‘Look,’ Juliana said, ‘Gina coming here was a good idea. It took real guts to call her up and make that happen. You did that for Leon, Jane, to help him remember. Bravo. I couldn’t have done that. But this shit with the police accusing you means you’re emotionally overwrought and we’re concerned. Your feelings take a battering every time Leon looks at you and doesn’t know who you are. A person can only take that day in day out for so long before getting sick themselves.’

  ‘OK, but—’

  ‘Use me,’ she said. ‘I’m here for a week. I’m planning on banning my mother for a couple of days too if that makes you feel any better. But that’s because she’s doing Leon’s head in and he needs a break from her as much as anything. And besides, Eden’s here,’ she added, trying to sway me. ‘He seems to get a buzz out of Leon’s craziness, Christ knows why. And Leon’s been responding to him well.’

  This was true. Leon had been responding well to Eden.

  Whereas Leon scowled and protested with the rest of us, with Eden he held it in. I hesitate to say he was normal around his nephew, because he was a long way from that, but there were signs of the old Leon that just weren’t present when Eden wasn’t around.

  Everyone noticed it. The nursing staff commented on it to Gloria, which seemed to half offend, half make her proud. She was distraught, naturally, that her attendance seemed to have a minimal effect on Leon’s progress, but if anyone was going to make a difference to Leon, then it might as well be her grandson.

  So I agreed. I would take a few days away from the rehab unit.

  As instructed by Juliana, I would rest, relax, see friends, eat.

  Perhaps I might even get drunk.

  13

  ‘How about we do it here instead?’ Erica suggested.

  It was Saturday, 11 a.m., and I was still in my dressing gown. I’d not visited the unit and my mother was sitting opposite, vaping, flicking through the Next Directory. Erica was making herself useful, as usual, by washing up the dirty dishes in the sink. Upon seeing my car parked outside the house, Erica had come scuttling across to check all was well. I’d filled her in on Juliana’s plan to return me to the land of the living, and Erica, liking nothing better than to plan a social gathering, was coming up with different suggestions.

  I’d said no to the idea of attending a party at Erica and Charlie’s house. I’d given the excuse of not wanting to be bothered with babysitters, which was true in part, but the real reason was because I couldn’t face a crowd. I was a long way from being able to converse normally when Leon was receiving round-the-clock care and would be for the foreseeable future. ‘Restaurant?’ Erica suggested next, before catching herself. ‘Oh, hang on, that still leaves the babysitting issue. How about we do it here instead?’

  When she saw that I was dubious about the idea she added, ‘I’ll cook! In fact I’ll do everything! I’ll enjoy it. It’ll give me something to do. We’ll do it tomorrow night and you can invite whoever you please. Perhaps only those closest to you though, Jane, those that you don’t mind crying in front of … if that’s what’s worrying you. Does that sound doable? I think it does. I think it would be good for you to be around the people who love you and Leon but without any pressure. What do you say?’

  What could I say?

  I had to say yes.

  My mother waved her e-cigarette ar
ound, saying, ‘Don’t worry about me. I don’t need an invite. I’ve got my own stuff going on.’

  She had begun dating a tax inspector named Cliff. Which was odd because he was not her type at all. My mother liked showmen. Charmers with commanding voices who told her she looked twenty years younger than she was, and that she still had the body of a dancer.

  ‘Take yourself off shopping to Liverpool ONE,’ she said. ‘I’ll look after the kids. You’ll feel better when you’ve bought yourself a new dress. I know I always do.’

  So I did. I washed my hair, put on a clean pair of jeans, and headed out. It was a bright, windy day and the salty tang of the Mersey was carried on the air. By the time I got to the shops the place was busy with bodies. Too busy for my liking, but almost straight away I found two outfits that would be suitable for a dinner party, which I thought Leon would like. He liked me to show a bit of leg – this was in spite of his comment about my awful milky-white skin at the hospital – and I’d selected each of the outfits with him in mind. He’d be looking at me in them one day, I hoped.

  The sales assistant removed the security tag from the red dress and said, ‘I’ve got this one in the black and I get loads of compliments. Is it for a special occasion?’

  ‘Kind of,’ I mumbled.

  The assistant was at least eighteen years my junior and I now wondered if I was making an impulse mutton-purchase that I’d later regret. ‘Do you think it’s too young for me?’ I asked, and she stopped what she was doing and looked directly at me.

  ‘How old are you? Forty?’

  ‘Thirty-eight.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I had a woman in here last week bought this dress and she was sixty-two. An’, honest to God, she looked really good in it. She didn’t look like a dog’s dinner or nothin’.’

  ‘OK, then,’ and I handed her my card.

  After a moment she said, ‘That’s been declined. You got another?’

  ‘It’s what?’

  ‘Declined. If you’ve got another, I can try that.’

  ‘No, wait, hang on … wait,’ I stammered. ‘Can you try it again?’

  She gave a tight smile and said, ‘I can try it,’ but I knew by her tone and expression that if a card was refused once, it was really not going to be accepted a second time.

  ‘Same,’ she said, handing it back. ‘Do you want me to try another?’

  ‘I don’t have another.’

  For a moment I stood there helpless, waiting, looking at the sales assistant as if she might know what to do. Embarrassed, she looked away.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘This has never happened to me before. I know for a fact there’s money in there.’ I stopped short of telling her that there was always money in the account and instead I apologized, saying, ‘I don’t know what’s gone wrong here. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Phone your bank,’ she said. ‘Sometimes they put a stop on your card just because you’re not buying the kinds of stuff you usually buy. My mum tried to book a cruise in June, she’d seen it online, gone to pay, and the bank blocked it. She lost out on the entire holiday, if you can believe it. Call your bank and have it out with them. I would.’

  ‘That account is empty, Mrs Campbell.’

  The information smacked me hard in the face.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The account is empty. Is there anything else I can assist you with today, Mrs Campbell?’

  ‘It can’t be empty.’

  ‘The balance of your account, Mrs Campbell, is minus one hundred and eighty-eight pounds, fifteen pence … Is there anything else I can assist you with today?’

  ‘That’s impossible,’ I said. ‘It’s gone into the overdraft. I never use the overdraft. How can it be—’

  ‘Can I ask for you to speak a little more slowly please, Mrs Campbell?’

  Usually I didn’t mind talking to India. I got it. I understood this was the way the world was now and there was no use fighting market forces. If the banks needed to outsource their labour to another continent, another time zone, requesting their employees work throughout the night to answer our banking queries, then OK. I could live with it. But today, today I needed someone who understood. I needed a friendly regional accent, someone who would say, ‘Let’s see what the problem is, love.’

  I took a steadying breath. I was outside Harvey Nichols. Women were exiting laden with bags and giddy expressions. I let my forehead rest on the cool glass.

  There was no money.

  Where was all the money?

  My heart was striking my ribcage in a series of unsteady beats. I swallowed.

  ‘I don’t see how the account is empty,’ I said, slowly, as the operator had requested. ‘Has the standing order payment not gone in? Is there a problem with the standing order payment?’

  ‘Which standing order payment are you referring to, Mrs Campbell? I will need clarification of the amount and—’

  ‘From my husband’s account.’

  ‘His full name, please.’

  ‘Leon Campbell.’

  ‘There has been no deposit from that account since July, Mrs Campbell.’

  ‘Why not?’

  But I could guess what was coming next.

  ‘We would need to speak to your husband, Mrs Campbell, to find out that information. He would need to call back. If he is with you now he can do this right away. It will only take a couple of minutes for you to have your answer.’

  ‘My husband is in hospital,’ I said weakly. ‘He’s been in a coma.’

  ‘That is very bad news indeed.’

  ‘How do I access his account? I have no money. How do I find out what the problem is?’

  ‘Well, Mr Campbell himself can call this number, and go through the security checks. He can call any time to speak to one of my colleagues and then we’ll be able to assist him fully when—’

  ‘Never mind.’

  I called Juliana. I asked her to find out if Leon could by chance remember his online banking security number. And without hesitation he said he most certainly could. He was annoyed actually that I’d doubted his recall abilities.

  He then proceeded to recite our old telephone number.

  So I headed straight to the branch on Lord Street. The chances of Leon eventually remembering his security number, and the answers to all those silly questions, were less than slim. Name of your best friend’s first pet? A favourite meal? The car you learned to drive in? So the branch was my only option. I’d explain my problem face to face. The last time I’d been here was to arrange the mortgage. Shit. The mortgage. We’d have missed a payment. And the gas, electric and the phone. And—

  ‘We’d need proof that you have power of attorney,’ the clerk said.

  I’d had to wait an hour to see someone.

  ‘You’re kidding,’ I said.

  She wasn’t.

  ‘Can’t you just look at his account,’ I said, ‘and tell me if it has funds in it? Then I’d know if this is a technical issue or …’ I paused. ‘… if it’s something more complicated that I need to deal with.’

  Leon’s publisher paid his earnings directly to his agent. His agent then removed his 15 per cent and sent the money to Leon’s business account, from which Leon removed a sum each month and placed it into our joint account.

  ‘I understand your plight, Mrs Campbell, and I know it seems unfair, but these are the rules of the Data Protection Act. If we’re seen to go against that we could be prosecuted.’

  ‘So, what do I do?’

  ‘You need to speak to a solicitor.’

  ‘But it’s Saturday. No one will be at work until Monday. And I have no money. And no access to any money. I have children to look after. What am I supposed to do?’

  The clerk shrugged as though she was all out of ideas.

  14

  We were never exactly awash with money. Even though Leon now earned a substantial wage, we lived as most people did, and cut our cloth accordingly. Each month after the mortgage payment was
deducted, my car payment, and all the other sundry payments necessary to keep the show on the road, there might be a bit left over for emergencies, though we didn’t have a proper savings pot to speak of. But there should have been something in the account. We’d never been in the red.

  Regardless of this alarming development, I decided to still go ahead with the dinner party. These were our friends, after all. I needed them, needed their advice. And there would only be five of us.

  Erica covered everything, as she said she would. She didn’t even use my kitchen. She prepared the three courses over at her place and commanded her husband Charlie to carry it across the street in batches. Leon’s writer friend Frankie Ridonikis and his wife Oona would be bringing the wine. Both couples were eager to see me away from the hospital, they said. It went without saying that they’d all done their bit, visiting Leon fairly regularly, but I knew Leon’s state of mind was beginning to wear on them, as they, too, found conversation difficult with someone they no longer had a lot in common with.

  Naturally none of this was voiced, but I could sense by their eagerness to attend the dinner, by their enthusiasm to show me a good night away from the rehab unit, that they were finding Leon’s situation draining.

  Oona made a big fuss of the children, bringing marshmallows and a Pixar DVD that she hoped they’d not yet seen. And Frankie, as was customary for him, flat out ignored the kids, instead making a beeline for me, thrusting one of the bottles of wine my way, a Beaune. ‘You tried this yet? No …? Excellent. Can’t wait to hear what you think.’

  Frankie got real pleasure from introducing something new, but was never at all pompous about it. You know the way it can get some people’s backs up when you tell them you already have a cellar full of whatever it is that they’re peddling as their latest discovery? Never Frankie. His eyes would come alive and he’d say, conspiratorially, ‘You’ve found this one too? How absolutely wonderful! We’re both drawn to the very best.’

  Leon met Frankie when they did an MA in creative writing together at Liverpool University and they had remained close ever since. They were both published within two years of finishing the course, a huge rarity, and were often invited back to be lauded, to talk to students, and to give the benefit of their experience. Leon considered it a duty to pass on knowledge. He said other writers had been incredibly generous with their time and wisdom when he was studying the craft, and it was part of a writer’s responsibility to mentor those who wanted it.