The Woman Who Stole My Life Page 11

  Yes, but …

  Ryan didn’t seem to understand that Mannix had introduced the blinking system specially for me.

  ‘Guillain-Barré is phenomenally rare,’ Mannix said. ‘In all my time as a neurologist I’ve never encountered it. There are no protocols in any hospital in this country to treat it.’

  ‘This is bullshit!’ Ryan said.

  ‘However, I’ve put feelers out to experts in the US and –’

  ‘She’s been here for a month and she hasn’t got any better!’

  I was desperately trying to catch Ryan’s eye. Stop shouting, I wanted to say. He’s helping me. He’s stayed late, just so he could explain it to you.

  ‘Who the hell are you, anyway?’ Ryan demanded.

  ‘Like I said, I’m Stella’s neurologist.’

  ‘What’s happened to Dr Montgomery?’

  ‘Dr Montgomery is still Stella’s consultant. I’m her neurologist. We play different roles. He has overall responsibility for Stella’s care.’

  ‘Two lots of fees instead of just one?’

  I couldn’t bear to think of how much I must be costing.

  ‘How come you’ve taken a month to show up?’

  ‘Stella should have been put under the care of a neurologist the first night she came in, but someone somewhere missed it. An administrative cock-up. I’m sorry the system has let you and Stella down.’

  ‘Ah, for fu—’

  It was clear that Ryan was at the end of his rope. He’d come straight to the hospital from the airport after his pitch in the Isle of Man, trundling his cheap new wheely case; he looked wrung out and exhausted and miserable beyond belief.

  ‘Stella …’ he said. ‘I can’t do this tonight. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  He gave Mannix Taylor one final glare, and left.

  As his footsteps echoed away Mannix Taylor and I looked at each other.

  No good deed goes unpunished.

  He gave a little laugh as if he’d understood what I was thinking – maybe he had, maybe he hadn’t – then swivelled on his heel and he too was gone.

  Dr Montgomery was late.

  After Ryan and Mannix Taylor had clashed, Ryan had demanded a progress report.

  ‘I want answers,’ Ryan had told me, taut with fury. ‘I’m sick of watching you rotting in this bed, not getting any better. And I want to know who this Mannix Taylor is.’

  Ryan had brought Karen along for the meeting; they were standing with Mannix Taylor in an awkward triangle just outside my cubicle and, from the body language, I could tell that Karen didn’t like Mannix Taylor any more than Ryan did.

  The problem was that Ryan and Karen were angry – angry that I was sick and angry that I wasn’t getting better – and their anger had to have a focus.

  Note to self, I thought: if someone was angry with me, I shouldn’t take it personally, because who knows what’s going on for them?

  ‘How much longer is this Dr Montgomery going to be?’ Karen snapped at Mannix Taylor. ‘I’ve a job to get to.’

  ‘So have I.’

  Wrong thing to say. Karen bristled and I watched, helpless, from my bed.

  Suddenly all the energy in the ward changed – Dr Montgomery had arrived. Here he came, dapper and smiley, distributing bonhomie on all sides, trailing a retinue of junior doctors. ‘Good morning, Dr Montgomery,’ the nurses called. ‘Good morning!’

  Dr Montgomery’s arrival triggered an outbreak of hand-shaking, so much so that Ryan and Karen accidentally shook hands with each other.

  No one shook my hand. No one even looked at me.

  ‘Dr Montgomery,’ Ryan said. ‘You told me to be patient. I’ve been patient. But I – we – Stella’s family, need an honest update on how she’s doing.’

  ‘Of course you do, of course you do! Well, my colleague here, Dr Taylor, is the expert on neurology. Maybe, Mannix, you’d care to share some of your –’ sarcastic inflection – ‘wisdom.’

  ‘To put it as simply as possible,’ Mannix Taylor said, ‘Guillain-Barré attacks the myelin sheaths on the nerves. They need to grow back before movement returns to the limbs. However –’

  Montgomery interrupted smoothly, ‘You heard the man: the myelin sheaths on Sheila’s nerves need to grow back before movement returns to her limbs.’

  ‘The patient’s name is Stella,’ Mannix Taylor said. Dr Montgomery didn’t even look at him, just kept his benevolent gaze fixed on Ryan’s anxious face.

  ‘But how long will that take?’ Ryan asked. ‘She hasn’t changed since the first night she came in. Can you give us some estimate of when she can come home?’

  ‘I know you must be missing her and the home-cooking,’ Dr Montgomery said. ‘And I know you know we’re all breaking our barneys to get Sheila well as soon as possible. The nurses here on the ward are the best girls in the world.’

  Mannix Taylor looked pointedly at the nurses’ station, where two of the nurses were men.

  ‘Could you give us some sort of timeline?’ Ryan asked. ‘Anything at all? A week?’

  ‘Ah, would you catch a grip of yourself.’ Montgomery gestured to me, prone in the bed. ‘Shur, look at the cut of her.’

  ‘How about a month?’

  ‘It could be,’ Montgomery said. ‘Indeed it could. Maybe even sooner.’

  Really?

  Mannix Taylor looked aghast. ‘Respectfully, if I may –’

  Montgomery cut across him, steel in his voice. ‘However, Sheila’s health is our priority and we can’t discharge her until she’s fully well. You’re an educated man, Mr Sweeney, you know that! So if she’s not on her way home a month from today, you’re not to be ringing my secretary shouting at her, like you did this morning! Poor Gertie isn’t able for it! She’s a great oul’ warhorse but she’s old-school. Hahaha!’

  ‘But a month would be still in the ballpark?’ Ryan persisted.

  ‘Without a doubt. Did you take up the fly-fishing?’

  ‘… I didn’t.’

  ‘You should. How about you?’ Dr Montgomery looked at Karen with open admiration. ‘Do you play golf at all?’

  ‘… Um, no.’

  ‘You should. Come down to the clubhouse sometime. A lovely girl like you, you’d put a smile on a few faces.’

  Montgomery looked at his watch, gave a little start, said, ‘Bless us and save us!’ then began distributing business cards, one to Ryan, one to Karen and one to goofy Dr de Groot, which he promptly retrieved. ‘Gimme that back, you little scut! I don’t want you ringing me at home – amn’t I sick of the sight of you. Me and my shadow, hahaha!’

  To Ryan and Karen, he said, ‘My home number is on there. Call me. Day or night. Day or night. Mrs Montgomery is well used to it; she’s dead to the world after she takes her tablets, hahaha! Any worries at all, just pick up the phone. Now, I’m afraid I must love ye and leave ye, I’ve an appointment.’

  ‘How’s your handicap?’ Mannix Taylor asked, pointedly.

  Dr Montgomery gave him a look of benign dislike. ‘D’you know something? You should join us on the fairway sometime, Mannix, it might do you good.’ He looked around at his audience. ‘Very serious chap, our Dr Taylor.’ Everyone laughed obediently.

  ‘What’s that my grandson says?’ Montgomery asked. ‘“Why don’t you lighten up!”’ And everyone laughed again.

  ‘It’s been a pleasure.’ Dr Montgomery beamed. ‘We must do it again soon.’ Briskly, he shook hands with everyone except Mannix. And me, of course. He declared, ‘Keep her going there, Patsy!’ And off he went, his posse scampering to keep up with him.

  ‘He was gas,’ Karen said, watching him go.

  Really? Karen was the most canny person I’d ever met – how could she have fallen for Dr Montgomery’s shtick? He had flimflammed everyone when it was clear – to me anyway – that he knew nothing about my condition. And my blood ran cold wondering how much he’d charged for those precious few minutes of face-time.

  With the departure of Dr Montgomery, it was like a
balloon had burst. All the fun had gone out of things. Then Mannix Taylor started to speak and everything darkened further.

  ‘Look,’ he said to Ryan and Karen, ‘I know Dr Montgomery said Stella might be home in a month, but she won’t.’

  Ryan narrowed his eyes. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘There’s no way that –’

  ‘Dr Montgomery got a double first from Trinity,’ Ryan said. ‘He’s been a senior consultant in this hospital for over fifteen years. Are you saying you know more than your boss?’

  ‘I’m a neurologist. I specialize in disorders of the central nervous system.’

  ‘You told me you knew nothing about Guillain-Barré,’ Ryan said.

  ‘I said I’d never encountered it in a clinical setting. But I’ve made contact with specialists in the United States and, from what I’m learning, it’s better if you manage your expectations.’

  ‘So she won’t be home in a month?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How can you say that in front of her?’ Karen said, hotly. ‘How can you be so cruel?’

  ‘I’m not intending to be cruel –’

  ‘So when will she be home?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘It’s impossible to say.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ Ryan said, with wild, angry sarcasm. ‘Just fantastic.’

  Karen took his arm in an attempt to calm him. ‘Ryan, listen to me,’ she said. ‘We’ll go. Let’s leave it for the moment.’

  They each gave me a reluctant kiss on the forehead, then they left and the only person remaining at my bedside was Mannix Taylor.

  ‘Dr Montgomery did get a double first from Trinity,’ he said. Then he added, ‘About a thousand years ago.’

  To my great surprise, in my head, I giggled.

  ‘And he has been a senior consultant here for donkey’s years. It’s all true what your husband says.’

  But it didn’t make him a good doctor.

  ‘“Much learning does not teach understanding,”’ Mannix said. ‘I think it was Socrates who said that.’

  I fluttered my eyelids; it was the signal we’d agreed on for when I wanted to speak. He reached for his pen and paper and I spelled out, ‘HERACLITUS.’

  ‘Heraclitus?’ Mannix Taylor was puzzled. ‘What’s a heraclitus?’ Suddenly he began to laugh. ‘Heraclitus! It was Heraclitus who said, “Much learning does not teach understanding.” Not Socrates. You are a card, Stella Sweeney. Or may I call you Sheila? How do you know about Greek philosophers and you only a humble hairdresser?’

  ‘BEAU –’

  ‘Beautician. I know. It was a joke.’

  Jokes are meant to be funny.

  ‘Yeah,’ he sighed. ‘Maybe I should give up on the jokes. I don’t seem to have the knack of them.’

  That night, in the long empty hours of my ‘excellent’ sleep, I thought about Mannix Taylor: he was quite a peculiar man. The way he’d slagged off Dr Montgomery was shockingly unprofessional, even if he was right.

  I wondered about Mannix Taylor’s life outside the hospital. He wore a wedding ring – of course he did – and he had nice teeth and he worked in a well-paid, respected profession. He would have a perfect wife.

  Unless he was gay? But I really wasn’t feeling that. No, he definitely had a wife.

  I wondered if he was as moody at home as he was at work. I was guessing he wasn’t. I’d say his wife took no nonsense from him. ‘Leave your bad stuff at work,’ I could hear her saying. ‘Don’t bring it home.’ I visualized her as a tall, Scandinavian-looking beauty, maybe an ex-model. Very accomplished. She ran her own business. Doing … what? Interiors? Yes, interiors. Her type always did that – they faffed around with paint charts and fabric swatches and got paid a fortune. Or she might be a child psychologist – they could sometimes pull something out of the bag and surprise you, those women.

  I decided that herself and Mannix had three beautiful, blonde children. One of the kids had … let’s see … dyslexia, because no one’s life was entirely perfect. But a private tutor came four afternoons a week – he was expensive, but he was worth it and Saoirse was doing very well and keeping up with her year.

  Mannix Taylor lived …? Where? Somewhere with electronic gates. Yes, definitely. Probably one of those beautiful houses in Wicklow, near the Druid’s Glen golf club. A converted and massively extended barn on a half-acre of land. Properly rural, fields all around them, but handy for the N11, so he could whizz up to Dublin in half an hour.

  What did he do in his spare time, this Mannix Taylor? Hard to tell, but one thing was for sure, he didn’t play golf. Which was a shame, seeing as he lived so near to such a reputable golf club.

  16.22

  ‘I hear you’ve been showing off your lady chinos!’ Karen is at my front door, her blonde hair blow-dried super sleek.

  ‘Yes!’ I stand aside to let her in. ‘Thank you so much! I must admit I had my doubts –’

  ‘Let me stop you right there.’ She makes her way to the kitchen. ‘Is it too early for wine? I suppose it is and, anyway, you can’t have any.’ She flicks on the kettle. ‘Where was I? Oh, right – don’t start thinking you’re okay. The chinos are only a temporary solution. A camouflage. You’re still going to have to lose ten pounds.’

  ‘Not ten!’ I cry. ‘Seven.’

  ‘Nine.’

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘Whatever. Everyone else,’ she says thoughtfully, ‘when their life falls apart, they lose weight. How unlucky are you?’ She opens and closes a couple of cupboards. ‘Any normal tea bags? I’m not drinking this herbal shit.’

  ‘Neither am I,’ I say with dignity. ‘The herbal shit belongs to Jeffrey.’

  ‘Christ, he’s odd. Mind you, so is my son. Do you think we’re carriers for some sort of male oddness? Protein,’ she said, abruptly. ‘That’s what you need. Lots and lots of protein. Forget carbs even exist.’

  ‘Are those your real eyelashes?’ I ask, desperate to change the subject.

  ‘These?’ Karen blinks the long, spiky lashes at me. ‘Nothing is my real anything. Everything is fake. Nails.’ She flicks her hands at me and whips them away again in far less than a second. ‘Teeth.’ She opens her jaws in a speedy grrrr. ‘Brows. Tan. I’ll do eyelash extensions for you.’ She swallows hard and with some effort adds, ‘For cost.’

  I shake my head. ‘I’ve had eyelash extensions. They’re a nightmare to live with. You can’t touch them, you can do nothing to upset them. It’s like being in a dysfunctional relationship.’

  Karen stares meaningfully at me.

  ‘It wasn’t dysfunctional,’ I say. ‘It was functional.’

  ‘Until it wasn’t.’

  I’m starting to feel a bit tearful. ‘… Ah, Karen … maybe you should go now?’ Suddenly I remember something. ‘I dreamed about Ned Mount again last night.’

  ‘What are you doing dreaming about him?’

  ‘We don’t get any say in who we dream about! Anyway, I like him.’ He’d interviewed me on his radio show when One Blink at a Time had come out in Ireland. We’d got on great.

  ‘Would you …?’

  ‘No … That part of my life is over.’

  ‘You’re only forty-two.’

  ‘Forty-one.’

  ‘And a half.’

  ‘And a quarter. Only a quarter.’

  Karen’s gaze roams over my face. ‘It’s about time you got a couple of boosts. Go on. Dr JinJing will be in on Thursday. My treat.’

  ‘Ah, no thanks …’

  Due to a clampdown in the law Karen had had to stop administering injectables herself and nowadays a young Chinese doctor came to the salon every second Thursday and jabbed Botox and fillers into a keen clientele. But I’d seen the results of Dr JinJing’s handiwork and it scared me. Heavy-handed would be the best way to describe it and I knew from experience that bad Botox is worse than no Botox.

  I’d had a really good person in New York, a doctor who understood subtlety. I was able to move my eyebrows and everything. Then I’d made the mone
y-saving mistake of going to a cheaper person and my forehead turned into a sort of overhanging canopy. I looked like a perpetually disapproving Cro-Magnon lady. The two months while I was waiting for the bad Botox to leave my face had felt like a very long time.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Karen asks, impatiently. ‘I won’t charge you. There’s an offer you don’t get every day.’

  ‘Honest to God, Karen, I’m fine right now.’

  ‘Did you hear what I said? I said I won’t charge you!’

  ‘Thanks. Lovely. Let’s just … not for now, okay?’

  ‘Instead of thinking, “Why me?” I think, “Why not me?”’

  Extract from One Blink at a Time

  In my hospital bed, everything changed after the advent of the Blinking Code. My initial communication with the family was to ask Karen to wash my hair, and only a person as undauntable as her could have succeeded – because it was a massive job involving plastic sheeting, jugs, sponges and countless basins of water. Not to mention the delicate negotiation of all the tubes in and out of me. Mum, Betsy and Jeffrey assisted, running obediently to the bathroom to empty sudsy water and return with fresh stuff, then Karen blow-dried my hair into soft curls and I could have died with cleanliness.

  My next request was a solemn promise from Betsy and Jeffrey that they’d stay committed to their schoolwork, and my third wish was for a bit of fun – I was tired of people coming in and staring sadly at me for fifteen minutes, then leaving. I wanted distraction, a laugh, even. I would have given my life for an episode of Coronation Street but, as that was out of the question, maybe someone would read magazines to me: I hungered for news of celebrity hook-ups and break-ups, of weight gains and weight losses, of new trends in shoes and beauty.

  Then things went a bit skew-ways. Dad got wind that I’d asked to be read to and he arrived, all excited, with a library book in a plastic bag. ‘A first novel –’ he waved it at me – ‘American chap. Tom Wolfe called him the most formidable novelist of the twenty-first century. Joan put it by specially for you.’

  He pulled up a chair and began to read and it was very, very awful. ‘“Tumbling. Tumbrils. Tombolas. Milkful. Bountyplenty. Creamy flesh in overspill. Abundant cascade.”’