Someone Elses Home Address
Are you even listening to me? Or is it another important call, another urgent?
Helen, Im listening. Its just not the best moment right now.
When is it ever the best time? When was the last time you were home before ten? When did we last have a proper dinner together?
I work. You work. Both of us have tricky schedules.
Dont lecture me about schedules. Ive done twenty years on ambulances I know what a tough schedule is. Thats not an excuse. Its a cop out.
He said nothing then. Put his mug in the sink, put on his jacket and left. He closed the door gently, almost silently, as if afraid to wake someone who wasnt there. Helen Mary Pearson stood in the middle of the kitchen for three more minutes, staring at the undrunk coffee in his mug, then grabbed her bag and headed off for her shift. That conversation happened on Wednesday. No, maybe Tuesday. She couldnt be sure those conversations blended together, happened so often. Shed say something. Hed leave. Shed go to work.
It had become a habit over twenty years. Whenever something ached or made her angry inside, Helen would go to work. The ambulance service didnt care about your mood or family affairs, didnt grant time for worries. What mattered was hands, head, and the ability to stop thinking about the rest. That had always saved her. Always.
She was fifty-two. Looked forty-five, though she never told herself such things, considering those thoughts nonsense. Small, short dark hair braided with grey for five years now. Her hands were dry, sure, and fast. Her grey eyes, a little tired, could stay calm even when her insides werent. Her colleagues respected her. Not loudly, not extravagantly but respectfully, which was far more important. Paramedic Tom, her partner these last three years, used to say: With Pearson you can take any call. She wont let you down.
Her husband, Andrew George Pearson, was in construction. What exactly? Helen stopped trying long ago. Hed say: projects, meetings, investors. Theyd been married twenty-three years. Their son, Max, lived in another city, working as a software developer, called on Sundays: You alright, Mum? Shed answer, Alright, meaning everything was familiar. And whats familiar is so easily called normal.
The shift in question was long and heavy. Not because anything extraordinary happened more because everything weighed down at once, holding her in place. An early trip to the far edge of town, an elderly man with high blood pressure and stubborn unwillingness to go to hospital, lengthy persuasion, his angry daughter shouting at her father and Helen both as if she were to blame for the old mans stubbornness. Then a boy of about eight who had a severe allergy, and a young mother totally at a loss. Helen had to explain the same thing softly three times because the mother couldnt focus. Then an older woman with stomach pain, whom Helen had to escort to A&E, handing her over in the parade at reception. Then, again, blood pressure, persuasion, paperwork.
By eight in the evening, Helen had reached that stage you cant call tiredness. Its more emptiness in the legs and heaviness behind the eyes. She sat in the ambulance, sipping green tea from her thermos, no sugar, tepid. Tom dozed in the passenger seat, head tipped back. He could sleep for five minutes, anywhere, any position, and wake up refreshed. Helen envied this quietly, without unkind thoughts.
The radio beeped.
Pearson, are you there?
Here.
Callout. Glasshill Road, number four, flat eighty-one. Young woman, twenty-eight, heart racing, breathing trouble, numbness in arms. Says its the first time. Very frightened.
Got it.
Toms eyes snapped open as soon as the radio crackled. Professional reflex.
Where to?
Glasshill, number four. Panic attack, probably.
Young?
Twenty-eight.
He nodded, started the engine. Helen drank the last of her tea and tucked the thermos away. Glasshill Road was in that part of the city they called the glass slopes: tower blocks with floor-to-ceiling windows, underground car parks, video intercoms. Expensive living, careful silences in the lobbies, new-lift smell. Helen had been here a few times. Calls from here were usually stress, panic attacks, especially among young women. Wealthy lives, same old nerves.
Number four looked just as she imagined. Tall, pale front, wide entry steps. The intercom answered quickly, a breathless female voice: Come up. The lift was mirrored, soft-lit. Tom lugged the kit, Helen walked beside, her mind drifting to what shed need to pick up from the shops after the shift bread, perhaps some cottage cheese.
Eighty-one stood at the end of the hall. The door swung open before they rang. On the step: a woman in an ivory silk robe, tousled blond hair. Beautiful. Helen noticed, coolly, the way a nurse does. Beautiful, young, thoroughly scared. Her arms crossed on her chest, as if for warmth.
Thank God, she said. I thought you werent coming.
Here we are, said Tom. May we?
Yes, yes, please.
Inside: big, high ceilings, that special arrangement where everything is expensive but understated. Pale walls, broad light-grey sofa, untouched glass of water on the coffee table. Only a lamp glowed in the corner making the room cosy and faintly troubling.
Your name? Helen unsnapped the case.
Emily. Emily.
Emily, take a seat on the sofa. When did this start?
Maybe forty minutes ago? I was reading when my heart just set off running. I couldnt breathe right. I panicked thought something serious was wrong.
Lets have a look. Any chest pain?
No. Just racing.
Good. Give me your hand.
Helen fixed the monitor to her wrist, checked the pulse rapid, steady. Tom was laying out the ECG, tidy, quick. Emily glanced between them both, her look that mix Helen knew by heart: relief at help arriving, fear about what they might say.
One-twenty over eighty, Helen announced. Normal.
Really?
Really. Pulse quick, ECG will show more. Do you live alone?
It was the routine question: to know if help was there at night. Sometimes, that makes all the difference.
No, Emily stuttered. Not alone.
Good. Means someone can call if you need.
Tom fitted the sticky pads, Emily lifted her robe a few inches. Helen noted it down, checked her watch. Half eight. Fleetingly: Andrew must be home by now, or still out negotiating. Then she put it from her mind she had a patient.
Right then, footsteps down the hall, likely from the bedroom. Soft, as though someone walked in socks over the boards. Door opening.
Helen didnt look up straightaway, still writing. Then she looked up.
Andrew stood in the doorway.
He wore a t-shirt and jeans, no jacket, hair ruffled. His phone in hand, a home-face on, relaxed, not expecting to see her.
Then he saw her.
Helen looked at him for exactly two seconds. Later, shed recall those seconds, unsure what she felt. Not nothing; it was just so quiet, as if a little switch flicked off inside and darkness filled one forgotten corner, the other lights left on.
Andrew turned pale, even by the lamplight she could tell.
Helen looked instead at the ECG that Tom finished.
Let me see, she said to Tom.
Her voice sounded exactly normal. She noticed that, and it surprised her gently.
Tom handed over the paper. Helen read it through: sinus tachycardia. Just a fast pulse. No sign of anything that meant hospital. Exactly as expected.
Emily, she said, your hearts fine. This is classic panic attack. Unpleasant, but not dangerous. Your hearts healthy.
Really? Emily wasnt looking at Helen, she looked past her, to where Andrew stood. Something in her voice mismatched the question. Awkward.
Really, Helen said. Water, slow breathing: in on four, out on six. If it happens again, dont worry see a GP or therapist, these are easily treated.
Helen explained it evenly, packing away cuffs, tidying the kit. Everything went by the book.
Thank you. Emilys voice was faint.
Youre welcome, Helen replied. Tom, ready?
Ready.
Andrew stayed put in the doorway the whole time. Helen didnt look at him. Not that she couldnt, she just didnt. She slung her bag, took the tablet for paperwork.
Well record everything, she told Emily; another stock phrase, meaning call finished properly.
They left. Tom pressed for the lift. He was silent while they waited. Tom knew how to keep silence, fill it with nothing heavy. The lift arrived, they got in, doors closing.
Are you alright? Tom asked.
He looked at his reflection, not at her.
Im fine, Helen said.
Its just, you seem a bit
Just tired. Long shift.
He nodded and didnt press it.
Outside, it was chilly though the day had been warm. April this year see-sawed mild, then a river wind. They got in, Tom started the paperwork. Helen stared up at the illuminated windows. Fourth floor, eighth flat from the corner. Or maybe ninth. Light was on.
She checked her phone. Five missed calls from Andrew in the last ten minutes. She put the mobile away.
Tom, any more for us tonight?
Checking Not yet, but Liz said it usually kicks off at ten.
Liz was the dispatcher, and she was right. By ten, the calls came: older folks with blood pressure after the evening news, younger ones worked over by a long day. The ambulance went by its own rules, never worried about what happened in other peoples flats.
Lets pop back to base for a cup of tea, Helen suggested.
They drove.
Helen stared at the city at night: streetlamps, shop windows, a smattering of late walkers. Everything where it should be. She considered that twenty-three years wasnt just a stretch, it was a life. Max, now twenty-seven, ringing each Sunday. The cottage three hours away theyd bought ten years ago our project, Andrew called it. Her mothers knitted throw on the sofa. Shared holidays, shared flu, shared boring evenings in front of the telly.
She saw it all, as if gazing at something familiar whose shape had suddenly shifted, because the light had changed.
At base, Tom made tea. They sat in the poky break room, both silent. After a while:
Ive known you a while, Tom said.
You have.
I can see somethings happened. Dont say if you dont want. But, if you need a lift, or anything, Im here.
Helen looked at him. Thirty-eight, married to Jane, two school-age girls, a rolling stones life just like hers. Good man. Steady.
Thanks, Tom. Really. For now, Im alright.
Alright.
He turned to the window she was grateful.
Phone again: Andrew. She hit decline, typed: Im on shift. Dont call. Sent it. Phone away. She embraced her mug in both hands, the ceramic warmth clear and solid.
When did this begin? She tried remembering when Andrews late nights had become not occasional but persistent, when his explanations grew so vague you couldnt bring yourself to ask. When he stopped speaking of work in detail, with names and situations, and switched to vague coveralls. Shed decided he was just tired, didnt want to bring work home, men did that sometimes.
Men did that. She caught herself thinking it and mentally put the thought aside, like a letter you werent ready to read.
No calls until eleven. At eleven, a trip to an elderly man with a sore knee nothing for the ambulance, but the dispatcher explained there was no one else to bring him to the doctor, and he begged. Helen examined his knee, said he needed a routine surgeon, gave him the local GP number, explained how to get an appointment. He thanked her profusely, as though guilty for calling. She said hed done right.
Heading back, Tom flicked on the radio softly. A woman sang, sad and a little sweet. Helen listened, thinking about tomorrow morning at home. What would she say? What would he say? Or would they say nothing, since shed go over it all, thinking, Maybe I misunderstood. Maybe he was really there on business. Maybe that wasnt his flat, just passing by. Maybe coincidence.
She was very good at inventing explanations. Twenty-three years practice.
Shift ended at half twelve. Last call at midnight, a young bloke with high temperature Helen sent him off to Infectious Diseases, it was all routine. Then paperwork, inventory, nod at the night crew. The usual end of the usual shift.
Want a lift home? Tom asked.
No, Im driving.
You sure youre alright?
Tom.
Alright, alright. Ill leave it.
Helen drove home in twenty minutes. The city at night moved easily almost no one about. She liked these hours. Easy to think, unbothered.
In the flat, the hallway light was on. Andrew was awake. She knew it before turning the key, certainty inside.
He appeared as soon as shed kicked off her shoes. Stood in the corridor, wearing a face she knew too very well: guilty, but wound up, bracing to defend himself.
Helen, he began.
Not now, she answered.
I want to explain.
Andrew, Ive just finished a shift. Im shattered. Not now.
Its not what you think.
She looked at him. For a long time. Then slipped past into the bathroom, washed up, brushed her teeth, came out. He was still there.
Helen, talk to me.
Tomorrow, she said, moving past to the bedroom.
She didnt sleep. Lay watching the ceiling. Silence from next door; then the sofa creaked in the lounge he made up there, seemed like. Good. Didnt come to bed. That was good.
She lay thinking calmly, almost as if laying out medical instruments before an exam. Fact: Andrew was in that flat. He was there not as a guest, but at home, in a t-shirt, relaxed, with his phone, in a young, beautiful womans flat, not living alone, as she said herself.
Fact: for a year and a half, he came home late. Not always, not every day, but often. Business trips she only heard generic details about. A phone never left unattended. So regular shed stopped noticing.
Reading others stories in books or listening to friends, it always seemed so obvious: how could she not see? How can anybody not see? Turns out, its easy. Because you live inside it, not out. Because youre used to it. Because you never wanted to know.
After years of marriage, its not just habit. Its a deep layer of life not whisked aside by a single gesture. All mixed up: the good that happened, the creeping bad, the years, the house, a son, and a thousand details that make up life together.
Helen realised she wasnt crying. That surprised her not because tears were needed, just that shed expected stinging pain instantly. But the pain was soft. It sat beneath the ribs, a fatigue more than a wound.
She slept near dawn.
Woke at nine. No sound from the lounge. She washed, dressed in jeans and a grey jumper, not loungewear. Went to the kitchen.
Andrew was at the table with a coffee. When she entered, he looked up.
Helen.
Morning, she said, pouring herself a glass of water.
We need to talk.
Yes, we do.
She sat across from him, back straight, hands on the table, looked him in the eye.
Im listening.
He began. Explained at length: its not what you think, nothing serious, Emily was just a friend, he was helping her with paperwork for some matter, sometimes worked there for quiet because it was tense at home. He talked, keeping his eyes on her. Helen could sense he was waiting perhaps for her to cry, to yell, to demand details, to start that endless draining conversation that could drag on for days.
She didnt interrupt. Let him finish.
Is that everything? she asked when he ran dry.
Helen, I only want you to understand
Andrew. She said his name evenly. I wont argue what exactly you were doing in that flat. It doesnt matter.
Doesnt matter? He wasnt expecting that.
Doesnt. I saw you there. You saw me. You didnt call, didnt text, not a word. You came home and went to bed. That matters. The rest details, explanations Im not listening to those.
He fell silent, a lost look on his face, as if shed stopped following his script.
Im leaving, Helen said. Not this second, but today. Ill pack what I need, go. Well sort out the paperwork, calmly, no scenes.
Helen, wait
Im not rushing. She stood. I just want you to understand this isnt impulse. I slept on it, woke up, thought it through. This is my decision.
She went to the bedroom, pulled down the old navy travel bag from the wardrobe, the one for work trips to conferences, a bit scuffed on the handle. She opened it and began packing methodically, unhurried. Her ambulance work had taught her: decide whats needed urgently, what can wait. Essentials: change of clothes, important documents, chargers, a few books from the shelf, the knitted throw from her mum. The rest, later.
Andrew lingered if the doorway.
Are you serious?
Yes.
Helen, twenty-three years. Youre just, what, walking away
Twenty-three years, she repeated, hands still. Thats exactly why I dont want a scandal. No crying, no accusations. Im tired. Not of you personally of it all. Thats the truth too.
He left the doorway. She heard him moving, the coffee machine, then silence. She finished packing, zipped the bag, checked her clutch for passport, medical docs, cards. All there.
Put on her coat in the hall.
Where are you going? Andrew called from the corridor.
To Sophies. Her friend, across the city; worked as a teacher, lived alone, always said Youre welcome, whenever.
For long?
I dont know.
Helen, his voice now, something shed once have called remorse or fear of loss. She just heard his voice, nothing else.
Andrew, dont make it heavier. Im not disappearing. Im going to Sophies. In time, well deal with the flat, the rest. I dont want a war.
She opened the door.
Wait, he said. Please are you are you alright?
She paused. Strange question. Considered it three seconds.
I dont know yet, she answered honestly. For now, Im alright.
And went out.
In the lift, she stood alone, looking in the mirrored door at her face the same faintly tired look as after every night shift. Nothing remarkable. She adjusted her hair. The blue bag by her feet.
Fresh spring sunlight outside. April, brittle and honest. She reached her car, tossed the bag onto the back seat, slid behind the wheel. Her phone on the passenger side. She messaged Sophie: Can I come for a few days? Sent it. Glanced in the rearview. The street was empty.
Sophie replied straight away: Of course. Im in. Waiting.
Helen started the car.
She drove thinking how they always talk of betrayal as something bright and blaring, one moment when everything changes. In truth, things change quietly. A tiny switch clicks, and theres darkness in just one corner; the rest still glows.
At the traffic lights, a car pulled up with a little boy in the back, staring through the window, solemn. Helen smiled at him; he returned it, grave and certain, the way only children do.
The light changed. She drove on.
Sophies place took thirty minutes. Helen went gently, no music. Thinking, shed have to ring Max soon, not today but soon. What would she say? She didnt know yet. Didnt need the words now.
She found herself thinking about Emily, in her silk robe how a panic attack was not her fault. Strange thought, but true. Panic attacks dont discriminate. Anyone can get one.
She thought, too, that shed treated her correctly. Thorough check. Good advice. That meant something, though it was hard to define what. Maybe just that she could do her job well, no matter what. Whatever happened outside, she was herself at work.
That mattered. Only as she drove to Sophies did Helen realise how much.
The stories women tell over tea always have a starting incident and a conclusion. Shed done this, so things got better, or worse neat endings. Hers had no ending yet, nor any conclusion. Truthfully, she wasnt sure she needed one now.
When everything solid in life cracks, the first instinct is to find a new perch, fast. She knew this from her work and her patients. After a shock, people often make hasty decisions out of a need for something to hold on to. She didnt want to rush. Shed made one decision to leave. That would do for now.
Sophies building stood out: an old five-storey, poplars out front just budding the faintest green new April leaves.
Helen parked, hauled out the bag. Heavier than it looked, but she was used to heavy bags.
The entry code, the stairs. Third floor open door, Sophie at the threshold, short, in her dressing gown, mug in hand. Sophie Alexandra Wilson, fifty-four, English teacher, who knew exactly how to give you space.
Come in, she said simply.
Im in, said Helen.
She set down her bag, took off the coat. The flat smelled of coffee and a little of old books a kind smell. She breathed it in, feeling her shoulders lower a fraction, tension she hadnt realised shed held all night.
Hungry? Sophie asked.
Not sure. Maybe later. Can we just sit together for a bit?
Of course. Kitchen?
They sat. Sophie poured her coffee, set out toast with cheese and watercress, left it there. She took her own mug. They sat quietly a full three minutes.
Shall I ask? said Sophie.
Later. Now, lets just be still, if you dont mind.
I dont mind.
They sat, April clouds, blue showing through. Helen gazed out at the sky, thinking about all the psychology books that put neat labels on things, but words are never the same as feelings. You know the words. The feeling is still new. As if for the first time.
A post-affair separation also has its terms legal, psychological words. But right now, it was simply: the travel bag by the door, a mug of coffee, poplars with spring leaves outside. Right now, she was here, safe, a job waiting, a friend nearby, a son whod call Sunday.
Sophie, she said.
Yes?
Did you ever think the hardest part of hard decisions isnt the decision, but the after? When the choice is made, but life hasnt caught up.
Sophie thought.
Yes. After my divorce from Victor. Remember? Decided in February, truly felt different only by May. Three months in limbo.
Exactly. In-between.
Thats alright. The in-between gives you space to adjust to what comes next.
Helen nibbled the toast. It was good, the cheese, the herbs.
Thanks for opening your door, she said.
Youd do the same for me.
Of course.
The poplar outside shook in the breeze, small new leaves glittering in the sunlight. Helen watched and thought how a womans lot sounded quaint but was dead right. Fate wasnt what you were given, but what you did with your circumstances. Each time, anew.
She didnt know what came next how shed tell Max, how theyd divide the flat, where shed live in the end. She didnt know how long the nagging ache beneath her ribs would last. She didnt know what Andrew was thinking if anything at all, except for himself.
She knew this: she had a shift at three tomorrow. Needed sleep, proper food, to be in shape. Because ambulance work waits for no ones drama and, oddly, that was comforting now. Not sad, not heavy. Comforting. When you have work you do well, thats not nothing. Thats already something.
People talk about strength of spirit as if its for heroes. Overcoming, battling, conquering all capital letters. But maybe its this: sitting on a friends kitchen chair, toast and coffee, looking at April poplars, saying to yourself, without words: its alright. Well see.
The phone buzzed. Not Andrew Max, this time. He never called before Sunday evenings, but it was early Saturday. Butt-dial? Or his intuition kids know.
She answered.
Hi Mum. Everything alright?
She took a beat. Sophie gazed politely out the window.
Hi Max. Still sorting things, she replied. But Im alright. How are you?
Im fine. Just wanted to hear your voice.
Im glad you rang.
She motioned to Sophie hold on, stood, walked out to the corridor, leaned on the wall. She spoke to her son, fielded his questions, told enough of the truth as she could bear. Her voice was calm, a little tired, but alive. He asked again really alright? She told him truthfully yes.
When she hung up, she stood for a moment in the passage. The blue bag rested by the door. Poplar trees visible through the little window.
She returned to the kitchen.
Your son? Sophie asked.
Yes.
Hes a good lad.
He is.
Quiet reignited as they sipped the last of their coffee. Then Sophie said,
Stay as long as you need. Rooms free. Ill get you a spare key.
Thank you.
And tell me when you want.
I will. Helen set her mug down. Properly, when Im ready. Some stories need speaking aloud, to understand them yourself.
Sophie nodded. She understood, as an English teacher would.
When youre ready, she said. No rush.
