Just in Case
The suitcase wasnt up in the loft alongside all the out-of-season coats and the boxes labeled Christmas, but on the bottom shelf of the wardrobe behind my shirts. It was a small navy one, side handle, not new, but not the battered old case wed hauled down to Brighton back when the kids were little. Id seen it before in the old broom cupboard. Now it stood upright, zip neatly closed, like a shoebox slotted in with care.
I noticed it on Monday, tugging dry clothes from the radiator. Tuesday, I convinced myself it was just a bit of shifting about, making space. Wednesday had no reason at allI opened the wardrobe and clocked it sitting there, exactly as before. By Thursday I squatted down, pulled it out and had a proper look.
It wasnt heavy, but packed with intent. Right on top, a T-shirt and boxers, folded with military precisionnever my way when we travel. Underneath, a toothbrush and case, phone charger, power bank, pack of wipes, socks, razor, small towel. In the side pocket, a clear folder with photocopies of my passport, NHS card, National Insurance number, and sticking out, the edge of an ECG printout. A blister pack of blood pressure pills and a list scrawled in my hand on squared paper: Glasses. Phone. Charger. Slippers. Water.
I didnt bother reading the rest. I closed the folder, packed it all back as it was, and shunted the suitcase into its spot again. Spent longer than necessary refolding my shirts, though theyd been lined up just fine already.
In the kitchen, she was getting mugs out as I ate cottage cheese with raspberry jam and scrolled the BBC headlines, reading near horizontal, glasses slowly slipping down my nose.
Are you going on a trip? she asked, fishing for the teabags.
I looked up, took a beat. What makes you say that?
Theres a suitcase in the wardrobe.
Oh, that. Just leave it.
Are you going somewhere?
Not yet.
I said not yet as if it were the weather forecast for the weekendnothing doing. I scraped the last of the jam off the inside of the bowl. Is any bread left? She handed some over, not looking at me, and that was that. Conversation over before it began.
The day ticked by with me quietly counting. How many times lately had I mentioned my blood pressure? Was I waking up more in the night? Remember April, when the climb up the stairs left me sitting silently on the hall stool just to catch my breath? That time in May, home from the surgery, bitter about their best practice and nothing else to say. How Id started putting chemist receipts in an envelope rather than dumping them in a jacket pocket or losing them outright.
And looming in among all thatthe nagging, ridiculous thought that clung somehow harder. The little case, the charger, the carefulness. Not my usual way. If youre off to hospital, you mention it. If youre packing up to leave for good, you say it, eventually. If you dont say anything, it just means youve already made your mind up. I was irritated with myself for thinking it, but the thought wouldnt shift.
That evening, I did the washing up though she usually got there first. I rinsed dishes slow, almost killing time, plates stacked by size in the rack. She stood nearby wiping the table, watching me rinse the same mug twice.
Are you seeing someone else? she said, stone-cold calm, which surprised us both.
I turned.
What?
You know exactly what I mean.
Dont be absurd.
So explain the suitcase.
My hands went back into the water, letting the tap run, not moving.
Dont start.
Im not starting. Im asking.
And do you really think thats likely? Sixty-two, blood pressure haywire, knee creakingout with my suitcase on a lovers rendezvous?
Dont take me for a fool.
And you dont make me out to be a villain.
I switched off the tap, dried my hands, left the kitchen. Didnt storm off, didnt raise my voicethat was somehow much worse. When I used to shout, at least you knew where the line was. This way, no edges at all.
She woke up late that night as I sat at the edge of the bed, hunting for my glasses on the nightstand. Couldnt find them, put the hall light on, ended up swigging water straight from the bottle.
Pressure again? she asked.
Its fine.
Then why arent you sleeping?
Just one of those nights.
I turned away, facing the wall. She turned too, but stayed alert, following my restless shifting under the covers. In the morning, a small pill was left out on the kitchen tablea white one Id clearly fished out but didn’t take. She slipped it into the pillbox and spent her day wondering what that meant. It meant everything and nothing.
Next day, she popped into the surgery after her food shop, acting like it was along the way. People huddled around the reception, grumbling over an appointment with the diabetes nurse. She spotted Dr Morris, my GP, by the stairs but didnt approach her. What would she say? Excuse me, my husbands packed a suitcase, should I worry? Instead, she bought me a new days-of-the-week pillbox from Boots, since the one at home was fiddly.
At home, she set the box on the table.
This is for you, she said. So you dont get muddled.
I looked at it as if shed given me a spare part.
Im not muddled.
You forgot a pill yesterday.
What pill?
The little white one. On the table.
Didnt need it, I suppose.
Are you a doctor?
Are you?
She slid the pillbox aside like a salt shaker in the way. Sat down to peel potatoes, hacking off thick skins. I noticed and immediately resented myself for always noticing.
Saturday, our son came by with little Thomasgrandsonbetween football club and a birthday party. Thomas legged it around the hall in his socks, our boy relayed tales of the M25 in gridlock. I perked up, got out an old torch you can wind up, made a game of it for the lad. We all laughed. She watched me from behind, as if trying to spot another man. There was no secret life in me. Just exhaustion, the habit of not complaining, and a new sort of caution. Like a man walking across an icy path, pretending hes just unhurried.
When theyd gone, she opened the wardrobe with the case still inside, placed it in the middle of the sitting room.
Either we talk now, or I ring our son and tell him youre hiding something from me.
I sat there with the telly on quiet, muttering about bridge repairs and the weekends rain. I turned the sound down but didnt turn it off.
No need to drag him into it.
Then explain.
Put it away.
No.
Long pause, focus on the suitcase. Then I set the remote aside.
Its for hospital.
Id guessed as much.
No, you havent. Youve made up goodness knows what.
Because you wont talk to me.
Because whats the point, talking to you? You immediately try to take over. Make a list, ring up, pick up the tablets, tell me whats for dinner, badger me for results, pass me the blood-pressure monitor, why didnt I say before. Im still a living man, not a stack of test results.
She sat on the edge of the couch. The suitcase was square between us now.
All right, she said. No orders. Just explain.
I rubbed my forehead, the way I do when talk gets wearisome.
In May, at the surgery, I saw a bloke carted off. Right from the waiting room. Sat talking, fine, then suddenly grey as death. Nurse rushing over, stretcher, his wife there with a Sainsburys bag looking lost. No charger, didnt have his documents, dead phone. She was racing up and down, trying to find where hed been taken. I thought, if that happened to me, youd be running around with a Tesco bag, asking strangers.
I didnt say any of this dramatically, which made it hang even heavier.
So you packed a suitcase and hid it?
Not hidput it there, so its ready.
And tell me nothing?
What was I supposed to say? Hi, just making prep in case the ambulance carts me off. Enjoy your dinner?
I wanted to bite back, but instead just asked, Did the doctor say anything bad?
No. Not yet. Told me more check-ups, keep an eye, get the weight off, same as usual. But I remember my dad. He started out nothing too serious, too. Then his bag by the door, then hospital, then Mum didnt know where his things were, or the code for his accounts, or who to ring at work. He used to lie there and fume everyone was fiddling things without him. Then he stopped fuming. He just lay there.
I left it there. The forecast map flickered on the silent TV.
I dont want that. Dont want you scrambling through drawers. Dont want to end up the helpless old man in pants from home with a dead phone. I might be old on paper, but Im not ready to be written off.
She looked down at the case. The tag was still hanging off the handle, price half-ripped. So, she clocked, Id gone and bought it myself, quietly, and stashed it in the wardrobe. Carrying that fear around like you carry a pebble in your pocket, checking its still there.
So, I was just supposed to find this by accident and keep quiet?
No.
So what then?
I dont know.
That dont know was the most honest thing Id managed all week. She saw how Id aged, not in my face, but in how I hid things. Cigarette packets first. Then bad sugar tests. Then ducking out of DIY at the weekend. Now this. Not trying to be cunning. Just because I was ashamed.
You think youre a burden to me? she asked.
I gave a dry laugh. And you think Im not?
Seems like youre acting like its all decided already.
And you act like you can beat death with a checklist.
Because if you dont organise, you get chaos.
Therell be chaos anyway. Sometimes thats better than being managed like some ongoing project.
She marched off to the kitchen and back again, the chopping board and half-peeled carrot abandoned. She didnt want to keep at it, but she couldnt walk away.
I saw that suitcase and thought you were about to leave me, she said, leaning on the doorframe.
I looked up.
Oh, Lord.
Stupid, I know. But youre up in the night, you clam up after seeing the GP, you keep saying youre fine when youre not. I cant read your mind, you know.
And I cant talk about it without you taking overliving for two people at once.
Maybe I would. Because Im scared.
He nodded. Not agreeing, but admitting it.
So am I.
She sat again, this time a bit less on edge. She pushed the suitcase over toward the wall with her foot, out of the middle of the room.
All right, she said. If this isnt the big escape, if its not a secret double life, then we do this together. Whats in the folder?
Document copies.
The originals?
Top drawer of the desk.
Ive got the title deeds and insurance in my utility bills folderdid you know?
Sort of.
So thats not good enough.
He smiled, the first time since the day began.
Here we go.
This is not a lecturejust you wait.
She went for the kitchen notepad, the one for the meters and Christmas food lists. At the top of a blank page, she wrote If anything happens. Crossed it out, tried Just in case.
Dont call it that, I said.
What then?
Call it just normal.
This is normal.
They went through it: passports, NHS cards, chargers, glasses, proper medicine list, not just a torn scrap. Phone number for the son, the neighbour downstairs who can feed the cat. Name of my heart doctor. Her diabetes nurse. Location of the keys to the cottage. I didnt want to write the mobile password, but then thought better of it and said, all right, stick it in an envelope. She suggested a copy of the latest GP letter. I added slippers and a long chargerhospitals never put the sockets anywhere useful.
And normal underwear, I said.
Which ones are normal for you?
The ones without the stretched out waistband.
Then bin the tatty ones for goods sake.
I wear those at home.
Not anymore, you dont.
We both fell quiet, then she snortedjust a bit. Not a laugh, but already a shift in the air.
Its not just you, you know, she said. I could end up in there at any moment too. Diabetes, remember.
I know.
No, you dont. Not really. You know the gist. But where my notes are, which tablets are for breakfast or bedtime, when Im supposed to fastyouve no clue about that.
Well write it down then, too.
He said it matter-of-fact, not patronising, and it helped. Not relief, exactly, but the ground felt less tilted.
Later, we went through the bedroom together and sorted things. He had another bag for new socks and travel soap. I didnt ask when hed got it. Just moved the documents to a strong folder, labelled it. He cut the price tag off the luggage with my scissors.
Ill ring the GP on Monday, she said. Not for you, with you. Well check whats urgent and what can wait.
Well do it, I said. Together.
And one more thing, I said, not looking at her. If anything does happen, please dont go full martyr. Dont spend nights on the chair, get into fights with nurses, bring in casseroles every day. Lets just be sensible.
And you dont tell me how Im allowed to worry.
Im not. Im just asking.
She started packing a warmer top for me, swapped the T-shirt.
And I ask, dont decide for me when Im allowed to know. Thats what doing it properly means for me.
I came closer, took the folder from her, slipped it in the case pocket, zipped it properly, made sure it ran smooth.
Fancy a cuppa? I said.
I do.
In the kitchen, kettle on, she got the rest of the cottage cheese and jam. Comfort in the small routines we returned to on the days that went sideways. The pill box hed shoved aside earlier was set in front of me.
Put yours in too, I said. If were keeping tabs, might as well do both.
She brought her medications. We sorted the tablets for the week, reading instructions, logging what needed topping up. I narrowed my eyesno glassesshe moaned about the lamp being useless, as always. A car door slammed in the darkness, a chair scuffed on the floor upstairs.
When it was done, I added a note to our new folder: the cat. Then, after a second, jotted down the vets number.
Thats overdoing it, she said.
No, its not. He needs looking after too.
She nodded. The case was back on the bottom shelf, but now the wardrobe didnt seem quite so tightly closed. Tomorrow, wed buy another folder, copy more papers, call the doctor, maybe finally bin those old pants. Nothing dramatic. Just life, as ever.
Before bed, she came into the bedroom, opened the wardrobe and put her own gym baga plain grey thingbeside my suitcase.
Whats that for? I asked from the doorway.
So theres no yours and mine secret, she said. Its just our things.
I stood there, nodded, and put the envelope with our passwords on the shelf above.
If theres a lesson in this, its that preparing for the worst isnt about giving up or giving in. Its just loving someone enough to make the chaos a little less chaotic, together. To realise that carrying your little fears openly beats carrying them alone. Maybe thats all you can doopen the wardrobe and make room for each others suitcases, just in case.
