She is dying in the bedroom, and we are kissing in the armchair
No, Doctor, were not moving her to a hospice. I promised her.
Andrew stands in the doorway of the bedroom, gripping his mobile so tightly his knuckles are white. His voice breaks on the last words, turning into a hoarse whisper. He rests his forehead against the doorframe and closes his eyes.
I understand your view, but you must try to see things from my side as well, says the tired voice of Dr. Sutton in the receiver the neurologist whos been treating Helen for the last twenty months. The prognosis hasnt changed. After the second stroke theres very little hope. Youve witnessed her decline yourself. The quality of life
Shes my wife, Andrew interrupts, staring at the carpet. Im responsible for her. Ill care for her myself.
But you, Mr. Whitfield
He hangs up before he can finish. His hand trembles. Victoria, standing by the bed, carefully adjusts Helens pillow. Her dark hair is neatly pinned up; her white top is immaculate, despite a twelve-hour shift.
Same old lecture? she asks quietly.
They dont live here, Andrew answers in a low voice. They dont see what its like how I
He doesnt finish. Victoria straightens up, picks up the thermometer from the bedside table, and checks it.
Thirty-six point seven, she announces. Thats good. Her blood pressure was one-twenty over eighty this morning. Gave her the Neuracalm at nine as usual. Fed her at lunchtime managed half the Fortisip, didnt want the rest, which is pretty normal. No sores I treated her skin. Changed her pad twice.
Andrew listens, hearing the familiar ritual thats played out in this flat for seven hundred and thirty days: two years, twenty-four months. He could count the hours if he wanted. If he had any strength left for wanting anything besides one thing: for it to finally end. And then he despises himself for the thought, feels like he might disappear for shame.
Thank you, he mumbles. Ill sit with her. You can go, its after nine.
Ive got another hour, by our agreement, Victoria replies. Besides, have you actually eaten today?
I cant remember.
Ill get the soup warmed up. Stay here.
She leaves the bedroom, and for a moment hes alone with the woman he once loved so much hed have moved mountains for her. Helen is lying on her back, the right side of her face slack, mouth slightly open. Her breathing is laboured, with a wheeze. The evening drugs have sent her into a deep, almost motionless sleep. On the bedside table sits a framed photo: the two of them at Brighton, her laughing, hair tossed by sea wind, bare tanned shoulders, white teeth she was forty then, a month before she collapsed in the kitchen, dropping her coffee mug, and he didnt grasp what was happening at first, thought shed tripped.
Andrew sinks into the armchair beside her bed. Its become his station. Hes spent most nights dozing there, wanting to be close in case something happens. His back aches constantly. Hes only forty-two, but every morning the mirror shows him the face of a grey, exhausted old man.
Victoria returns with a bowl of soup, setting a little tray on the armrest.
Eat. Ill stay with her for a bit.
No, really
Andrew, eat, she insists gently.
He picks up the spoon. The soup is hot, wholesome, homemade. She made it yesterday, he remembers that. Victoria can really cook. She can do many things. Shes been a carer for eleven years, thirty-five now, divorced with no children. Shed told him over tea one evening when hed asked. Her ex-husband left her for someone else, couldnt handle the endless shifts, hospital smell claimed she brought it home with her.
Its good, Andrew says, though he barely tastes it.
Youve lost even more weight, Victoria notes. At least ten kilos since I started.
When was that?
A year and two months ago. After the first carer you couldnt bear.
That first one was rough, indifferent. Helen had cried after her shifts as much as a woman can cry with only half her face able to move. Victoria was like a rescue. Gentle, patient, professional. She spoke to Helen as though shed answer. She read to her. Played music. Told Andrew that hearing and understanding linger, that Helen sensed everything, heard everything, even if she couldnt speak.
Sometimes Andrew feels that just makes it worse.
Ive finished, he says, setting the bowl aside. Thank you.
You need sleep, Victoria says, picking up the bowl but standing her ground. When did you last really sleep? In a bed, more than four hours?
I dont remember.
Andrew
I cant, he exhales. Cant lie in that bed. Cant leave the room. What if what if it gets worse? What if she
Im here, Victoria says, cutting him short. Im here twelve hours a day. Theres a monitor. If anything happens at night, youll hear.
I still cant.
She looks at him for a long moment, then nods and slips out. Andrew leans back, closes his eyes. Helen breathes steadily, monotonously. That sound is the soundtrack of his life now. In, out. In, out. He opens his eyes and watches her. Her face in the lamplight looks peaceful. Shes not suffering right now. The drugs are doing their job. She sleeps through most of the day. When she wakes, she looks at him with cloudy eyes, tries to say something, but it all comes out as fractured noises. Hes learned to understand some of them. Drink sounds like dri-ii. Pain like pa-aa. Sometimes she cries, and those are the worst moments.
From the kitchen, the sound of running water and clinking cutlery. Victoria is washing up. He hears her footsteps, the quiet complaints of the floorboards. She pauses outside the bedroom door.
Andrew? she calls softly.
Yes?
May I come in?
Come in.
She enters, leaning her shoulder against the frame. The lamplight softens her tired face. Only now does it hit him: shes tired too. She comes here every day, spends half her waking hours breathing in antiseptic and medicine, sees him break, hears Helens night sobs, and yet stays calm and kind.
Youre a good person, he blurts out.
Victoria blinks, surprised. How do you know?
Because you stayed. You didnt run after a week. Because when you talk to her, you its not just a job to you.
Its never just a job, Victoria says quietly. No one is.
Theyre silent for a moment. Helen whimpers in her sleep, turns her head. Andrew tenses, but she doesnt wake.
Ill go, Victoria murmurs. See you tomorrow at nine?
Yes. Same as always.
She nods, but doesnt leave. She waits in the doorway, then suddenly asks,
Do you have anyone? Other than Helen, I mean. Friends, any family you talk to?
My parents passed away years ago. My brothers up in Leeds, we speak once a month if that. Friends I used to have some. Stopped calling about six months back. I dont blame them. Whod want to ring someone who never leaves the house and only talks about illness?
What about work?
Remote. IT developer. I sit here by the bed and code. My boss is understanding. The pays less now, but its something.
You need someone to talk to, Victoria says. About life. Not prescriptions.
Theres nothing else, Andrew replies flatly. Nothing left.
Theres always something. Youre not just the husband of a sick woman. Youre Andrew. Forty-two. Once loved sci-fi. Went to the cinema, played guitar, listened to rock. Ive seen your bookshelf. The guitar case in the lounge.
He gives a bitter laugh. That was a different lifetime.
That was just two years ago. Not so long. Youre alive, Andrew. Youre still here.
Doesnt feel like it, he mutters.
Victoria steps into the room, kneels in front of his chair so their faces are level. Her gaze is piercing, unsettlingwarm, living, healthy, focused on him.
Youre burning out, she says. Ive seen this before. The carer goes long before the patient, sometimes. They call it compassion fatigue. Youre running on empty, arent you?
He nods. What am I supposed to do? Abandon her? Leave her to strangers in a hospice?
You can let yourself be human. Now and then.
I dont know how, Andrew whispers, feeling tears threatening. Ive forgotten what its like.
Victoria reaches out, touches his hand on the armrest. Her hand is warm, alive. He flinches at the touch. When did he last feel warmth from a bare hand, not latex gloves or a clinical check?
Itll be all right, she whispers.
No, he says. No, it wont be. Shes not getting better. Shell lie here a year, two, five. Until theres another stroke or pneumonia or her heart finally quits. And Ill just sit in this chair and watch her fade, while hating myself for waiting for the end.
He lets the truth spill the toxic, guilty truth that gnaws at him night after night, as he wakes with cramped muscles and a soul hollowed out. He waits for Helen to die. Hates himself for wishing release for them both.
Thats normal, Victoria says gently. Thinking that. You arent a bad man.
But I am, he protests. I married her, swore in sickness and in health. And Im dreaming of release.
You want her pain to stop, Victoria corrects. Thats different.
He looks at their hands. Her palm is still resting on his. He should let go, thank her, send her home. But he doesnt. He turns his hand, grasps her fingers tightly desperately, as if drowning.
Victoria, he rasps.
Hush. She leans down, not letting go. Draws him up. His legs feel unsteady. She embraces him, pulls his head awkwardly onto her shoulder. He goes stiff, unsure how to react. When did anyone last hug him? Not out of duty or pity, but just to offer warmth and comfort?
And something finally cracks. He presses his face into her shoulder and weeps quietly, shuddering, ashamed. Unable to stop. She soothes him, strokes his back, murmurs nonsense, and he hangs onto her, as if shes the only thing keeping him afloat.
Time blurs a minute, ten. At last he raises his head, means to apologise, but she puts a finger to his lips.
Dont, she says.
Theyre close, too close. He can smell her skin, floral hand cream, washing powder, antiseptic. Behind him, Helen breathes in time. In, out. He should move away, thank Victoria, show her to the door. He should. But he stands there, looking at her lips, her dark eyes filled with compassion and something else hes too afraid to name. She gently brushes his cheek, wipes away a tear with her thumb.
Andrew, she murmurs.
He is silent, unable to move, coiled tight with fear, shame, desperate need for living human contact. She leans in and kisses him. Lightly, like a question. He goes utterly still. Every bit of him screams that its wrong, a betrayal his wife, his Helen, is just feet away, helpless. But he doesnt push Victoria away. Instead, he returns the kiss, hesitant, as though hes forgotten how. She hugs him more tightly and he lets himself get carried away, lost in the warmth and solace, suddenly not alone, suddenly seen.
They sink into the armchair together. She sits astride his lap. He wraps his arms around her, kissing her, stroking her back and hair, every movement half torture, half relief. He hates himself every second. But he cannot stop.
Her hands unfasten his shirt. His hands slip beneath her top. Behind them, Helen breathes softly, deeply, sedated. She is asleep. She doesnt know. But he does. He knows.
Victoria, he tries to protest, to stop her, to stop himself.
Hush, she whispers. Im here. Youre not alone.
And those simple words finally undo him. He lets himself go, surrendering to what shouldnt happen: there in the armchair by his sleeping wife, under the blue glow of the nightlight, to the dull rhythm of her breath. He is unfaithful to the woman who cannot move, who once trusted him completely. A betrayal, total, inexcusable. But he cannot stop.
Afterward, they lie tangled together in the armchair. Victoria breathes steadily, her head resting on his chest. Andrew stares at the ceiling, eyes burning. Inside, just emptiness. Not even shame, not even pain only a hollow weight, crushing and inexorable, pressing him deep into the armchair.
Helen breathes. In, out. She doesnt wake. Doesnt so much as stir. He looks at her face, peaceful, oblivious. She will never know. He will live with this for the rest of his days. But she will never know.
For some reason, that is the hardest of all.
I need to go, Victoria says quietly, sitting up.
He doesnt answer. She dresses quickly, smooths her hair, shoots him a long, soft glance containing no regret or shame. Only tenderness. Understanding. That hurts the most.
See you tomorrow, she tells him.
See you tomorrow, he echoes.
The door closes softly. He hears her footsteps in the corridor, the click of the front door. Hes alone. Just him, and the steady, oblivious breath of his wife in the next room.
Andrew stands, swaying. His legs are numb, uncooperative. He makes it to the bathroom and collapses next to the loo, retching violently until theres nothing left, tears streaming. Then he just sits, back against the cold tiles, staring blankly at nothing.
He cant go back to the bedroom. Cant look at Helen. Cant sit in that chair. He spends the night in the bathroom, dropping into an exhausted doze before dawn. The sound of his phones alarm jars him awake at seven. Time for Helens morning medication.
He forces himself up, splashes his face with ice-cold water. His reflection is haggard grey skin, red eyes, patchy stubble. He looks the way he feels: as though he hasnt slept in weeks. Which, in a sense, is true. He hasnt truly slept in two years.
The bedroom is quiet. Helens awake, staring at the ceiling. She sees him, moves her left hand the only one that works. He sits at her bedside.
Good morning, he says. His voice sounds thin, alien.
Ah, Helen replies, trying to smile.
He pours water, sorts her tablets, gently helps her sit. Shes light now, almost nothing. Shes lost three stone in two years. He hands her the pills one by one, guiding the drink to her lips. She struggles to swallow, but manages. When hes done, he props her up, tidies the quilts.
Ill feed you next, he promises. Just a moment.
She nods as best she can. Closes her eyes. He steps out, pulls the door half-shut, rests his forehead on the wall of the hall. Breathes deeply, trying to steady his hands. Its futile.
At nine, Victoria arrives. He hears the bell, opens without looking at her. She steps in, unbuttons her coat, hangs it up.
Morning, she says.
Morning, he replies, head bowed.
They settle in the kitchen. She puts the kettle on, unpacks her bag with food. Everythings just so calm, ordinary. As if nothing happened. He sits at the table, fists clenched, not knowing what to say.
Andrew? she says quietly.
He glances up. Shes looking at him evenly no judgment, no pressure. Just calm.
We need to talk, she says.
I cant, he breathes. Not now.
All right. Then just listen. Yesterday It wasnt a mistake for me. I dont regret it. You needed someone. I saw that. And I was there.
You dont understand, he mutters. I cheated on my wife. My ill, helpless wife, lying two rooms away, cant raise a finger without my help. I
Youre human, Victoria interrupts. A living, exhausted man whos hit the wall. Its not an excuse. But it is a reason.
Reasons dont make me better.
No, she says, but they dont make you a monster.
He shakes his head, moves to the window. Outside: an ordinary London street, bare plane trees, playground, benches. People rushing to work, living their normal lives. He stands there in this flat, now a hospital room, dissolving piece by piece.
I cant do this anymore, he whispers. Cant look at her and know what Ive done. I cant.
What do you want? Victoria asks gently.
I dont know, he replies honestly. I dont know anything.
She moves behind him, touches his shoulder. He flinches, but doesnt pull away.
Ill keep coming, she says. Ill look after Helen. Help you. What happened if you want to forget, Ill forget. If you want me to go, Ill go. But if you want me to stay, Ill stay. Not as a carer. As someone who cares for you.
He doesnt answer. Everything inside is tangled guilt, gratitude, despair, need. He wants her gone and never to return. Wants her to stay, never to leave. He wants the impossible: to turn back time to when Helen was healthy, when he was just a loving husband, not a traitor.
I need to feed her, he says finally. Its time.
Victoria nods, removes her hand. He leaves the kitchen without looking back. Helen is lying there with her eyes open, watching the door. When he enters, her mouth quivers in a trace of a smile. She tries to lift her left hand, reaching out.
He sits, takes her hand in his own. Its cold, frail. Her fingers barely curl.
Lu she manages. She means she loves him.
Andrew closes his eyes. Something inside shatters, turning to dust. He brings her hand to his lips and kisses her knuckles.
I love you too, he whispers. I love you too.
And its true. An unbearable, wrenching truth. He loves this woman, broken and dying in front of him loved the woman she was and the woman she became. He loves her through all the damage and anguish. And yet he betrayed her. Slept with another woman, who now stands in his kitchen boiling the kettle, as if nothings happened.
How to live with this? How to keep on holding her hand, spoon-feeding her, changing her pad, giving medication, murmuring at night how things will be all right, when he knows what hes done? When every second of last night is replaying in his mind each touch, each kiss?
Victoria brings in a Fortisip bottle with a straw, places it on the table, leaves without a word. Andrew feeds Helen slowly, patiently, wiping her chin. She sips weakly, splutters. He waits, strokes her thinning hair. Once, she was so proud of her thick chestnut hair. Now it pulls out in tufts.
Its all right, he says. Take your time. Im not in a hurry.
She gazes at him, and in her eyes is so much trust, so much love, that he cant bear to meet her look. He turns away to the window, the photograph, the wall, anything but those eyes, eyes that still see him as he was before, not as what he is now.
The day crawls by. Victoria goes about her work: checks blood pressure, temperature, gives massages, shifts Helen to prevent sores, changes linens. Andrew sits at the computer in the lounge, staring at code. The words blur into nonsense. He closes the laptop, moves to the window. Children play football below, shriek with laughter. A normal life he can barely remember.
At lunch, the three of them sit together in silence. Victoria serves them shepherds pie, pours tea. Andrews attention drifts back and forth her hands pouring milk, her lips that kissed him last night, her eyes that show no shame, no regret.
The district nurse is coming round this afternoon, Victoria says. To put up a drip about three.
All right, he nods.
And the social worker rang wanted to check on us. I said were managing.
Thank you.
Silence. Only the ticking clock and the drone of the next-flat television. Victoria clears the dishes. Andrew watches her, noting the habitual, homely motions. For two years shes been part of this household, part of this misery and now shes become something more, something unnamed, unplaceable.
Evening comes. Helen sleeps under her medication. Victoria gets ready to leave. He sees her to the door. She puts on her coat, picks up her bag, turns.
Andrew she begins.
He interrupts without meeting her gaze, his voice hollow.
Last night it didnt happen. You dont owe me anything. I understand.
She stands silent. He forces himself to look up. For the first time all day, he sees pain in her eyes.
All right, she says softly. As you wish.
Come tomorrow, he adds, unsure why hes saying it, same time. Please.
Ill come, she promises. Of course.
The door clicks shut. Hes alone, in a flat where the only sound is his wifes slow breathing from the other room. In, out. In, out. He cant go in there yet, cant bring himself to that chair. Instead he sinks to the floor in the hallway, back against the wall, unmoving.
He sits for a long time. Maybe an hour, maybe more. Outside, the sky turns dark. The house is silent. Staring into the gloom, he thinks: life ended two years ago, when Helen fell in the kitchen clutching a mug of tea. The life that followed ended last night. Now he doesnt know what this is, who he is, doesnt know anything.
A faint groan comes from the bedroom. Helen, waking or in the throes of a dream. Andrew stands, unsteady, goes toward the sound. The nightlight glows. Helen lies with her eyes open, gazing at the ceiling. She sees him, shifts her hand.
Ah she tries again.
He sits on the beds edge. Im here, he says. Im right here. Its all right.
She looks at him with an intensity of love and trust that nearly makes him scream. He wants to fall to his knees, beg her forgiveness, confess everythingjust for some honest outrage, anything but this unwavering faith he can no longer deserve.
But he says nothing. Just squeezes her hand and stays with her until she falls asleep again. Then he settles into the armchair, pulls the blanket over himself.
He cant close his eyes. Lays awake, listening to her breathe. In, out. In, out. That sound will stay with him. To the end whenever that end comes. A month, a year, five years. Maybe, God forbid, his own end will come first hell burn up, collapse, and then therell be no one left to sit here, hold her hand, lie that things will get better.
He thinks about Victoria. What she said: let yourself be human. How easy and terrifying it was to do so, if only for a night. How shell come tomorrow, and the day after, and he doesnt know how to look her in the eyes, doesnt know how to speak, how to live with whats happened between them.
He cannot find answers. He only knows this: tomorrow hell wake in this chair, get up, splash water on his face, give Helen her morning meds, feed her, call in to work, write lines of code nobody cares about. Victoria will arrive at nine. Theyll speak about blood pressure, continence pads, prescriptions. Theyll smile at each other, carefully, like people who share a secret too heavy to name. Theyll keep going with this existence that is not a life. This nightmare without an end.
And somewhere deep inside, in the darkest corner of his soul, he knows last night will happen again. Not today, maybe not tomorrow but it will. Because hes weak. Because he cant survive alone. Because hes human, and humans break beneath such burdens.
Helen breathes. In, out. He closes his eyes and tries to sleep. But sleep does not come. Only memories return, and questions without answers.
How to go on?
How to look her in the eyes?
How to forgive himself for the unforgivable?
He doesnt know. Tomorrow hell do what he has to do. Because theres no other choice. Because he made a promise. Because he is her husband, and its all he has left.
The rest let it stay in the night, in this armchair, in the hush of the room, where you can hear nothing except the breath of a dying woman whom he still loves, despite everything.
In. Out.
In.
