The Rabbit Girls(9)
I saw her out of the corner of my eye coming towards me.
‘Professor,’ she called, and on impulse I turned towards her, even though I knew I should turn away.
Her hair blazed out behind her, white in the sunshine. She was running towards me, and I stood motionless, unsure of where to place my feet. I wasn’t sure if I should run away, duck and cover, or run towards her. What I did know was that I forgot to breathe, so that when she caught up to me, I was as breathless as she.
‘Professor,’ she gasped, and her voice dropped an octave. ‘I have something for you.’
I kept my arms crossed at my chest, to try and get some command over my body in the presence of her so close to me. We were the same height and the intimacy of being unable to look away from her face, to hold her entirely in my vision, was unnerving.
‘Haven’t you done enough?’ I said. She looked wounded and I dropped my hands to prevent them from reaching out to touch her. Despite fearing she had caused all of this, I couldn’t master myself enough to walk away, to run away, as I should have done.
She was the image of my demise.
MIRIAM
The image of her father fitting until he dies, and there being nothing that anyone can do about it, sits heavily with Miriam. The silence expands until Hilda swallows the dregs in her cup, places it down with a tinkle and picks her bag from the floor, knocking the newspaper from the table as she does so.
Hilda taps on the headline. ‘God, indeed.’ And she laughs. ‘Speaking of which, I had a discussion with your father’s doctor, Dr Baum, today. I was going to talk to you in the morning, but now I’m here . . .’
Miriam looks up, meeting Hilda’s eye.
The turn of conversation makes her senses sharpen.
Full alert.
At the mention of his name, even though ten years have passed, comes the familiar sting. Dr Baum sat behind his desk, the bustle of the waiting room behind the closed door. The doctor illuminated as the sun streamed through the window so she could never really see his features.
She digs her nail deep into the nail bed and pulls at the loose skin she uncovers. Her mind runs so fast through all the ‘meetings’, as if they were one. The stale coffee, the thick pile of her medical notes, the antiseptic and the prescriptions, and her husband’s clammy hand clasped over hers.
An overwhelming need to wash her hands grips Miriam like vertigo. To peel the layers of skin away, to turn back time, to when his hands had never touched hers.
Trying to force air into her lungs so she won’t faint now, with Hilda in front of her, Miriam can smell Dr Baum’s office. She knows she is not there. She is in her father’s room, she is home, Hilda is in front of her, a creased worried expression on her face, yet the air is permeated with the smell of the thick, wool-covered foam seats of the doctor’s office.
She can feel her husband’s hand like a glove over her own, smell his hot breath and hear Dr Baum clear his throat as he theatrically placed his glasses on the notes, offering his sympathy and his prognosis. Discussing options for her, agreeing a way forward for her, shaking hands and leaving with pills.
For her.
She clasps the fabric covering her stomach, a soft nylon, almost sheer, it hides her fingertips as they touch her warm flesh, to help her find her centre.
‘There is a care plan meeting happening next week,’ Hilda says.
The words fall like heavy drops.
‘I’m not sick.’ She looks to Hilda, to see if she knows her past. And her present. But Hilda is taking her father’s pulse.
‘It’s for your father. Routine. To check we are doing everything to support you.’
Miriam moves her fingers on her stomach. Thumb. Forefinger. Middle. Ring. Baby. Pressing each one into her skin, then back. Baby. Ring. Middle. Fore and thumb.
‘You did really well, it’s not nice seeing them like this. I do understand.’ Hilda consults her watch. ‘It is very late, or actually it’s very early. I shall leave you to rest.’
Hilda picks up her bags.
‘Remember, keep an eye on his respirations, call the paramedics again if you need to. Plenty of fluids once the midazolam wears off. And Miriam . . . sleep for you, okay?’
She manages a faint smile. Hilda is a wave of fabric and colour, her glasses perch in her curly hair like a bird in its nest. She hugs Miriam, who stands solid, Hilda’s perfume creating a floral smog. ‘Stay where you are, I’ll see myself out.’
As soon as she hears the door close, Miriam rushes to lock it and turns the catch. She sees her feather, which lives between the door and its frame, on the floor with a snatching of dust and places it in her pocket.
4
MIRIAM
The next day, her father is settled and flush-faced. Unable to find the energy to sustain her usual verbose rubbish, she cares for him in silence. Her eyes are red and heavy, having not slept, just rested in the chair, watching him. The world seems harsh in the morning light.
The kitchen cupboards are almost empty: crackers, coffee, but not much else.
‘I’ll have to go out today,’ she says to herself as she pulls out a pack of crackers. Wandering into the living room she switches the television on. East meets West is still, after a month, the only news.
‘I was terrified.’ A young man with a mop of black hair and wearing a denim jacket is speaking to the camera, a microphone close to his mouth. It’s old footage, she has watched it already, but as she watches it again, she eats.