The Half Sister Page 31

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The head waiter at Goya’s is very sorry to hear of Lady Diana’s accident. Edmund thanks him for his concern and suppresses an ironic smile when he is guided to their ‘usual table’. His old mate Dominic has not yet arrived. Edmund sits, as he always sits, facing the door. Diana would be opposite him, straightening her wine glass, ordering the sea bass, counting off the pearls he brought back for her from a business trip. In front of him everything turns to white: the tablecloth, her neck, the lifeless shells, her bloodless skin. It is only ever her head that he sees now, on its pillow, sliding left and right like a tipped doll, revealing the whites of her eyes, sometimes accompanied by growling the way his teddy bear used to rumble when he tipped him. The other morning at the hospital he lifted the sheets as if he no longer believed that the rest of her existed. The plaster had been removed, he felt the dead flesh of her legs, noticed the redundant skeletal structure of her ankles, the bones doing nothing but maintaining the shape of the flesh, the flesh doing nothing but maintaining the appearance of life. He knew from talk in the family room that with some patients doctors worked towards being able to ask them if they wanted to live. Would it be eyes right or eyes left for Diana? Once, she despised herself enough to try to kill herself; it is difficult to see if God has offered her many additional incentives to stay alive. Perhaps she will choose to live so she can seek forgiveness for the monster she has become? Or perhaps she will choose to live, simply to ensure that neither he nor Mikey will ever be free to enjoy their lives, choose to live to be the better monster? It doesn’t matter. Since she has regained consciousness the medical focus is on rehabilitation. In theology Edmund studied the story of Eutychus, a man who fell asleep during a sermon and toppled out of a third-floor window. Everyone thought he was dead before Paul brought him back to life. That was the beginning of outsourcing the business of resurrection, and although he can see it could be a profitable enterprise, Edmund always had doubts.

  It’s not quite Dominic’s job, but as good as, as Edmund understands it. At Oxford, he and Dominic partied hard, Edmund having to work hard to overcome the hangovers and essay crises which followed, but Dominic, he managed it all, the drink, the drugs, the women and academic success, and now he is one of the top neurosurgeons in the country and adviser to the government’s medical ethics committee. And what do you do, Edmund asks himself, oh, a bit of this and that, nothing very much and nothing very well, he replies, and the empty chair laughs politely at what is apparently a joke.

  A fly-on-the-wall documentary would have shown Edmund always in company at university, but friendship was never really his strong point and he notices the groups and couples around the restaurant, touching over the tables, leaning to one side to catch whispered conversations with their neighbours. Diana is not so different from him. He is surprised how few of her so-called girlfriends have visited more than once, and the cards he receives on her behalf are corporate, bought by other people’s secretaries and rarely followed up with phone calls of concern. Her funeral would best be held in a small church. A shared experience of the absence of love or friendship is not the firmest of foundations on which to build a relationship. Dominic, however, he does count as a friend. On the rare occasions they meet up, the three decades past mean nothing compared to the three years they spent together. And here he is, looking good, looking bloody good.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve joined a gym,’ Edmund says as they clasp each other, man to man. ‘You look disgustingly well.’

  ‘And you look disgustingly haggard,’ says Dominic, handing over his coat to the waiter, ‘although understandable. I’m sorry about Diana, I really am.’

  The well-practised nod from Edmund gets them past that, and they meander through a bottle of wine, order another, exchange news of old friends, the City, the FTSE, Mongolia versus Patagonia.

  ‘Which isn’t why you suggested meeting up, is it?’ says Dominic. ‘I’m guessing what you really want to talk about is Diana . . . about what happens next.’

  He always can see right through me, thinks Edmund, which is a relief. Diana could too, most of the time; he misses that, having someone to whom you don’t have to explain everything, someone who knows more about himself than he does, like a parent with a child.

  He blows his nose. ‘Sorry.’

  Although he deals on a daily basis with patients with the sort of injuries Diana has, Dominic says he cannot for the life of him really imagine how it feels to be sitting where Edmund is sitting now.

  ‘No, but you do have knowledge, and knowledge, as they say, is power.’ Edmund presses ahead. ‘The team at Twycombe have been fantastic, can’t fault them.’

  ‘Anderson’s very good, he was at Jesus College, you know, then at the Royal,’ says Dominic. ‘She couldn’t be in better hands. I taught him myself.’ He nods and the waiter tops up the glasses.

  ‘Well, he doesn’t beat about the bush in terms of how Diana is and what the likely prognosis is . . . and that’s pretty bleak.’

  Having ordered coffee, Edmund catches himself sweeping the crumbs from the table into the palm of his hand and the action sends a shiver down his spine but he continues. ‘Despite all the talk, what I can’t really get from them is what happens now. What are the choices?’

  Dominic has taken the liberty of updating himself on Diana’s status. He isn’t sure he can add a lot more to what Anderson and his team say: long-term care, life-altering paralysis and possibly reduced brain function. There are aspects of her case which are medically interesting, he tells Edmund, some paralysis which makes sense neurologically, the legs for instance, other impairments which are harder to account for, the apparent impaired function in her right arm for example. Edmund should understand that the management of trauma is a dark art.

  ‘But,’ he says, ‘that’s not what you’re here for, is it?’

  Grateful for the reappearance of the waiter, with his cups and cafetière and side plates with chocolates and hand-made macaroons, Edmund doesn’t respond. He wills the man to take his time with the coffee spoons and the sugar crystals, forget something, return, interrupt them again and again so he doesn’t have to utter such words in this three-star Michelin altar. Dominic holds his gaze. That’s why he must be so good at his job, to be able to stare hopelessness in the face and operate all the same.

  ‘I’m guessing, Ed,’ says Dominic, ‘that the questions you want answered are to do with pulling the proverbial plug. Am I right?’

  ‘God knows I loved Diana but . . .’ The tense doesn’t go unnoticed by either of them. ‘Okay, love her. That sums it up in one, doesn’t it? Jesus, I’m better at tenses in Latin than in my own language at the moment. Because, to be honest, I know I’m meant to hang around that bloody rehab ward saying how much I love her whatever happens, but, frankly, that’s not true. Other people might think that, and I don’t doubt their honesty, or if they’re lying, it’s only to themselves, but when it comes down to it, was it really a marriage made in heaven? You were at the wedding, what did you think?’

  ‘I’m not really in a position to offer any judgement on that front, Ed. Mine wasn’t exactly an amicable divorce.’ Dominic checks his mobile, puts it back in his pocket. ‘And to apply to the dilemma the analytical thinking in which you were so rigorously and expensively trained, in this case, the past is not strictly relevant to the future.’

  ‘Point taken,’ Edmund says. ‘Present tense, then. To apply your logic, whether I love her now or not is not strictly relevant either. Agreed. But what is relevant is that she’s not there, it’s not her.’ Edmund pre-empts Dominic’s objection, holds up his hand. ‘Hear me out. There’s no one else I can say this to. I turn up, prattle away to her, read the paper, ask for her suggestions on the cryptic crossword for Christ’s sake. It’s madness. It’s like some Beckett play. As if she’s going to suddenly say, oh, I think four across is Scandinavia. It’s not going to happen, is it? Is it?’

  ‘At this stage, it’s impossible to say.
’

  ‘Even if there is a, what, one per cent chance, okay, let’s look on the bright side, a ten per cent chance it might happen one day, a ten per cent chance that she’ll sit up and say “Scandinavia” at the right time, what does the ninety per cent look like? Just a living death, for her, for me, for Mikey.’

  Dominic pours the coffee. ‘I wonder if you realise how much you’ve talked about him tonight. For a bloke who never wanted kids, it seems to me you’ve found one you’d quite like to keep.’

  ‘I haven’t even asked about yours,’ says Edmund. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m becoming selfish. Some godfather I am.’

  ‘Forget them. They’re all fine, up to a point. Expensive, but fine. And don’t apologise, you’ve been a great godfather to Josh, through the divorce and all that. You always said it was in the genes, that you’d be a lousy father, and I always disagreed. If that’s how you can be with this nephew of yours, well, he’s a lucky boy, and, maybe, he’s the best thing that could have happened to you.’

  ‘You’re not the first to say that,’ admits Edmund, ‘but don’t you see’ – the urgency in his voice is attracting attention, the group on the next table are glancing their way – ‘we’re trapped, all three of us. Mikey is unable to move on, to use the jargon, while she’s still alive.’

  Dominic raises his eyebrows.

  Edmund lowers his voice. ‘Between you and me, Dominic, some weird stuff went on when I was away. I think Diana completely lost it, she was pretty vile to the boy, and that’s putting it mildly. I’ve found things on the computer, a map of the river . . .’ It would be a relief to tell someone. ‘Well, that’s for another time, but I believe he’s terrified of her, scared witless that she’ll live. Now everyone’s refusing to let her die. It’s ridiculous. And apparently I don’t have a say in the matter.’

  ‘And what about you?’

  Emptying the glass, Edmund has the sensation of being on the other side of the window, standing on the pavement, tapping on the glass, looking in on himself.

  ‘What do you mean, me?’

  ‘You say you are all trapped – Diana, Michael – but I’m asking, what about you?’

  ‘Me? Of course I’m trapped too. What’s next? Twenty, thirty years of waking up next to a . . .’ Edmund struggles to find a word which is acceptable to himself, let alone to his oldest friend, a doctor. Vegetable? Basket case? Living corpse? Monster. ‘You know what I mean,’ he concludes. ‘And on top of that . . .’ He turns the plate with the four macaroons round and round in his hands, pauses, pushes the sweets towards Dominic, who shakes his head and waits. Edmund unwraps one, puts it back down again uneaten. ‘Thank God it’s not a fortune cookie.’

  ‘On top of that?’ prompts Dominic.

  ‘On top of that, I’m pretty sure she was trying to kill herself. You know Wynhope, Dominic, you can’t exactly fall out of the nursery window.’

  ‘You can be pushed.’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘I don’t know. Who else was there? Could Michael have done something? Could that explain his behaviour and what you found when you got back?’

  Someone’s coat topples his wine glass. Edmund catches it, but even so, red wine spills onto the white table cloth. Almost imperceptibly, the stain is mopped up, the glass is topped up; that’s what you pay for in a place like this, the invisible hand that makes everything better. The waiter slides away into the wings, there are apologies from the people leaving, then closing handbags, kissing and partings in a language he doesn’t recognise. The taller of the two men throws his car keys to one of the women and they all laugh, over there, on their way out into the world, together.

  ‘Michael,’ prompts Dominic.

  ‘Mikey,’ says Edmund, taking a deep breath. ‘I grant you he’s a weird kid. He put up with years of living with some domestic violence pervert, and he’s screwed up by the death of his mother and, yes, it seems likely, or possible, he unwittingly had a part in that. Then all the business with Diana, he’s hardly going to be Mr Normal. But is he a murderer? No. I know him pretty well now and he wouldn’t have been capable of it emotionally, let alone physically.’

  ‘She didn’t leave a note, though, did she?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Edmund envies people who smoke. They have an excuse to walk away, to hunch their shoulders and hide their faces. ‘But I can be pretty certain that by the end, she didn’t like herself any longer. She didn’t want to live with that person.’

  Leaning over the table, Dominic speaks quietly, but with authority. ‘You think if she was mentally in a state to make a decision, she would not want to live, but, despite that, she might do the whole eyes right thing and say yes. Don’t interrupt me . . . you asked me here, Ed, so let me say it like it is. You think she would not want to live, partly because of the state she is in now, partly because of what life is likely to look like for her in the future, and partly because of how she might feel about what she’s done in the past. You think you have evidence that she already wanted to die.’

  ‘Yes. It’s called jumping out of a second-floor window.’

  ‘We need to discount that last point. The world is full of people who have tried to kill themselves, failed and gone on to live happily ever after, if, and it’s a big if, that’s what happened. As you know, suicide is a complicated matter, and given your family history, you are certainly not the best person to make judgements on what people may or may not want from that. Let’s focus on her prognosis, what you assume would be her feelings about that quality of life and’ – Dominic looks him straight in the eye, unflinching – ‘what you assume will be the impact of her living on the quality of your life, more specifically your life with Michael.’

  Edmund pushes back his chair, screws up his napkin. ‘For God’s sake, Dominic.’

  ‘Oh, sit down, Ed. This is the conversation you wanted all night. It’s just a little harder than you thought. You want to know if, how, when, she can be allowed to die.’

  Edmund’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He checks to make sure it’s not Grace. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I want to know. Is there any way out?’

  Shaking his head, his oldest friend sounds just like Mikey. No No. Diana has not made her wishes clear, and, in the light of that, the doctors have no option but to treat her, to feed her, to ensure the safe functioning of her organs and to try their best to ascertain her wishes. It’s been how long since the accident? Three or four months? And already she’s breathing independently, showing signs of being able to respond to questions, making sounds, possibly regaining some movement in her upper body? No one would countenance even beginning to think about any alternative until at least a year has passed, and that would be assuming she regresses in either her cognitive or physical functioning, and, he emphasises, counting the points off on his fingers, ‘even then it would be a lengthy legal process, highly unlikely to succeed. So the answer to your question is no. No.’

  If Edmund could hit something, he would, but he can’t, not in Goya’s, not here, not now. It is what he expected Dominic to say, it is what they all say – Google, doctors, magazine articles in the Sunday papers – but that cannot be the end of it. He seizes his old friend’s sleeve.

  ‘Are you telling me,’ he hisses, ‘that there’s no way round this?’ Releasing his fingers, he stares at them as if they do not belong to him. ‘Sorry. Look, we go back far enough, we always found ways round things, that was our trademark. How many summer balls did we gatecrash? Nothing was impossible. I know what you’re telling me is correct, legally speaking, but I can’t believe it’s how it happens in practice, not when it’s morally obviously crazy, or ethically, I don’t know, I never did know the difference.’

  People have come to Edmund in the past, not good friends, but people who thought themselves close enough, asking for share tip-offs, merger information, a bit of economy with the truth on the environmental assessment for the planning permission, personal email addresses of people in influential positions in compliance departments. It’s how
the world works. Now Dominic is the one with insider knowledge and access to the technology and Edmund’s the one who’s come knocking.

  ‘You’re the only person I know who can . . .’

  ‘What you need to do, Ed, is stick with it for the next six months or so. It might seem like eternity, but time will pass. Do what you’re doing, focus on the boy, come to London a bit more often, we’ll meet up again. Time will pass, fishing starts again in March, and before you know it, by next summer, the position may be clearer. Things happen. And’ – Dominic finishes his coffee – ‘I’m not talking about bolts of lightning and miraculous recoveries, but the other side of the coin as well, pneumonia, blood clots. Nature sometimes has her way, regardless of what us doctors do to stop her. I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but I’ve met patients who swore when they were alive they would never want to live like that. I’ve met families who have been equally sure their loved ones would not want to live like that, that they did not want to live with them like that, but then somehow there they are, living like that, and they all say they wouldn’t change it for the world, that it’s worth everything just to have them alive. Did you see that neuro work in Switzerland that was in the papers? Every single patient with locked-in syndrome who they managed to communicate with said they wanted to live. Actually, to be accurate, all except one. And Ed, you were in love with her once . . .’