Chapter 40
REALLY REALLY
Becca
By the time Conal and I go back into my mother’s room, she and Mrs Bishop are both staring at a phone watching an episode of the daytime soap Hope Street.
I can hear the Northern Irish accents of the cast sounding around the room.
Whatever it was they were discussing before has clearly been resolved but when I try to ask a question I get shushed by my mother. It seems that talking while there is drama ongoing in the fictional Port Devine is strictly off limits.
Mrs Bishop does take a moment to take her gaze from the TV to say hello to Conal though, and if I’m not wrong I notice a little blush on her cheeks. I think she might just have a little crush – but she can keep her hands to herself. This man is mine and I am not afraid to fight her for him.
Conal tells her he is delighted to see her and that she always brightens his day. He sure knows how to play to a crowd. Mrs Bishop blushes even more before my mother nudges her, asking her a question about the fictional goings-on onscreen, and she goes back to watching.
It’s clear this is not the time to have the big chat with my mother, but I can’t really put it off all that much longer. If I don’t speak up, the sneaky beggar will be off booking herself into some home somewhere out of some sense of guilt or not wanting to be a burden and I can’t let that happen.
I don’t want to treat her like a child. She of course has the right to have a say in her care, but I want to be able to show her from the off that we have it all in hand and there is no reluctance or resentment in my wish to care for her at home.
The only fly in the ointment, and it might actually be a blessing in disguise, is that the discussion regarding moving in with Conal is indefinitely on hold.
I don’t have to worry about hurting his feelings because the decision is outside of my control.
And I don’t have to worry about putting myself under pressure when my brain is still having a conniption at the thought of putting all my trust in another relationship – no matter how perfect the man.
I just have to make sure that caring for Mum is organised in such a way that I have free time to be with Conal away from my childhood home.
I can’t imagine my mother taking too well to me having overnight guests of the male variety.
Roisin Burnside has come a long way in accepting the reality of modern living, but I can’t think of anything less conducive to mutual orgasm than going at it hammer and tongs knowing that your ailing mother might hear your every move and moan in the next room. Nightmares are made of such things.
I suppose it’s an easy out. I don’t have to delve too deeply into my feelings regarding living with Conal because at this stage, it just isn’t possible anyway.
Of course we can’t brush the whole issue under the carpet.
We’ll have to face it at some stage, but for now everyone seems to have accepted that there is another bigger issue that takes precedence.
But on days like today, when he is making Mrs Bishop blush, and making sure I’m okay, while asking what else he can do to help, I do think that maybe, just maybe, it would be nice.
That maybe, someday, I’ll be able to push down my fears and worries and instead just enjoy being with him without panicking about what might come.
I might be able to trust the universe to be kind to me and to us. It might just work.
As I’m contemplating life, the universe and everything to a soundtrack of a BBC drama, I get the feeling that I’m being watched.
Looking up, I see Conal staring directly at me, and the look on his face is one of love.
True love. The kind of love sixteen-year-old me used to dream about.
When young Becki wrote in her time-capsule letter about wanting to find love, her dreams were to meet someone who was, yes, ridiculously handsome but also smart, witty and caring.
Someone who made her laugh, who gave good hugs.
Who loved her family as much as she did, and loved her friends too.
That they would all hang out together like a Northern Irish version of Friends and maybe her big love would be the Chandler to her Monica.
The Mulder to her Scully. The Doug Ross to her Carol Hathaway.
Forty-seven-year-old Becca knows a little more about love, and life.
For example, I want to love a man who understands that we have our own baggage to carry.
Who treads gently with my heart. I want to love a man who is just as fond of the absolute dingbat that Daniel is as I am, and doesn’t mind his clothes getting covered in dog hair constantly.
But more than that I want to love, and be loved by, a man who cares.
I remember reading a quote somewhere online that when you choose who to love, choose a person who not only gives you butterflies, but also who you know you will want to have by your side when your parents are old and ill.
Who will hold your heart very carefully in his hands when the loss of a parent threatens to break it clean in half.
That’s what love means as an older woman.
And again I am reminded that this is what love means to me, and what I see in Conal, who looks at me as if he believes entirely in my inner strength but also knows that there are times when I need to be held tenderly while my life is in a very fragile place.
Looking at him and how incredibly everything he is, I realise I need to let him know just how much I value him. How much I need him. And how he has made the last few days more bearable just by knowing he is in my life.
I have not cried since that first night in the Room of Doom.
I have held it together in an almost robotic manner.
I have used dark humour as a coping mechanism, and occasionally I’ve been angry, and grumpy, or I’ve just dissociated widely.
But in this room, where my mother is watching a TV programme with Mrs Bishop, both of them totally content, while a man who loves me looks at me like I’m the most important person in the world to him, I feel tears prick at my eyes, and my chest contracts.
I am going to cry. And it’s not going to be pretty.
It’s likely to be an exceptionally ugly cry, in fact.
And I don’t want my mum to see it. I don’t want her to worry that I know something she doesn’t.
I don’t want to tell her that I’m not actually crying because she has scared me shitless, but that instead I am crying because there is a man who loves me, but more than that, who makes me feel as if I deserve to be loved.
She’d be happy for me, of course, but it would fall a little into the ‘making a holy show of yourself’ category to have this epiphany in a hospital ward.
Instead, I give a little nod in his direction, acknowledging his look. Tell him I’m just nipping out for some fresh air before taking myself to the nearest visitor toilets, locking the door, covering my hand with my mouth and crying until I throw up.
When I am suitably calm again, I wash my hands and face, put the seat down on the loo and sit down, taking my phone from my pocket.
I immediately click on my group chat with Niamh and Laura.
Becks
Lads. I think I really, really love him
It’s not quite giving ‘Reader, I married him’ but it’s close enough.
Niamh replies first.
Niamh
Tell us something we don’t know.
Laura follows.
Laura
Yes. We know.
The conversation continues:
Becks
No, but I mean really, REALLY love him. He’s a good man. One of the proper good men.
Niamh
Well, yes he is. But you still don’t have to do anything that you don’t feel totally comfortable with. Moving in is a big step.
Laura
Niamh’s right. But yes, even I can admit my big brother is a good man and he does love you very much, Becca. Just remember you two can make your own relationship rules and what works for you. If you don’t want to move in together – make it work another way. Find a solution together.
Becks
You are absolutely right, Laura. I love you. I love you both. I’m so blessed to have you in my life.
Niamh
Are you drunk?
Becks
Drunk on love!
And then a thought hits me. Are we being horrifically insensitive to Laura who has, more or less, decided that she wants to break up with Aidan?
Here I am singing to the heavens about love and her marriage is collapsing.
She has filled me in on her decision in whispered conversations in hospital corridors and in these WhatsApp summits with Niamh.
It’s possible I am an absolute dick right now.
Becks
Oh God, Laura. I’m so sorry. I’ve just realised I’m being an absolute insensitive cow. Waffling on about love. How are you? How is Robyn?
Niamh
Shit! Sorry Laurs. We are officially dicks sometimes.
Laura
Well that’s true, but it’s better than being a knob.
I have a feeling I’m missing some sort of in-joke here but as three dots on the screen indicate that Laura is typing again I hang fire, waiting to see what she is going to write.
Laura
You’re not being insensitive. It’s okay to be happy about something good happening.
Especially after this week. And I’m okay.
Robyn’s okay too. We’ve had a chat. She understands.
Now I just need to talk to Aidan. But I’m fine.
Actually, I’m better than fine. I’m terrified…
but at the same time I know it’s going to be okay and I need to be true to who I am.
I feel so incredibly, unspeakably proud of her in this moment. This is a far cry from the uncertain woman of last week and all she had to do was own her own happiness – and treat herself with the kindness and wisdom she so easily hands out to others.
I tell her I really, really love her too and all three of us agree we are absolutely class human beings and when I finally unlock the door to go back to my mother and Conal, I am smiling.
I didn’t expect to see Conal waiting outside the loo for me. I wonder how long he has been there. ‘You’re happy?’ he asks, confusion written across his face.
‘I am,’ I say, allowing him to pull me into a hug. ‘I mean, obviously I’m worried about Mum, but I am happy. Happier than I’ve been in a long time. Maybe even happier than I’ve ever been.’
I look up at him and place one hand on his cheek, turning his head towards mine. ‘That’s largely because of you, you know.’
‘Ah, nonsense,’ he says. ‘It’s because you’ve done what you set out to do a year ago.
You’ve taken control. You’ve chased your dreams. You and those two eejits you hang about with have gone off on your adventures together – your retreats and your classes and your choir thingy – and it has made you happier. As has Clara and—’
‘And you!’ I interject. ‘I want you to know that. I don’t know what our future is going to look like yet, but I do know I want you in my life. By my side. I like what we have and when I think of you, of us, it makes the tougher things easier.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he says. ‘And we’ll make it work. Because I want you in my life too. And you make me happy as well. You know that, don’t you?’
‘I do. I really do,’ I tell him.
‘Good,’ he says with a smile that makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside, and also, if I’m being honest, a bit turned on.
What kind of a slattern am I to get a dose of the horn in the stroke ward?
Maybe this is another thing I can blame the menopause hormones for. I tilt my head towards his once again.
‘Conal. When we finish here today, would it be okay if I went back to yours for a bit? Just a couple of hours maybe. Just some time to ourselves.’ I raise an eyebrow in an attempt at international sign language for ‘let’s do very dirty but fun things to each other’.
He gets the hint and raises his eyebrow in international sign language for ‘don’t threaten me with a good time’ before pulling me into a tight hug and kissing the top of my head. ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ he says. ‘I’d like nothing more.’