Chapter 4

I awoke with a start, driven suddenly from dreams to find my room awash with a beam of sunlight determinedly shinning through a crack in the curtains. My head was groggy; stuffed with cotton wool due to the lingering effect of the cocktail of medication I was on. Drugs to cheer me up; drugs to stop the pain; drugs to stop the itching.

I clambered out of my narrow single bed that I had slept in when I was a boy and moved over to the window, shivering as I went. The sun may be shining, but the temperature was still cool and I felt the cold more then I used to – apparently another side effect of the skin grafts. Pausing to throw one of the blankets on the end of my bed around my shoulders, I drew the curtains – looking down onto a sunlit garden.

The rain had left everything with a sparkling cleanliness, highlighting the clusters of snowdrops under the trees at the edge of the garden and the first of the crocus that were starting to emerge in swathes across the lawn. The garden was my parents pride and joy, one of the reasons they were willing to rattle around in this large old house, rather then move to something more compact and suited to just the two of them.

A knock at the door interrupted my musing and seconds later it opened, my father bearing a cup of tea for me. Some things never changed; he had always bought me a cup of tea, waking me up for school before he left for work. "Hello Ric, "he said wandering over to me at the window and handing over the mug.

"Morning Dad," I croaked, my vocal cords parched. I cradled the mug and took a sip, trying to keep the blanket over my shoulders so I would not start shivering and spill the hot drink over the carpet.

I looked at my father, who stood there, obviously gathering words in his mind before he spoke. This was so like him, studied, thoughtful and consistent. I snuck a glance at him, seeing for the first time how his hair, once always as dark as mine was now solid grey, lines on his face; lines that seemed to have deepened since I had moved back home. Yet he still stood erect, perfectly presented for his day at the office in a suit and tie – no dressing down for him.

"I have rather mucked up," he finally said, putting his hands into his pockets and meeting my eyes directly. "I didn't realise you had an appointment at the hospital today and I've booked your mother's car in for a service. I would get her to drop me at the office but I have a meeting today off site so need it." He paused, studying me, waiting for me reaction.

"Oh," I knew what he was insinuating even though he had not spoken the words. I had not driven a car since my accident, my beloved Porsche having been turned into a crushed mess of metal. Since then I had been unable to drive, at first physically and now as soon as I sat behind the wheel of a car I could feel the panic rise in my body. I knew it was a mental block that I had to overcome, but did not have the emotional strength at the moment.

"You could get the train and then a taxi to the hospital," he suggested quietly, obviously reading my silence. "Or why not ask that friend of yours Ali, she might take you. Your mother said she would look after her baby."

It seemed as if Mum was plotting. I had not seen or spoken to Ali for two days, not sure how she might react. Our acrimonious parting the other day had left me feeling unsure of how she felt for me; and more importantly me for her. Instead I had taken the cowards way out and had texted her my thanks for the trip home and left it at that. There had been no reply, so I chose to ignore her in return. It was easier then trying to analyse my feelings.

"I'll see," I replied gruffly to my father, who nodded clearly glad to have dealt with the subject.

"Well good luck at the hospital, I am sure it will be encouraging," he said as he turned to leave. "How long is it now?"

"Six months, three weeks and five days," I answered, "but whose counting?" My response elicited a snort of humour from Dad who finally left me in peace to start my morning routine. It took over two hours to get up and ready myself these days, starting with a range of exercise intended to increase my mobility and stop the scarring from impeding movement.

It was getting easier all the time, from the basic and broad movements involving flexing my hands, neck and legs to the more demanding and strenuous exercises involving the finer movements of my fingers and muscles. However the morning exercises were always the most difficult, the skin having had a chance to contract during the night.

Almost seven months of inactivity had diminished a toned muscular body into a thin; weedy frame more reminiscent of a teenage youth then a man in their thirties. Despite my mother regularly pushing food on me, my body took on an emaciated look, my bones uncomfortably jutting out where once they had been corded muscle and bicep. However I barely afforded them a glance as I prepared myself for the most important part of my routine.

Safely ensconced in the bathroom I started to carefully remove the blasted pressure garments that I had been fitted with. Tight shorts that rather resembled the cycling shorts I had once owned were pulled off and I examined the scar on the top part of my thigh. It was defiantly looking better I noted with clinical disinterest. This was unlike the side of my body from rib to shoulder and then down the arm, here the scar was still raised, the burning had been at its fiercest and my body suffered accordingly. And finally with trembling fingers I removed my mask in front of the mirror, critically turning my head from side to side, forcing myself to acknowledge the reality.

In a detached sort of way there was a horrific beauty to the redness that marred one half of my face. The burn spread across my forehead and down one cheek, luckily not touching my eyes or nose – there I had been lucky – if that is what you could call it.

I grimaced at my reflection, forcing my mouth into a variety of postures, not caring how stupid I was making myself look; just attempting to keep my skin moving and not form a hard shell on my face. Finally after twenty minutes of pulling stupid faces in the mirror I stopped, my cheeks and body aching.

I tossed all the garments into the bathtub washed and creamed my body and automatically started to don the fresh set of garments lovingly cleaned by my mother. I had started my day at seven and it was now past nine in the morning and I could hear my mother moving around downstairs. Time to approach her and ask her about Dad's comment.

Arms full of sweaty clothing, I made my way downstairs, pausing to scoop the mail off the mat and add it to my already full load. Without even realising what I was doing I started humming softly under my breath, the music automatically jumping into my brain.

"Good morning darling, you sound happy." Happy, how can I be happy?

"I'm okay," was my response as I stuffed the clothes into the machine and dumped the mail on the table.

"Was that ballet music you were humming?" I turned and look at her, seeing her eyebrows raised as if my musical choice was of note.

"Um, not sure," it was so automatic that I hadn't even noticed my choice of music, let alone consciously tried to whistle it.

"Yes defiantly, it was part of the Rose Adagio – I am sure of it!" A smile broadened her face. "You weren't thinking about anyone in particular were you?"

"Oh for fuck sake's Mum, just say it – was I humming ballet music because I was thinking of Ali? I know that's what you want to ask." My good mood evaporated with her prying and it was only as it did that I realise that I had been achieving a level of contentment if not happiness.

My mother flinched at my language. "Eric don't swear," she said calmly. "I didn't mean it that way and if you can't take a bit of light teasing…" She turned from me and focused her attention on the mail; ripping opening an envelope with more force then was truly necessary. Oh boy, she is pissed off with me. I tried to cover up the slight embarrassment by moving around the kitchen, pouring cereal into a bowl before sitting down and eating my breakfast in silence, not arguing or raising the issue further.

"Goodness, how sweet," her words broke the silence and I looked up expectantly, waiting to be told the latest news from the family, or the town, or hear whatever the gossip was that had just been passed to my mother. Instead she handed me the little postcard she had just read. "Here, look."

I took it from her, not registering the address at the top, before scanning the four sentences written on the card. It was from Ali, thanking my mother for her help the other day. A momentary anger surged through me. She writes to my mother but ignores me. "That's nice of her," I commented gruffly, handing it back to Mum with a slight shrug of my good shoulder.

"So that is where she lives," my Mother commented, studying the address at the top. It was obviously headed stationary from where she was staying.

"You know it?"

"Yes, 'The old Vicarage', in Warlington – that beautiful ivy covered house on the corner," she continued when I stared at her blankly. Suddenly I knew where she was talking about. Warlington was a little village a few miles from the town, very picturesque and highly desirable to live in. I was surprised that Ali lived there. "Beautiful house, but owned by the most awful man," my Mother continued.

"Well, that must be Ali's father then. She told me she was living in her Father's house."

"I'm surprised, I didn't think he had children," Mum mused, taping into her vast knowledge of the local population. "Although, that might be with his current wife, rather cold fish, whenever we ask her to help out with church flowers or the cake stall she never does."

"Ah, snubs the local WI does she," I replied flippantly, amused at her idea of social disgrace. She chose to ignore me and went on with her verbal recall.

"Yes that's it, she is his second wife, a good ten years younger then him or so, think she might be foreign. His first wife was an American, lovely woman, very glamorous and they had two small children, boy and a girl."

"One of whom must be Ali then," I summarised. "She said her parents were divorced and she was living in her father's house. Obviously her Mother lives in America and that is why she cannot stay with her.

"I assume so, although I don't remember an Alison, I think they were Christine and Benjamin. But then I could be wrong. You use to play with them occasionally."

"Did I?" I was shocked. Ali could be a long lost friend then. The possibility made me want to contact her even more. I took a mouthful of soggy cornflakes and mused over the situation.

"So why don't you call her?" Mum called as she wandered out the room, obviously taking advantage of me having my mouth full to put forward her suggestion. There was little I could do but glare in reply and by the time I had swallowed she was out of earshot and couldn't hear my muttered curses.

Finishing the bowl I cleaned up after myself and then sat down with a sigh. Normally this was when I would talk a walk into town, go and buy the paper, have a coffee and pretend that my life was normal and happy. Instead today I was fidgety, unable to go about my usual routine.

In my old life, a few hours composing would have driven any jumpiness out of me, but now attempting to play the piano was a laughable attempt, my fingers not obeying the commands. The violin was worse, for I could not even curl my hand around to hold the bow. Occasionally I wrote down the odd phrase or passage that came into my head, clumsily holding the pen so that the writing resembled that of a small child, but at the moment the patience required was sorely lacking.

Instead I eyed my mobile sitting on the table, willing it to ring. I could not understand the reluctance I felt to speak with Ali, after all I never use to have this problem with women. But then I used to see them as no more then playthings, often talented ones. Apart from a violent and passionate few months at music school I had never been in a serious relationship. It was easier to remain detached where women were concerned.

But that was my old life, one where I knew I was wanted for my looks, talent and the opportunities that I could offer to people. Now I had nothing except a rather messed up mind and body with a bedroom at my parents. Oh sure, my flat was still there the mortgage being paid from savings and I ostensibly was on sick leave from work, so was technically still employed – but without the ability to charm, persuade and pursue I was no more then an empty shell of what I use to be.

Yet, despite all this Ali still seemed to want to talk to me, be my friend and I wanted it in return. "Bugger, bugger, bugger," I swore out loud to the kitchen and before I could condone or condemn my actions I picked up the phone and called her.

"Hello," the voice that answered was slightly sleepy.

"Ali," There was a pregnant pause before she replied.

"Hi Eric."

"Did I wake you?"

"Hmm, no not really, Tess was asleep and I was cat napping on the sofa. She had a not so good night. How you?"

"Okay," I paused wondering how to ask the question, not use to being in a begging position. "I have a favour to ask."

"Go ahead," she yawned down the phone line.

"Could you or I should say would you mind taking me to the hospital this afternoon, I am without transport?" There I said it!

"What time do you need to be there? Tess goes for a nap about twelve and then needs a bottle at two."

"Um one, but Mum said she would look after her, if you could take me. The car is in the garage, but I would pay your petrol." There was another pregnant pause as she weighed up the offer.

"Yeah okay then, I assume you are talking about the Queen Victoria?"

"How did you know?"

"Well isn't that where burns patients are treated around here?"

"So do you mind? I realise that it's not a hop, skip and jump." I waited with baited breath. After all I was asking her to drive nearly an hour there and back.

"Go one then, if you Mum will look after Tess. " She laughed slightly. "Bit of a treat really."

The sunshine added to the feeling of cheer as Ali and I drove off later that day, leaving my mother literally holding the baby. I pushed the front seat as far back as it would go to accommodate my legs and sat there, occasionally shooting looks at Ali. The whine of the car as it drove along the motorway was drowned out by gurgled ballet music pouring from the tape player. It didn't leave much room for conversation.

"Thanks for doing this for me," I ventured finally.

"No problem," she turned and flashed me a quick smile before concentrating on the road again. "Like I said, it's a bit of a treat to be away from Tess, which sounds so callous, but when it is only you and no break." She sighed heavily before yawning.

"Couldn't you put her with a childminder for a few hours a week? It would let you catch up on sleep or some time to yourself."

"Can't afford it. I mean I am on maternity leave and so am getting a bit of money, but nothing extra."

"And won't your father help you? Tess is his granddaughter after all."

"Yeah right." She laughed bitterly. "He has only seen her a couple of times. Nah, my father isn't the paternal sort. He is letting my stay at his house as long as I keep out of his and his wife's way. I'm actually in the Granny annexe."

"What?" I was slightly stunned. Use to the largess of my parents I could not believe how callous her own father could be to his daughter and grandchild. To not even allow them to stay in his own house. "But didn't you grow up there?" I stuttered.

"What, at the Vic? Yes and I could go back to my old bedroom but the granny annexe is much easier, own kitchen, own bathroom – I don't feel like I have to be so invisible." She paused and could obviously tell I was shocked. "You know Eric, if you've never had it, you don't miss it. Dad has never been demonstrative, therefore, most of the time it doesn't bother me that he cannot care less, that's just life."

"If your father is so cold to you, why are you staying with him and not your mother?"

"Hmm, well Mom lives in the States, so does my brother, they both moved back there when Mom and Dad got divorced, but by then I had a place at the Royal Ballet School and didn't want to give it up. The only option was to remain here with my father as my legal guardian."

"You could go back to her now though, couldn't you?"

"Yeah, I hold a dual passport, but she lives in the middle of nowhere and all the ballet is still in the big cities, so I would be no better off – possibly worse as I would be without any friends or people who know me. I do have a job in this country, I just need to figure out how I can do it and look after Tess."

"Hmm," I was at a loss to give advice, realising her predicament. I assumed the world of ballet, like the world of music; was cut throat, several applications for every place that was available meant that you could not argue with the hours or regime for there was always someone willing to take your place.

We finally pulled into the car park at the hospital and found a space. "Do you want me to come in with you? How long are you going to be?"

"About an hour or so," I replied. "It's up to you, I can meet you back here if you want." I tried to sound nonchalant about her presence, when in reality I desperately wanted her support. The assessment and subsequent physio was always difficult for me and it was nice to have a friendly face to come out to. Mom didn't realise how much I depended on her being there usually.

Ali glanced my way, a knowing look entering her eyes before she gave a small smile. "I'll stay, I've bought a good book with me and it is rather a luxury to sit and read with no interruption." I nodded in reply, too wound up to verbalise my thanks. The waiting room was silently stuffy, several people sitting quietly, many with the same predicaments at me. We tactfully avoid looking at each other, for to do so may have been to leave the safety zones we had built around us. Instead the room was filled with the quite hum of the water cooler and the squeak of the nurses' shoes on the rubber floor.

"Hmm, it's amazing how all hospital departments are the same" Ali murmured into my ear. "This is almost like the antenatal unit where I had Tess."

"Although not so many pregnant people," I returned quietly, causing her to snort with laughter.

"Tended to be more women there are well, strangely enough and really bad reading material, tons of parent and baby magazines, very depressing."

"What more then this," I gestured towards the shabby paper I held in my hands, a picture of a smiling woman gracing the cover and exclamations on how to bake the perfect cake, find the best swimwear for your figure and other banal headlines.

"Interesting choice of reading," Ali snorted again with laughter.

"Actually there was a recipe in her that Mum was reading when she was last in, I thought I would tear it out for her."

"Eric, you vandal, destroying hospital property!" I never had a chance to formulate an appropriately crushing reply for a young nurse called my name out.

"Eric," she paused and looked at the clipboard frowning. "Eric Saint John," she finally called, causing me to wince at her butchering of my surname and Ali to subside into a further fit of giggles. I rose from my chair and quietly walked up to her.

"It's pronounced Sinjin," I said quietly, not wishing to cause her embarrassment. Eric Sinjin." She looked at me and blushed, before leading me off to the torture of an hour's physiotherapy.

I was assessed, pushed exercised and prodded for over sixty minutes, leaving me emotionally and physically exhausted. Despite doing everything that I had been told, the nurse still frowned at my body.

"It is healing Eric, healing quite well, but you must keep doing the exercises, small ones every two hours and then a longer session morning and evening. You also need to put on more weight. Have you tried those protein shakes yet?" She paused and fixed me with a gimlet eye. I looked down at the floor and shook my head, a shiver running through my body at the same time. I was almost surprised to feel a tear running out of my eye as she squeezed my good hand. "It will come my dear, never worry, you're doing a grand job. I can't believe you are the same person as the one that walked out of here over five months ago. Now do you have any questions?"

I shook my head mutely, too exhausted to continue the conversation and silently stood up, murmured my thanks and left, seeking Ali out, desperate to return home. I was always emotionally drained after these sessions and whilst thankful that Ali had driven me and I didn't have to take the train home, dearly wished Mum was there instead.

Ali saw me coming and stood up, sticking her dog-eared paperback back into her handbag. "All finished, you look beat," she said kindly with a smile. I widened my cheeks at her in return, a poor excuse for a smile, but was feeling too battered to interact.

The drive home was sheer hell, all I wanted to do was sleep or cry, try and get the emotions of exhaustion off my chest. Having given everything at the appointment, I felt drained. I leant back in the seat and felt a few drops of moisture trickle out of my eyes.

"It was tough wasn't it," Ali said quietly, turning the radio off.

"Yeah," I murmured quietly, looking at my reflection in the window of the car, not wanting her to see my vulnerability.

"I don't know about you, but sometimes when I just have pushed myself beyond all limits, I just want to curl up in a ball and howl my heart out," she commented insightfully. "Used to as well occasionally, after a really shit class or something. There is sometimes only so much the body can take and then when it is beyond that it drains the soul as well. I don't know if you agree."

I turned my head back towards her, a hesitant curl on my lips, amazed at her intuition and understanding. "You give all and it strips away the layers of reserve you use to protect yourself," I added.

"So all that is left is a little naked part of you, yelling and screaming for all it is worth." She summarised my emotions, flashing me another of her smiles, the action speaking more then the words, showing me that she understood my predicament, knew how I was feeling. And with the knowledge that I was sharing my emotions, the pain started to recede.

It was nearly four o'clock by the time we reached my house again and Ali hurried anxiously into the house, with me hot on her heels. We rushed as a pair into the living room only to witness my mother sitting on the floor, singing away to the baby. In return Tess was giggling merrily. It was a cosy little scene.

"Eric, Ali," my mother laughed at us, crowding the doorway, staring in agog at her. "She has been an absolute angel, slept for two hours and has just finished her bottle, so we were having a little singsong." She clambered to her feet, cuddling the infant close. "We've had a good time, haven't we darling, but now it's time to go back to mummy."

She held Tess out to Ali who took literally danced into the room, clasping her baby and twirling around, eliciting another laugh from Tess. "Hello my darling Teresa," she said, rubbing her nose against the baby's. "Did you miss Mommy, did you darling?"

I hung back, not wishing to intrude on the reuniting of mother and child, not quite sure of my role. Ali and I had formed a bond over the past few hours, but now faced with the evidence of another part of her life I felt that I was surplus. She didn't need me and all my shit to cope with as well.

I slunk back out of the room and into the kitchen, pulling off my coat and throwing it over the back of the chair before putting the kettle on, keeping my gaze trained on the worksurface, trying not to let emotions well over me again.

"Eric," my mother's voice was soft and I turned, collapsing into her smaller frame, the tears that had been threatening earlier finally flowing out as I sobbed into her shoulders. "Shhh," her words comforted me. "It's okay darling, it's okay." I nodded against her comforting warmth, feeling her rubbing my back as if I were still her little boy looking for comfort. Finally I raised my head and sniffed, leaning back against the counter. "Was it a difficult session?"

"Yeah," my voice was hoarse, rough with emotion as I went to wipe my eyes, unable to easily reach the moisture. With a sigh I undid the tight strapping and eased the plastic from my face, carefully dabbing at the skin with the soft tissue. My mother watched silently. "I had better go and put more cream on it," I excused myself, clutching the mask in my hand and went upstairs to try and compose myself.

Once again it was the cowards way out, but I couldn't face Ali, didn't want to let her see my weakness and knew that my mother would cover for me. I stood on the landing, hearing her exchange words with my mother, listening to my parent apologise on my behalf and Ali quietly showing her understanding.

Moving silently to the shadows at the top of the stairs, I gazed down on them, saw my mother exchange a hug, kiss the baby and wave goodbye to them out the door, leaving me alone with my painful body and muddled thoughts once more.