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I pottered around the house, meddling with pointless chores. Concentrating on anything proved difficult, given that the man who had taken root in my heart all those years ago was snoring like a bulldozer less than ten feet away. Unable to prevent myself from checking on him at fifteen-minute intervals, I eventually gave up pretending to be constructive and made myself comfortable in the armchair opposite the bed. From there, I watched him sleep, reassuring myself that wasn’t weird at all but a vital component of post-concussion care.
Six hours later, I had a crick in my neck, my belly rumbled, and Matt had woken up.
“How are you doing?” I queried, as he looked around. He blinked at me owlishly, as if trying to recollect where the hell he was.
“Shit.”
Succinct, at least.
“Don’t try and get up.”
“I need the toilet.”
Oh joy. So, not a tad awkward at all. “Let me help.”
“I don’t need help. I’ve been pissing on my own for forty years. I’m good for a while longer.”
“Let me help you into the bathroom, at least. I’m worried you’ll fall. Unless you want me to bring you something to…um…use? So you don’t have to get out of bed? Um…a wine decanter, maybe?”
Considering the amount of swelling and bruising, Matt demonstrated a remarkable range of facial expressions. Suffice to say, my crystal decanter stayed in the drinks cabinet.
Getting him to a standing position without wounding his ribs, face, arm, or pride, elevated my diplomatic skills to Kofi Annan status. He was still wearing thin hospital scrubs and his hoodie; his bony shoulder blade jutted prominently underneath my guiding hand. He’d told Alistair he lived alone; I wondered how well he cared for himself.
“You can take a shower, too, if you like.”
His puffy eyes swivelled towards mine, and he regarded me with suspicion. “Are you trying to tell me something?”
“No,” I responded cautiously. “But you can’t wear these scrubs forever, and I’ll add your hoodie to the wash I’m about to put on. See if we can get the blood stains out of it.”
He grunted his assent; about as friendly an exchange we’d had so far.
“Try not to get your cast wet in the shower. It might be easier to take the shower nozzle off the hook and hold it in…”
“Have you quite fucking finished?”
“I’m only trying to help.”Are you always quite this fucking difficult?
I pressed on. “I’ve sorted out a pair of pyjamas, and a clean sweatshirt you can borrow. Although they might be on the large side. And some socks and pants. There’s a new toothbrush in the bathroom, too, and towels. And shampoo.”
If I expected gratitude, I was disappointed. But at least any thoughts he’d harboured about leaving and fending for himself were put on hold now he realised that even a short trip to the bathroom nearly defeated him. God knows how he coped behind that locked door, with one arm in plaster and a head bandage, but he’d made it crystal clear my assistance would most definitelynotbe required. I hovered outside for a few minutes, just in case, half expecting to hear a thump as he crashed to the floor, but aside from a steady stream of swear words before the shower burst into life, all appeared well.
“Are you hungry?”
In the bathroom, he’d made a unilateral decision to discard the head bandage, revealing a neatly stitched, angry gash across his forehead. Common sense warned me to refrain from commenting. At least he’d retained the plaster cast. Without the bandage, his thick black hair hung damp from the shower; he wore it quite long and messily styled, just as he had done all those years earlier. Back in bed and reclining on the pillows, from his pallor it was evident his excursion had drained every last drop of energy.
“I still feel like I’m gonna puke.”
I shifted the wastepaper basket from its spot by the dressing table to the bed and decided to leave him alone for a while. “Try not to move for a few minutes.”
“Can you draw the fucking curtains? The sunlight is killing me.”
A braver man than me would have pointed out night had fallen.
“A bit of food might help,” I coaxed from the doorway. “You haven’t eaten anything in a couple of days. How about some soup?”
With a pained sigh, as if he were doing me a massive favour, he assented. Blimey, I’d done something right at last.
“Great! I’ll heat up a pot of vichyssoise I bought from Waitrose, and I’ll bring it to you.”
