This is sometimes how we must feel when overlooked or ignored, like a nobody.
And some people will treat you like a nobody, i.e someone who is just not important.
That’s just one use of the word.
Another might be…
Who did that to your room?
‘Nobody’ is the plaintiff reply. The infamous Mr. Nobody. We’ve never met him, but he’s always there. And, what’s more, he seems to be able to be in more than one place at a time.
Then there’s that time when there’s nobody in the room, nobody agreed with me, hell, that happens all the time, and when I rang your phone nobody answered.
Nobody? Was I expecting Mr. Nobody to answer? Surely the response should have been, ‘and you didn’t answer’.
Of course, let’s not delve too deep here, lest we might find out something we didn’t want to know.
I went to your house last night, but nobody was home.
How is it we refer to the people whom we know live in that house as ‘nobody’. Shouldn’t we be saying, ‘none of you was at home’?
It seems nobody is one of those words we often use in vain.
For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.
Whilst I have always had a fascination in what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.
And, so, it continues…
When we arrived back at the underground site Martina was waiting, and it was clear she was extremely annoyed. Word, somehow, had filtered back of what just happened.
“Are you totally mad?” she snarled. “You know what’s going to happen now?”
I had a good idea but chose not to speak.
“They got what they deserved,” Carlo said. “They found the missing man that you left on the side of the road, by the way, and it was lucky we were there when they found him. Whether they believed it was an accident or not, they were heading to Chiara’s, and we had to do something about that.”
“And you didn’t think that might have consequences?”
I think all of us had considered what would happen as a result of what could only be described as an ambush. And, while I thought, as no doubt the others had also, it might lead to retribution killings, it might not. Wallace could not afford to be seen acting like the Germans, who certainly would have lined up a dozen villagers and shot them and might not do anything.
But, when he realised I was involved, and that the so-called remnants of the resistance could and were willing to cause him trouble, he would have to do something about it. Especially with a high-value defector coming his way.
“Wallace certainly can’t do anything about it, other than come and ask questions. He can’t afford to be seen acting as anything but a British officer.”
“But he could get Leonardo and his men to do it for him.”
“Surely he wouldn’t kill the same people he’s lived with all his life.”
“Leonardo’s allegiance’s go to anyone who hands him a free meal ticket. Until the so-called British arrived at the castle, it was fine to be the resistance because he was being paid handsomely for his help. When the Germans left the castle, he considered his job was over, and we all went our different ways, hoping the war was over for us. Of course, that was only wishful thinking. Even when the British turned up at the castle, with the express intention of capturing and repatriating to England any Germans who wanted to defect, his advice was to let them do what they want.”
“What changed?”
“The man in charge, Wallace you call him, sent out a message for those who had been in the resistance to come up to the castle to talk. Leonardo thought it might be an opportunity to get back on the payroll. Carlo and I and several others didn’t go. There they were told they would be paid for each defector they collected and brought to the castle.”
“Didn’t he think that might be a little suspicious since it was just as easy for Wallace to send his own people to collect them, and not have to pay anything?”
“Now that we know they are Germans masquerading as British, it makes sense. But Leonardo is little more than a fool and greedy. He doesn’t care who pays so long as they pay. I suspect he has no idea who he’s working for, or what happens to the people he collects. Anyone who opted out of the new arrangement seems to have disappeared.”
“Many?”
“Three that we know of. They’re probably locked in the dungeons with the others you saw there.”
“How come he hasn’t come after you?”
“Too much trouble, and possibly because it’s a fight he can’t necessarily win.”
“He might not have a choice now. Wallace is going to have to do something about us, simply because he can’t let the defectors fall into our hands, and especially now that we know that’s why he’s here.”
“Then if it’s a fight he’s looking for, then we’ll have to give him one.”
“On that, I just had a thought on how we might be able to even up the odds a little, but I have to give it a bit more thought.”
An idea came to me, one that might just work because I was counting on the fact Wallace would have to do something and depending on… “In the meantime, we have to do something about the rest of the villagers, just in case I’m wrong about Wallace. How many people are left in the village?”
“About twenty. All the rest scattered when the Germans came the first time, and half of those that remained were killed for one reason or another. The previous commander of the castle frequently lost it when any of us refused to co-operate.”
“Then send Carlo out to round them up and put them somewhere safe.”
“There are no safe places anymore,” Carlo said, “None that they don’t know about.”
“What about here?”
“It’s the only place we have left that no one knows about.”
“Well, you don’t have much of a choice.”
Martina was not happy. Her isolated resistance effort was steadily becoming a large-scale attack, not the sort of operation she had intended. But I don’t think it would have stayed that way for very long, given Carlo’s actions.
She turned to Carlo. “Go and round them up and bring them here.”
“And if they refuse?”
“Then we’ve done all we can for them. But tell them that it’s a distinct possibility they will die if they stay where they are. Take Chiara, and hurry. I doubt it will be very long before the castle finds out what happened to their men.”
Carlo and Chiara grabbed a weapon each and left. When they returned, it would be to formulate a plan to take down Wallace and the others at the castle, hopefully before the defector arrived.
That plan that was evolving in my mind didn’t exactly involve the villagers, but the three or four remaining members I was now working. Leonardo might not know of all of them, or even if he did, one of them would be Wallace’s first calling point. It just depended on who he sent.
And if I was a betting man, and if he knew that one of his men was ‘seeing’ Chiara, then that’s where they would go.
The only question to be asked at this point, would we be too late to take advantage of an opportunity to reduce the odds?
The Golden Mask Dynasty Show was located at the OCT Theatre in Beijing’s Happy Valley.
The theatre was quite full and the seats we had were directly behind the VIP area; as our guide told us, we had the best seats in the house.
The play has 20 different dance scenes that depict war, royal banquets, and romance. There are eight chapters and over 200 actors, and throughout the performance we were entertained by dancers, acrobats, costumes, lighting, and acoustics.
The story:
It is of romantic legend and historical memories, the Golden Mask Queen leads her army in defeating the invading Blue Mask King’s army, and afterwards the lands return to a leisurely pastoral life until the Queen forges a ‘mysterious tree’. When the tree has grown, the Queen has a grand celebration, and releases the captured Blue soldiers, much to the admiration of the Blue Mask King. This is followed by monstrous floods, and to save her people, and on the advice from the ‘mysterious tree’, the Queen sacrifices herself to save her people. The Queen then turns into a golden sunbird flying in the sky blessing the people and that of the dynasty.
Billed as the best live show in China, described as a large scale dramatic musical, “The Golden Mask Dynasty” it lived up to its reputation and was thoroughly enjoyed by all.
It was not just singing dancing and acrobatics, it had a story and it was told so that language and cultural issues aside, it worked. There was a narration of the story running beside the stage, but it was hard to divide attention between what was happening, and what was being related.
Then came the peacock dance, with live peacocks
And this was followed by a waterfall, well, I don’t think anyone in that audience could believe what they were seeing.
I know I was both astonished and in awe of the performance.
What a way to finish off our first day in Beijing.
Oh, sorry, that high was dented slightly when we had to go back to our room.
In a day of going over old ground and making it new again, I have revisited Zoe’s residence in Paris at the time John called, and found it empty, except for some kid who was all ‘get lost or suffer the consequences.’
Who is he? We flesh that story out, and how it relates to Zoe and those early days in the story.
Similarly, I’m not happy still with how Worthington discovers Zoe, and this is going to need some more work, and definitely a rewrite.
In fact, I might have to revisit his whole appearance in the story and make it a little less bombastic and a little more subdued seething anger.
The whole Marseilles episode is good, it’s just the end and this discovery of who is behind Zoe’s abduction that needs a little work. This is where we sow the enigmatic sees of Romanov and his purpose for wanting Zoe if it is not revenge like it is assumed.
Similarly, that whole thing with the Russian Minister and Anton needs a lot more work because there appears to be a connection between him and Romanov, but there’s not. This is just Olga leaning on her connections to get a result.
Then Zoe takes off to find Romanov, or is it those seeking revenge, it’s not quite clear, and leaves John to contemplate his future. Perhaps a piece here between them that sets the tone for the relationship over the coming months would be good, and the trigger that sets John off on a quest to find her.
His excuses at the moment are wishy-washy at best.
Phew!!! Never knew self-criticism could be so harsh!
…
Today’s writing, with Zoe languishing in a dungeon waiting for a white knight, 0 words, for a total of 8,871.
One of the recurring memories I have of my childhood was the annual pilgrimage to Grand Marais, Minnesota, located on the North Shore of Lake Superior.
It was the place where my father grew up, along with three brothers and a sister, and where his parents had been born, lived, and eventually died.
The other memory, that his parents never came to visit us, we always had to go to them. That, and the fact my mother hated them, that animosity borne out of an event at their wedding that no one ever spoke about.
Not until a long, long time later, after my father had passed away.
We stopped going when I turned eighteen, though I don’t think that was the reason. Mt grandparents hadn’t died or gone anywhere, it was just the week before our pilgrimage was to begin, my father announced there would be no more visits.
You could see the relief on our mother’s face, much less ours because they were, to put it mildly, quirky. Steven, the youngest brother put it more succinctly, weird and creepy.
Perhaps it had been the house, a large sprawling two-story mansion that had been added to over the years, and reputed to have thirteen bedrooms. Thirteen.
They had a butler, a housekeeper, a chauffeur, and several housemaids. Odd, because I got the impression my grandfather didn’t work, and yet they were, reputedly, very wealthy. Equally odd, then, that wealth didn’t extend to my father.
Which, in the final analysis, was probably the reason why we stopped going. He had been cut out of the will.
…
Of course, none of this would have reached my consciousness if I had not received an email from one of the sones of my fathers, brother, and uncle who had never visited us, I’d seen probably three times in my life, and who had lived with his parents in the mansion.
I’d not seen, or heard of any children of any of the other brothers, or sisters, so this was a first, and aroused my curiosity. I had thought that our part of the family had been exorcised from all their collective memories.
Apparently not.
And, that curiosity would soon go into overdrive because with the email came an invitation to come and stay, and meet the other members of the family.
I had a sister, Molly, and called her once I got the email, and she said she had one too.
Was she going? Hell yes. It, for her, was going to be the unearthing of all the secrets.
What secrets, I asked, knowing full well there had been a few, but she had simply said I’d have to wait and see.
…
The drive brought back a lot of memories, and unconsciously I found myself listening to the same songs we did when Dad droves us.
Molly had come to my place, and we drove there together. In itself, it was a good reason for us to reunite after so long being apart. It was even more profound considering we did not live all that far apart, it was just life and family that got in the way.
She, like myself, found herself reliving the annual pilgrimages, her memories being hazier than mine, but that was because she was a lot younger.
She had been the one to leave home first, finding our restrictive parents unbearable. My departure took longer because my mother had implored me to stay, and not leave her with ‘that unbearable man’.
That final few miles from the outskirts of town, past the waterline, then inland was hushed with anticipation. I last remembered the house, although forbidding, as impeccably maintained, with gardens, I was sure, that featured in ‘Architectural Digest’.
This vision as we approached was so different than the last, in the last vestiges of the evening, a dark forbidding place still, only a lot more sinister. The gardens had been abandoned long ago, and everything was overgrown.
The fountain out front, the centerpiece of the gardens, was buried and gone.
The house had also fallen into disrepair, and I was surprised the local authorities hadn’t condemned it.
I parked the car in the driveway, and we sat there, staring at it.
“That motel back down the road is looking good,” Molly said.
The invitation also included staying in one of the thirteen rooms.
“Depends on how many ghosts there are.”
“The motel or here?”
I shrugged. “I guess we’d better get to the front door before it’s dark, just in case.”
Closer to the stairs leading up to a veranda, I could see the different shades of timber when rotten planks had been replaced. We made it to the front door, Molly hanging on to me just in case.
I pulled a ring dangling from a chain and heard a gong go off inside the house. A minute passed, two, then the door creaked open, and an old man in a dinner suit was standing there. “Mr. Garry, and Miss Molly, I presume.
He stood to one side before we answered, and we went in.
The inside was utterly different from the outside, having been renovated recently, much brighter than I remembered from the endless wood paneling. The old man ushered us into a large lounge room, on one side a huge log fire was burning, and around the walls, where there wasn’t a bookshelf full of books were family paintings.
“It’s like a mausoleum,” Molly said.
I recognized a lot of those faces in the paintings, including one of our father and mother together, probably not long after they were married. The men of that family all looked the same, except when it came to me, I looked more like my mother.
“Much better than it used to be.”
“I don’t remember much.”
To one side there was a large staircase that you could go up one side and down the other, and as children, we used to run up and down, and generally be annoying. Sliding down the banister was strictly forbidden, until after everyone went to bed.
I was half expecting to see the old man come from the depths of the house, but instead, a man that I could easily mistake as my father came through from the rear, where, I remembered, there was a room before the kitchens.
“Garry, I presume. And Molly. My God, it’s been too long.”
A shake of the hand for me, and a hug for Molly.
“David, or Jerry?”
“David. You remember. We used to run amok in this place.” He grinned.
He was the wild one, and all I did was follow. There were about seven of us, in the end, before we stopped coming.
“The others will be here tomorrow, and they’re dying to meet you. My dad was the last man standing, and he left the place to me, not that it was much by that time. I’ve spent years doing it up, but there’s a long way to go before it returns to its former glory. By the way, there are no ghosts in the bedrooms, and they are modernized with their own bathroom. I saw you out in the car before, looking horrified. Just a word to the wise, that motel does have ghosts. The jury is out on whether grandfather still roams the hallways, but I guess that’s something you’ll find out tonight. He was a horrid man by all accounts. Sorry, my wife says I babble when I’m nervous.”
“He does.” A woman, a few years older than Molly came out from the back.”
“Angelina?”
“You remember me.” She smiled.
I remembered her, had for a long time because back then, she was the first girl I thought I was madly in love with. The fact she was a cousin didn’t seem to matter. She just ignored me anyway.
And her beauty had not diminished over the years. “How could anyone forget you?”
“Yes, I had that effect on boys, didn’t I? It’s good to see you again.”
We both scored a hug, and yes, being close to her again did increase my heart rate just a little.
“Come,” David said, “sit and we’ll have a drink. Have you eaten?”
“Not for a while.”
“Then we were about to have a bite, I’m sure there’s plenty for everyone. Sit, and we’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“No wife, husband?”
“Yes on both accounts, but we would never bring them here. This family is difficult enough for us let alone outsiders. The rest of the group, well, you’ll see, are just plain quirky relatives. If you ever saw the Addams Family, TV series or movies, well, they’d fit right in here. But you’ll see. More on that soon.”
He and Angelina disappeared outback and silence fell over the room.
“Why do I get the feeling we might be murdered in our beds tonight?”
It was beginning to look like that was a possibility.
…
When David returned with the old man, Angelina, and what looked to be a maid with food and drinks, we sat down again, turning our fears of being murdered into a severe frightening of ghosts.
The old man was enough to think ghosts were alive in the house. It couldn’t possibly be the butler from the last time I saw him because he would have to be about 120 years old.
When all of us were settled, David began.
“There is another reason why I asked both of you here, along with all the others, by the way, there are around ten of us. Your father never told you the truth, or perhaps anything, of the situation when he stopped coming to visit his parents, did he?”
“He just said it was a difference of opinion, that his father would never see reason, didn’t like my mother or her family and gave up trying to be civil.”
“It was worse than that, he told him that if he didn’t give up your mother, he would cut him off from the family fortune, which eventually he did. It’s probably why you found life a little tougher for a few years.”
That was one way of putting it, we were taken out of our private schools and had just about all our leisure activities curtailed, and the worst, no more holidays. Mother even had to get a job, which disappointed her family, but they were not as rich as my father’s family was, so couldn’t help us financially.
“It was difficult.”
“Well, the good news is, your grandmother, our grandmother, was not as quirky or pedantic as her husband and never forgot the service your father did for her when he could. In that regard, she has left a bequest to both you and your sister, Molly. It’s been a long, hard battle to get it through the system, but it’s finally sorted.”
“I liked grandmother more than grandfather,” Molly said.
“Most of us did. He was a rebel himself, going against his family, a very interesting bunch themselves. Our quirkiness probably came from them, the last of the relatively unknown banking and railroad tycoons more famous in the 19th century than today where we are relatively forgotten. It is of course a blessing in disguise. But you ask, what is that quirkiness worth?”
“Not much I would imagine, after all this time. Our father taught us the value of money, so it’ll be nice to have some extra.”
“Some extra.” He smiled. “It’s about 125 million dollars, each. Enough I would say that you can now afford some quirks of your own.”
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
Was this going to be the very definition of dining with the devil?
Or was my curiosity going to be the death of me?
It was just one of a dozen questions I asked myself on that trip back to Nadia’s room. One reason I was going there was not in the expectation of a romantic interlude. No, this was something else. I kept reminding myself that Nadia was, first and foremost, a Cossatino, and the Cossatino’s were not people you wanted to be friends with.
When we arrived, she asked for a few minutes so she could change, so I stayed out on the balcony. It was a coolish night, a clear sky, and just a hint of salt in the air. We were not far from the ocean, and it reminded me of another lifetime, one where I was young enough not to have to worry about all that grown-up stuff.
I heard the door open behind me.
“Thanks for waiting.”
I turned, not sure what I was expecting. Certainly not a statuesque woman in training gear. She looked to me ready to go for a training run.
I walked past her into the room, faintly smelling of some perfume, and sat in one of the two chairs in the room. I watched her close the door, go over to the mini bar, get two bottles of beer out, and hand one to me.
It was an odd thought, being in a hotel room with Nadia, the last thing I’d ever be doing with her, let alone any other woman. My choices had always been limited, or so I had thought.
“I had this thought,” she said, leaning against the desk on the opposite side of the room, “that we should try and beat Vince at his own game.”
An interesting thought, was Nadia thinking of joining in Boggs’s treasure hunt, take it over, or was this a ruse, and had she been working with Vince all this time, and using us to get to the prize by another route. Or was it a rivalry with Vince that she wanted to win? Wasn’t it Boggs’s call who joined the expedition?
“We as in you and me, or we as in Boggs and you, or…”
“You’re overthinking it Smidge.”
“A word of advice, Nadia, if you’re trying to appeal to my good side, you might consider dropping the nickname. Only the people I hate use it, and I’m sure you don’t want me to add you to the list.”
Not necessarily warranted, and in my younger days I’d never dare to speak to her like that, but I felt I had the upper hand, at least for a short time.
“OK. Note to self, call Smidge Sam. Old habits are hard to break.”
In more ways than one, I thought.
“Well, overthinking it or not, it’s not my call to make. I’m assuming you want to join in on Boggs’s treasure hunt?”
“That was the idea.”
“You’re assuming that Boggs actually has the real map, or, in fact, there is such a thing. You have to remember that his father created all those maps, and it wouldn’t be hard to make one look more authentic than another, just to get a better price. Everything to do with the treasure seems to me like it’s one big hoax.”
“If that was the case, why do you think Vince is so wound up about it? My point is, Vince is simply all muscle and no brains. He always has been, so you have to assume that my grandfather has decided there’s something in the rumours. Granted he may have been working in league with Boogs senior, but don’t you think that in order to create forgeries, there had to be some sort of map to work from.”
An interesting premise.
“If it led to treasure on an island in the Wast Indies, I’d be more likely to believe in it, but here, a million miles from any of the pirate trading routes, and having a deep abiding disbelieve in hidden treasure still not recovered in this day and age, what do you think?”
“Does Boggs’s know about your scepticism?”
“I’ve told him enough times, but he has this bee in his bonnet, and I’m his best friend, probably his only friend. I humour him. And I doubt seriously if he’ll ever go through with it, because he’s never finished anything in his life. He gave me a copy of the map, but I suspect that was a copy of the one he gave Vince in the end.
“So, you think it’s not a worthwhile exercise?”
“What I think doesn’t matter. But I’ve got a question for you. Why have you come back here?”
“What if I told you it’s possible that the treasure is real.”
“I’d say you’ve been indulging in the drugs your family pedals.”
“What if I said I had proof?”
OK, where is this going? Did that mean she had proof, or that the Cossatino’s had proof, and was she about to open a can of worms?
“I’m listening.”
“That man that you found dead on Rico’s boat. His name was Jacob Stravinsky. He was an authority on pirates and their lost treasure, and had over the years, uncovered evidence that pirates had come here supposedly fleeing from the authorities, and that at least two of them could have hidden some of their treasure somewhere along this coastline. News of the discovery of several gold coins off the coast, not ten miles from here somehow caught Ales Benderby’s ear and he went to visit him.
“No one is sure what happened at that meeting, but I know Alex was there because that’s where I ran into him. And, the fool that he is, got drunk and told me, no bragged about how he was going to find the treasure and prove his worth to his father.”
“Then how did this Stravinsky end up dead on Rico’s boat.”
“Because Alex got what he wanted and made sure no one else found out.”
What happens when your past finally catches up with you?
Christmas is just around the corner, a time to be with family. For Will Mason, an orphan since he was fourteen, it is a time for reflection on what his life could have been, and what it could be.
Until a chance encounter brings back to life the reasons for his twenty years of self-imposed exile from a life only normal people could have. From that moment Will’s life slowly starts to unravel and it’s obvious to him it’s time to move on.
This time, however, there is more at stake.
Will has broken his number one rule, don’t get involved.
With his nemesis, Eddie Jamieson, suddenly within reach, and a blossoming relationship with an office colleague, Maria, about to change everything, Will has to make a choice. Quietly leave, or finally, make a stand.
But as Will soon discovers, when other people are involved there is going to be terrible consequences no matter what choice he makes.
Sometimes they’re your fault, sometimes they’re not.
The accident I was in was not. Late at night driving home from work, a car came speeding out of a side street and T-boned my car.
It could have been worse, though the person who said it had a quite different definition of the word worse than I did.
To start with, I lost three months of my life in a coma, and even when I surfaced, it took another month to realize what had happened. Then came two months of working out my recovery plan.
If that wasn’t trial enough, what someone else might describe as the ‘last straw that broke the camel’s back’, my wife of 22 years decided to send me a text that morning, what was six months in hospital, to the day.
“I’m sorry, Joe, but enough is enough. I cannot visit you anymore, and for the sake of both our sanity, I think it’s time to draw a line in the sand. I know what happened isn’t your fault but given the prognosis, I don’t think I can cope with the situation. I need time to think about what will happen next and to do so, I’ll be going home to spend some time with family. Once again, I’m so sorry not to be doing this in person. I’ll let you know what I decide in due course. In the meantime, you have my best wishes for your recovery.”
In other words, goodbye. Her family lived in England, about 12,000 miles away in another hemisphere, and the likelihood of her returning was remote. We had meant to visit them, and had, in fact, booked the tickets shortly before the accident. I guess she couldn’t wait any longer.
My usual nurse came in for the first visit on this shift. She had become the familiar face on my journey, the one who made it worth waking up every morning.
“You look a little down in the dumps this morning. What’s up?”
She knew it couldn’t be for medical reasons because the doctor just yesterday had remarked how remarkable my recovery had been in the last week or so. Even I had been surprised given all the previous negative reports.
“Ever broken up by text?”
“What do you mean?”
“Frances has decided she no longer wants to be involved. I can’t say I blame her, she has put her whole life on hold because of this.”
“That’s surprising. She’s never shown any disappointment.”
“Six months have been a long time for everyone. We were supposed to be going home so she could see her family. Maybe that’s what it’s all about.”
I gave her the phone and she read the message.
Then she handed it back. “That’s goodbye, Tom. I’m sorry. And no, I’ve never had a breakup by text, but I guess there could always be a first time.”
She spent the next ten minutes going through the morning ritual, then said, “I’ve heard there’s a new doctor coming to visit you. Whatever has happened in the last few days had tongues wagging, and you might just become the next modern miracle. Fame and fortune await.”
“Just being able to walk again will be miracle enough.”
That had been the worst of it. The prognosis that it was likely I’d never be able to walk again, or work, and the changes to our lives that would cause. I knew Frances was bitterly disappointed that she might become the spouse who had to spend the rest of her life looking after, and though she had said it didn’t matter, that she would be there for me, deep down I knew a commitment like that took more internal fortitude than she had.
She ran her own business, managed three children into adulthood, and had a life other than what we had together. When I was fit and able, and nothing got in the way, it had worked. Stopping everything to cater to my problems had severely curtailed her life. Something had to give, and it had.
But, as I said, I didn’t blame her. She had tried, putting in a brave face day after day but once the daily visits slipped to every other day, to once a week, I knew then the ship was heading towards the rocks.
This morning it foundered.
I pondered the situation for an hour before I sent a reply. “I believe you have made the right decision. It’s time to call it and going home and take some time to consider what to do next is right. In normal circumstances, we would not be considering any of this, but these are not normal circumstances. But, just in case you are worried about the effect of all of this on me, don’t. I will get over it, whatever the result is, and what you need to do first and foremost is to concentrate on what is best for you. If that means drawing a line on this relationship, so be it. All I want for you is for you to be happy, and clearly, having to contend with this, and everything else on your plate, is not helping. I am glad we had what time we had together and will cherish the memories forever, and I will always love you, no matter what you decide.”
It was heart-felt, and I meant it. But life was not going to be the same without her.
…
I’d dozed off after sending the message, and only woke again when my usual doctor came into the room on his morning rounds, the usual entourage of doctors and interns in tow. I’d been a great case for sparking endless debate on the best route for my recovery among those fresh out of medical school. Some ideas were radical, others pie in the sky, but one that seemed implausible had got a hearing, and then the go-ahead, mainly because there was little else that apparently could be done.
That doctor, and now another I hadn’t seen before was standing in the front row, rather than at the back.
The doctor in charge went through the basics of the case, as he did every day, mainly because the entourage changed daily. Then, he deferred to the radical doctor as I decided to call her.
She went through the details of a discovery she had made, and the recommendation she’d made as a possible road to recovery, one which involved several radical operations which had been undertaken by the elderly man standing beside her. When I first met him, I thought he was an escaped patient from the psychiatric ward, not the pre-eminent back surgeon reputed to be the miracle worker himself.
It seemed, based on the latest x-rays that a miracle had occurred, but whether it was or not would be known for another week. Then, if all went well, I would be able to get out of bed, and, at the very least, be able to stand on my own. In the meantime, I had endless sessions of physio in the lead-up to the big event. Six months in bed had taken its toll on everything, and the week’s work was going to correct some of that.
It meant there was hope, and despite what I said and thought, hope was what I needed.
There had been ups and downs before this, fuelled by a morning when I woke up and found I could wriggle my toes. It was after the second operation, and I thought, given the amount of pain killers, it had been my imagination.
When I mentioned it, there was some initial excitement, and, yes, it was true, I wasn’t going out of my mind, it was real. The downside was, I couldn’t move anything else, and other than an encouraging sign, as the days passed, and nothing more happened, the faces got longer.
Then, the physiotherapist moved in, and started working on the areas that should be coming back to life. I felt little, maybe the pain killers again, until the next, and perhaps the last operation. I managed to lift my left leg a fraction of an inch.
But we’d been here before, and I wasn’t going to hold my breath.
…
Annabel, the daughter that lived on the other side of the country, finally arrived to visit me. I had thought, not being so far away she might have come earlier, but a few phone calls had sorted out her absence. Firstly, there was no much use visiting a coma patient, second, she was in a delicate stage of her professional career and a break might be the end of it, and thirdly, she accepted that I didn’t want to see her until I was much better.
She was not very happy about it, but it was a costly venture for her, in terms of time, being away from a young family, and just getting there.
Now, the time had come. She had a conference to attend, and I was happy to play second fiddle.
After the hugs and a few tears, she settled in the uncomfortable bedside chair.
“You don’t look very different than the last time I saw you,” she said.
“Hospitals have perfected the art of hiding the worst of it, but it’s true. The swelling had receded, the physios have revived the muscles, and I have a little movement again.”
“The injuries are not permanent?”
“Oh, they’re permanent, but not as bad as first thought.”
“Pity my mother isn’t here.”
“She was, day after day, through the darkest period. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. But your mother is an independent woman, and she has always been free to do what she wants, and I would not have had it any other way.”
“But deserting you in the middle of all this…”
“It’s been very debilitating on her. I can understand her reasons, and so should you. She will still be your mother no matter what happens to us.”
There had been a number of phone calls, from each of the children, decrying her actions after she had sent a text message to each of them telling them what she was doing. She had not told them she was leaving, in so many word, but leaving the door ajar, perhaps to allay their fears she was deserting them too. Annabel had been furious. The other two, not so much.
“And this latest development?”
I had also told her about the miracle worker, and the possibilities, without trying to get hopes up.
“On a scale of one to ten, it’s a three. We’ve been here before, so I’m going to save the excitement for when it happens, if it happens.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
It was a question I’d asked myself a number of times, one that I didn’t want an answer to. Hope was staving it off, each day a new day of discovery, and a day closer to the idea I might walk again. I had to believe it would happen, if not the next day, the next week, month, year, that it would eventually happen.
For now, all I had to do was stand on my own two feet.
It was ironic, in a way, that simple statement. ‘Stand on your own two feet’. Right then, it seemed so near, and yet, at the same time, so far away.
I didn’t answer that question, but did what I usually did with visitors, run a distraction and talk about everything else. This visit was no exception. I had a lot of catching up to do.
It’s odd how some call the day of momentous events D-Day because to me nothing would be more momentous than the invasion of France during the second world war.
Others were not quite of the same opinion. It was going to be a momentous day.
It started the same as any other.
The morning routine when the duty nurse came to do the checks. Then the physio, now a permanent fixture mid-morning, just after the tea lady arrived. Deliberate, I thought, to deprive me of my tea break, and some unbelievably delicious coconut cookies.
Then the routine changed, and the escort arrived to take me down to the room where the physio had set up an obstacle course. It looked like one, and I’d told him so when I first saw it, and he had said by the time he was finished with me, I’d be able to go from start to finish without breaking a sweat.
In my mind perhaps, but not with this broken body. I didn’t say that because I was meant to be positive.
An entourage arrived for the main event. I would have been happier to fail in front of the doctor, the miracle worker, and the physio, but it seemed everyone wanted a front row seat. If it worked, the physio confided in me, there was fame and fortune being mentioned in Lancet, what was a prestigious medical journal.
Expectations were running high.
The physio had gone through the program at least a hundred times, and the previous day we had got to the point where I was sitting on the side of the bed. We’d tried this ordinary manoeuvre several times, previously without success under my own steam but this morning, for some reason it was different.
I was able to sit up, and then, with a struggle move my legs part of the way, and with a little help for the rest.
What was encouraging, was being able to swing my legs a short distance. IT was those simple things that everyone could do without thinking, that had seemed impossible not a month before, that got people excited. I didn’t know how I felt other than I missed those simple things.
Then the moment had arrived. Hushed silence.
There was a structure in place. All I had to do was pulled myself across, at the same time sliding off the bed and into a standing position. There was a safety harness attached so that if my grip slipped it would prevent me from falling.
It was probably not the time to tell them the pain in my lower back was getting worse.
So, like I’d been instructed, and going one step further than the day before, I reached out, grabbed the bars and pulled myself up and over, at the same time, sliding off the side of the bed. I could feel the tug of the safety harness which told me I had left the safety of the bed, and was in mid motion.
I could feel my legs straightening, and then very softly landing on the floor, the safety harness letting my body drop down slowly.
The pain increased exponentially as the weight came down onto my legs, but my body had stopped moving. I could not feel the tightness of the harness, but a rather odd sensation in my legs.
All that time I had been concentrating so hard that I had heard nothing, not even the encouraging words from the physio.
Until I realised, from the noise around me, that it had worked. I was standing on my own two feet, albeit a little shakily.
And I heard the physio say, in his inimitable way, “Today you just landed on the moon. Tomorrow, it’s going to be one small step for mankind. Well done.”
“Sunday in New York” is ultimately a story about trust, and what happens when a marriage is stretched to its limits.
When Harry Steele attends a lunch with his manager, Barclay, to discuss a promotion that any junior executive would accept in a heartbeat, it is the fact his wife, Alison, who previously professed her reservations about Barclay, also agreed to attend, that casts a small element of doubt in his mind.
From that moment, his life, in the company, in deciding what to do, his marriage, his very life, spirals out of control.
There is no one big factor that can prove Harry’s worst fears, that his marriage is over, just a number of small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, points to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.
Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints of impending disaster, Sasha, a woman whom he saved, and who appears to have motives of her own, and then in his wife, Alison, as he discovered piece by piece damning evidence she is about to leave him for another man.
Can we trust what we see with our eyes or trust what we hear?
Haven’t we all jumped to conclusions at least once in our lives?
Can Alison, a woman whose self-belief and confidence is about to be put to the ultimate test, find a way of proving their relationship is as strong as it has ever been?
Washington is a city with bright shiny buildings and endless monuments, each separated by a long walk or a taxi ride if you can find one.
We might have picked the wrong day, shortly after New Year’s Day when the crowds were missing along with everything else. Or, conversely, it was probably the right time to go, when we didn’t have to battle the crowds.
Sunny but very cold, the walking warmed us up.
First stop was the Lincoln Memorial
It was built to honor the 16th President of the United States, Abraham Lincoln.
It is located on the western end of the National Mall in Washington, D.C., across from the Washington Monument.
The building is in the form of a Greek Doric temple and contains a large seated sculpture of Abraham Lincoln and inscriptions of two well-known speeches by Lincoln.
The next stop was the Washington Monument
The Washington Monument is an obelisk on the National Mall in Washington, D.C., built to commemorate George Washington. Construction of the monument began in 1848 and not completed until 1888. It was officially opened October 9, 1888.
We then took a taxi ride to the Jefferson Memorial
This monument is dedicated to Thomas Jefferson (1743–1826), one of the most important of the American Founding Fathers as the main drafter and writer of the Declaration of Independence.
Construction of the building began in 1939 and was completed in 1943.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 