So, using my long-distance calling card, I rang him, just to say hi. He answered the phone, said, ‘Hey, Clare! Sorry to be rude, but I’m just on my way out.’ Nothing else. Fuck, you’re a loser, said the old voice in my head.
I called Mum after that, and thanked her for giving birth to me. ‘Good work, Maria.’
She laughed.
After that, I went to the kitchen and ate some cake, wondering what the fuck I was going to do with my life.
Not that I would ever have admitted it to Mum, or anyone, but I wrote a prayer in my diary that night.
Dear God,
I want to be a tool of peace: I really, really do.
I want to do something good with my life, make the most of my life, but I just don’t feel like there is a place for me.
Please please please—uncover my eyes so that I can see where I belong. Let me see beauty in something again.
God—give me a sign, please. Tell me what I’m supposed to do with my life. I mean, I feel PATHETIC asking, but really—what the fuck am I supposed to do with my life? Why did you put me here? Give me a sign so clear that I cannot deny it. I am so thick, God: you need to make it very clear. Where do you want me?
With thanks,
Clare (of Melbourne)
Phil had two new housemates: two noisy Spaniards with a penchant for red wine, who then stayed up all night doing acrobatics in the room next door. That is not a euphemism, by the way. Libby and I could never quite work it out, but from the sounds of the thumps and crashes and laughter we concluded they were, actually, practising acrobatics. We never got to the bottom of the story. They didn’t speak English, we didn’t speak Spanish. They seemed to think that everything we said was funny. No matter how many times we asked them to please keep it down, they did not.
In the morning, Libby had planned to take a train to Paris. Phil and I went with her on the Tube to see her off. Phil had been out drinking the night before and had arrived home only a few hours prior. He was carrying Libby’s big backpack, and we were talking, and as we stepped into the carriage I glanced at Phil and saw something I’ve never forgotten—his eyes rolled to the back of his head, and then the rest of him fell backwards, like a big tall tree, and collapsed onto the floor of the train. I was closest so I got to him first. I leaned over his face, saw his eyes were open, that he was not moving, checked his breathing, but there was so much noise behind me I couldn’t be sure. In my head the old voice was saying: He is dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. And with that thought the most enormous electric shock of horror flowed through my body, although my voice stayed calm enough. I said something like, ‘AMBULANCE, NOW!’ Some stranger held open the door, another helped me remove his backpack and drag him off the train. Once on the platform, as Libby ran for help, Phil surprised us all by quickly springing to his feet, like a jack-in-the-box, before falling down again.
I cradled Phil’s head in my lap, could see he was breathing, drifting in and out of consciousness, and as I stroked his head and tried to reassure him that everything was okay, there was a stillness in me, a feeling similar to the one I had the day Rowena died. All around was panic but in me there was stillness. It was shock, I suppose.
Soon, a first-aid officer arrived. Libby fetched some water for Phil, he drank it, he got up, and the first-aid officer checked him over and said he would be okay. I can’t explain why, but at that moment my calmness left me and instead I was overwhelmed by the feeling of something being very wrong, so wrong that we could never make it right again.
In the cab to Golders Green Phil blacked out again, then woke up, breathing erratically. I felt like an ill-equipped mother, trying to smile at him, hold him up, tell him everything would be all right. My mind kept flashing back to memories from my childhood, to the Royal Children’s Hospital, to Rowie, and Mum, and Mum reading stories to Rowie, and the sound of the life-support machine beeping—all the things I had tried for so long not to think about.
At home, Phil drank some water then started to fall asleep. My anxiety grew; I didn’t think he should be sleeping. What if he slipped into a coma? I gave him a stir, told him I thought it would probably be safer if we did just go to the hospital, and have him properly checked out. Back in the cab we went.
At the hospital, they confirmed that Phil was suffering from a serious case of—wait for it—suspected dehydration. Could it have been the booze? It was possible. More tests would be needed. And, yes, he needed more sleep. Nothing more serious than that, they said.
Phil was fine. Absolutely fine. But for reasons I did not understand, I was not fine.
I called Mum and Dad, trying to sound calm, but they heard it in my voice, heard my shock, and Mum said, ‘You must have got a fright’, and she was right. I had. I’d really thought he was dead, I said, and then—without wanting to—I just cried and cried, trying to find words to explain what was going on. Mum kept reassuring me and, eventually, I stopped crying and apologised
