Page 22 of Charlie Sunshine
I look at the clock by the bed and groan. Time to get ready. Misha’s flat being in Shad Thames might have cut down on my commute time, but I still have to get out of bed to actually get to work. I think longingly of portals and time machines and then give up.
Pulling on a pair of pyjama shorts decorated with tiny dancing snowmen, I make my way out into the main flat. It’s hardly a surprise to find it quiet and empty. Misha starts his day earlier than the birds.
I don’t entirely approve of Misha’s work ethic, as it’s less “work to live” and more “die if I don’t get into the office before it gets light.” It doesn’t seem healthy to me. I was brought up to embrace life outside work. I look around the flat in appreciation. His job does pay well, though, and this place is stunning.
My favourite room is the kitchen, a big room that runs off the lounge. It’s a world away from the kitchen in my old flat which had units that had likely once been white, but had become a dirty grey. The lino was cracked and the countertops old and worn. Misha’s kitchen glows in the morning sunshine. The expensive grey tile floor is warmon my feet, and the cabinets are a beautiful honey-gold wood that complements the granite worktop.
Misha uses the space only for making coffee and mixing his drinks, but I’m looking forward to properly cooking in here. My desire to learn how to cook was inspired by growing up with both Aidan and my mum. Aidan’s an excellent cook who is always in his kitchen; he’d been adamant that I learn the basics. My mum, in contrast, couldn’t boil an egg. So if I wanted to survive, or spend much time with Aidan, it was important to learn how to cook.
Tea made, I grab my hoodie from the back of the sofa and let myself out onto the balcony. I keep away from the edge because of my epilepsy, but there’s a sofa out here and I settle down on it, pulling a throw over my legs to ward off the cold. The view is amazing. Misha’s flat looks out over the Thames and has a side view of Tower Bridge, but my eyes are always drawn to the walkway below. I could sit here and people-watch until the cows come home. It’s a vibrant place buzzing with life at all hours of the day and night, so there’s always somebody to watch.
At the back of the building runs Shad Thames, one of the prettiest streets in London. It’s a narrow and cobbled road filled with lots of quaint shops and restaurants, dominated by the old goods gantries that criss-cross overhead and now house residents’ patio tables and chairs and pots of flowers. In the summer you can walk down the street and inhale the scent of flowers and catch the mist of water on the air as the homeowners water them. When I first moved in, I spent a happy few hours exploring the area and noting the rich trading history highlighted with names such as Cayenne Court and Tea Trade Wharf. The history buff in me was in heaven.
The flats are very expensive, but Misha’s dad had two big life insurance policies and Misha used his share to put down on the property. I know his mortgage is still hefty but he makes a lot of money with his job.
I sit for a while, the steam from my tea wafting fragrantly in the cold air as I watch an old lady walk a poodle that appears to have more diamonds on its collar than Tiffany’s have on their shelves. ThenI reluctantly make my way back inside, hugging the wall like a twat as usual. Time to get ready.
The aura happens as I move through the lounge. I catch the scent of bitter almonds, and the usual strong wave rises up through my head, making everything feel like it’s lifting. I just have time to grope for the sofa, and then I’m out.
When I come to, I’m on the floor. I lie there taking stock of myself, resisting the impulse to close my eyes and sleep. Sleep is all I want after I’ve had a turn.
From the arm of the sofa, I pull down the forest-green chunky knitted throw that my mum made for me. I’m always freezing after a turn, and I wrap it around me gratefully, inhaling the scent of lavender as I lie back down with a sigh.
My roll off the couch hadn’t caused much damage. A big turn will often mean a hard fall straight to the floor, but I don’t feel evidence of bruises or bumps on my back or my head. There’s only the usual shitty feeling of having the worst hangover in history—every muscle and bone aching, coupled with a strong sense of confusion and a slight hint of embarrassment.
Any embarrassment would have increased dramatically if this had happened in public. I’ve woken up before to find myself surrounded by people who were convinced I was drunk and disorderly. I quit drinking as soon as I had my diagnosis, and it’s ironic that I still get to feel the shitty aftermath of a hangover but without any of the fun beforehand.
Of course, the biggest irony is that, while I look exactly the same on the outside—sunny and upbeat as always—on the inside my emotions feel as out of control as my brain. Before, I stayed positive about my treatment, but now I have all these alien feelings of rage and fear. Rage that my body has betrayed me after everything I’ve done. I’ve followed the rules. I’ve been proactive. Why hasn’t it fucking worked? Why are these seizures still with me?
And the fear? It’s always there now, like a grit that lingers between my teeth. My family and friends are starting to ask questions about my epilepsy reviews and why the hospital and the doctors aren’t doing anything. I’ve put them off because I don’t want to admit I haven’tbeen to the hospital or the doctors in eight months. I can’t bring myself to go, because I’m terrified of what I might hear.
What if the medication has stopped working? What if they can’t find another suitable one? They’d struggled to find this mix and get it right the first time. If the tablets don’t work, then that leaves the spectre of brain surgery—a prospect that makes my nuts tuck up.
I’d done research after my diagnosis. Many people have the operation and it successfully stops the seizures. But there’s a risk that brain surgery might affect the patient’s personality. So, I’ve chosen the option of burying my head so far in the sand I’ll be seeing ostriches and kangaroos soon, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.
I look at my watch and groan. I think longingly of calling in sick to work, but I can’t do it. I’ve had a lot of time off since being diagnosed, and although the council has been very understanding, I still feel guilty. Also, there’s the issue that seems to crowd my entire life—I want to be like everyone else, even though I’m not.
So while I’d like nothing better than to climb into bed, pull the duvet over me, and snuggle down into the covers until I’ve formed a little nest, I will get up. I’ve got training assessment meetings this morning while the staff decorate the library for Christmas. Then I’ve got the Christmas story time to do for the children.
I pull myself up, feeling like I’ve been kicked by a bull who’s then turned around and sat on me for a while. Staggering to the bathroom attached to my room, I look longingly at the bath. I always feel gritty after a turn. Most of that’s in my head, but some of it must be because I spend more time rolling around on floors than Russell Crowe ever did in his heyday. I used to love having a bath and could spend hours in there with a book until my skin wrinkled. However, it isn’t worth the risk now and I stick to showering.
However, I don’t have time for any of that today, so I make do with a quick wash while avoiding my reflection in the mirror. God help the poor staff who have to look at me today.
I gather myself together and head out to the kitchen to make some toast to go with my breakfast of epilepsy meds.
MISHA
I exhale with relief as I enter the library and a wave of heat hits me. It’s bloody freezing outside today, the wind whistling around my ears and poking icy fingers under my suit.
“Jesus, it’s cold,” I say, walking up to the counter where Bethany is sitting on a stool with a pile of library books and some Christmas wrapping paper. I watch as she quickly wraps one of the books.
“Wow,” I say, leaning on the counter. “Is this really what librarians give for Christmas presents? I can see that I’ve been very remiss in giving you actual new things.”
She shakes her head, a smile tugging on her lips. “They’re for a lucky-dip reading box, but it’s good that you’re friends with Charlie, Misha. He’s possibly the only person in the world who appreciates your humour.”
“That’s because he has incredible taste.” I look around the library. “Where is he? He’s making me take him to get a Christmas tree.”
She laughs. “Oh my God,you’regetting a Christmas tree. Won’t that spoil the extreme minimalist vibe that you’ve got going on?”
