Page 29 of Rewrite the Stars
‘But the best part of it all,’ she gasps, ‘is that it’s not just for Christmas, Charlotte! It’s for good! Almost a full year later to the day and my baby boy is coming home at last! This is going to be the best Christmas ever!’
My head falls back onto the headrest and I let tears of relief trickle down the sides of my face, thankful that the car windows are steaming up quickly so that no one can see my reaction. He’s coming home for good at last! The release of this moment is immense. The wait is over. Thank God the wait is over and we can all start properly rebuilding our lives, away from hospitals and appointments and the worry that has taken over our everyday conversations.
‘Oh Mam!’ is all I can say. ‘That’s such good news. It’s just what we’ve been hoping for and such perfect timing before Christmas. I’m so, so happy for you and Dad and Matthew! For all of us! This has been the longest year ever.’
I get a flashback in my mind of my mother’s fragility a year ago in the hospital corridor and all the hours she has poured into doing all she possibly could since then to ease Matthew back into life again. Every prayer, every spiritual cure, weekly novenas, blessings from the parish priest, she did everything she could to pull him into this stage and now the time has finally come. Matthew is coming home for good.
‘Your dad is getting the car ready now and we’re lifting him tomorrow morning at St Benedict’s,’ she sings. ‘Oh Charlotte, give that nice Doctor Jack a big hug from me tonight when you see him. I’m so happy I could shout it from the rooftops!’
The respite and rehabilitation centre near Malahide, where Dr Jack Malone attends as a consultant neurologist, has been a home from home for Matthew for about nine months now. This weekend will mark the end of such a long, emotional run of events that we never thought we’d see the light at the end of it.
‘So will Jack be joining us for Christmas dinner then?’ asks Mam, almost as excited at the prospect of having a real doctor in her humble abode as she is about Matthew coming home. ‘He’s very welcome! I know he doesn’t have much time off on Christmas Day but we’re only an hour up the road and we’d love to have him.’
I pause and twiddle my hair, unable to help a light smile creeping across my face. Something flutters in my tummy at the sound of his name and as I picture his handsome face. Jack and I have become close, very close, and as Matthew has improved our relationship has grown into something quite special. He’s funny, he’s drop-dead gorgeous, he’s strong both of mind and body and, if it weren’t for him, I don’t know how I’d have coped with everything this far. He’s a good guy and he has really helped us all in so many ways.
‘I think he will be joining us, yes,’ I say to Mam and she relays the news back to my father, who seems equally impressed. He likes Jack. We all like Jack. He practically saved Matthew’s life in so many ways this year, not only with his medical expertise, but with all the extra effort he put in to making his rehabilitation easier, so we’ve a lot to be grateful for.
‘I’d better order in some of those posh home-made desserts then from the bakery in town. What’s it called again, Paddy? The bakery? The fancy one?’
She’s talking to my dad now even though I’m still on the phone.
‘Anyhow, we’ll get some extra wine in too so if you can find out if he drinks red or white that would be really helpful. Oh, this is wonderful, Charlotte! This is all just so wonderful!’
And I suppose the past few months have been a bit wonderful. The summertime brought great hope as Matthew’s recovery came on in leaps and bounds; he learned to manoeuvre around in a wheelchair and his speech improved by the day. Tom continued to write to me or call me once a week, and just as we were planning some time together when I broke up from school for the long summer break, his band were offered a tour in America – another opportunity we just couldn’t afford for him to turn down.
‘We have two days off when we hit Boston at the end of July,’ he told me, his voice dipping in despair as nothing was going our way. ‘How about you and Kirsty take a road trip and meet us out there? I need to see you, Charlie. I’m still waiting. I’ll always wait.’
And although the idea of a week or two in Boston seemed so simple and ideal, nothing could take me away from the commitment I’d made to my family and to see Matthew’s recovery through to the end. He was thriving on routine and familiarity, the nurses told us. He needed that stability, love, encouragement and a positive outlook, no matter how we felt behind the scenes, and most of all he needed hope that he was going to get better.
No one can ever imagine the loneliness of sitting by the hospital bed of someone you love until you experience it for yourself – the pressures on the family dynamics, the arguments between us all when things were going wrong or just from fear and frustration. Even though Jack had told me to start living again, there was no way I could just pack up and leave for America.
So I was faced with yet another decision – go to America to see Tom at last, or stick it out for another while to see Matthew’s recovery through until the end.
This very subject was to be our very first row.
‘I’m starting to think this is never going to happen,’ Tom said in despair. ‘To be honest, Charlie, I don’t think you’ve any intention of coming to see me, never mind make a move over here. It’s all about Matthew. He’s your priority, not us. He always has been.’
A knot in my stomach twisted and I felt tears prick my eyes.
‘How can you say that, Tom?’ I asked him. ‘You know I’m going through hell over what happened, no matter how much I’m told to just let it go and move on. I’m not sayingnever, I’m just saying not now. A few more months is all it will take. The doctor said—’
‘You have to let go of this stupid guilt!’ he told me. ‘It’s unhealthy and it’s gone on far too long. You didn’t get behind the wheel of a car that day, Matthew did! He’s held you back before and now he’s doing it again.’
A few more months, I promised him. But in a few more months, so much changed. The phone calls became less and less frequent. I was spending more and more time with Jack over coffee, then over lunch, and while his words of wisdom were all about Matthew’s hope for the future, all Tom and I seemed to do was argue about when Matthew was going to stop holding me back.
‘I’m heading out for drinks with some of the guys from the record company,’ Tom told me one Sunday evening in late September when I was watchingStrictly Come Dancingat home alone. The fire was lit and Kirsty had gone out on a date with some guy she’d met at the gym. I’d poured a glass of wine and I fancied a chat with Tom, determined not to go over the same old nonsense like a broken record. His American tour had been and gone, he was back in London again, we still hadn’t met up and the gap between us was getting wider and wider.
‘Oh, I won’t keep you then,’ I said, apologizing for interrupting his plans. ‘I’ll chat to you later in the week. Have fun!’
The butterflies in my tummy I normally felt when we had more positive conversations had now turned into creepy, crawly spiders.
‘No, no, it’s fine,’ he said, half-heartedly. ‘Chat away. I’m just getting ready. I can put you on loudspeaker as I get dressed.’
I pictured him, choosing his outfit for his night on the town, and I felt the gap between us getting wider and wider than ever, physically and emotionally. I felt my stomach go sick. This was it, I knew it.
‘So tell me, how’s life in the Fair City this week?’ he asked. ‘What’s going down?’
I could hear him rummaging around, humming along to music while he searched for whatever he needed for his night out.
