She slipped her hand under the plastic cover and took Naveem’s. It wasn’t allowed, but she’d had so little time alone with him these past few weeks. His hand felt cool, unreal. She was reminded of the waxworks, and then Cliff with those sideburns! Naveem would find that hilarious. She wanted to tell him so much. I should have brought flowers! she thought. There was no excuse now she worked at a florist, even if Naveem was never fond of them. It was the gesture. Everything here was medical and bleached to within an inch of its life. There were a few of the crystals Shelly had left behind on his bedside table, but even they made the place feel less organic. Mrs Dixit had done a poor job bringing life into the room; she wasn’t focused on her husband, she was distracted by all these other goings-on. She should have sat, like his mother, in focused mediation, day after day. If she had, they’d never have taken him, he might never have deteriorated. She saw that now.
Mrs Dixit squeezed his hand.
‘I’m sorry,’ she spoke out loud, ‘I’ve been everywhere but here.’ Hadn’t she needed to be though? Would Naveem want her to sit by his side, day after day?
What did people think when they looked at her, she wondered. The nurses. The neighbours. Poor dear, probably. That’s what they’d thought all her life. Poor dear, her parents are so distant. Poor dear, her sister doesn’t love her. Poor dear, she couldn’t find herself a nice white husband. Well, they were wrong. They had always been wrong. She knew. Naveem knew. It was a secret they’d kept together, their happiness, their small abundant life together. It didn’t care what it looked like on the outside. What mattered was how it felt.
‘We love each other,’ Mrs Dixit said, almost to herself, as she squeezed Naveem’s hand again gently. ‘We do. We always have. You found me. I found you. We ignored the world. We made it together. You and me. Us.’ She smiled. ‘Shopping for the quietest washing machine money could buy.’
Through the plastic she watched his eyelids flicker, revealing his pupils and irises for an instant.
‘Naveem?’ she cried, and then shushed herself. She waited. Nothing. She considered calling a nurse, but she didn’t want to leave him and hitting the emergency button would turn the place into chaos. ‘Blink again if you can hear me,’ she pleaded. There was no response. It was alright, though. On some level, he was here.
Mrs Dixit wasn’t sure how long his mother had been standing at the doorway. Some sixth sense made her let go of Naveem’s hand and turn. When she saw the woman, she gasped as if it was an apparition standing at the door, and not the diminutive form of Naveem’s mother.
‘Oh good, you’re here,’ Mrs Dixit said, when she’d finally caught her breath. ‘Please, sit. I’d like to talk to you.’ Her mother-in-law continued to stand at the doorway, watching the chair suspiciously, as if it might now contain a landmine planted underneath. For a moment, it made Mrs Dixit hesitate; maybe it was the woman’s grasp of English, she hadn’t understood? –But no, it had been fine all those years ago when they’d first met, and on the phone more recently too. Naveem’s mother must simply sense what would happen if she sat. She turned her head, side to side, looking down the hallway, perhaps hoping for witnesses, or someone to save her. She reminded Mrs Dixit of her son in that action, when there were things he didn’t want to do – sit by a noisy couple, take the rubbish out after dark – he would hang back, hoping the situation would change before he was forced to do the unpleasant task. ‘Please,’ coaxed Mrs Dixit. ‘I promise this will be worth it.’
Naveem’s mother took a step forward, warily, as if Mrs Dixit might pounce. She took another few paces until she reached the chair, sitting erect and flat-backed. Mrs Dixit pulled around her own chair, so they were facing each other.
Now all she had to do was speak.
‘I know what you want to talk to me about,’ Naveem’s mother said in a clear voice, the words slightly clipped; it reminded Mrs Dixit of a glass being tapped with a metal spoon. The notes rang in the air.
‘You do?’ Mrs Dixit said, trying not to seem caught off guard to