Please Release Me by Rhoda Baxter Page B

it came across as relaxed and friendly, rather than nervous and slightly embarrassed. ‘Glad you came?’
    ‘I am actually.’ He sounded almost surprised. ‘It’s nice to do something physical. Something different.’ He glanced around the room as people milled around with their mugs, inspecting each other’s work and appreciating progress. ‘It’s nice to meet people too. I didn’t expect everyone to be so …’
    ‘Friendly?’ Grace finished the sentence for him. ‘I know what you mean. I thought it’s such a sad place, it must be hard to laugh here. But this is different from a hospital, I guess. When something’s for the long term, you just have to accept it. It’s a different sort of normal.’
    Peter gave her a sidelong look. ‘Yes … I suppose that’s true.’
    ‘It’s nice to talk to people in the same position, isn’t it?’
    ‘Yes. It definitely is.’ He hesitated. ‘Thank you. For asking me to help. I wouldn’t have thought to come otherwise.’
    Grace waved his thanks away. ‘I’m glad you changed your mind and came along after all.’
    They took their teas to the window. Peter looked out and saw a lovely view of the walled garden behind. The view from Sally’s window was narrow and showed mostly the car park. This was clearly the better side of the building to be on.
    Outside people pushed patients around in wheelchairs. A couple of families were sitting on the grass near the mini orchard, one of the children nestled next to his mother, who was carrying his catheter bag in one hand and cuddling her son with the other.
    ‘Did she like the flowers?’ Grace said, making him jump.
    He turned around and leaned against the sill, turning his back on the scenes below. ‘Pardon?’
    ‘The person you visit in the hospice. Did she like the roses?’ She leaned on the wall next to him, cradling her mug in both hands. She had a dust mask slung around her neck and there was a smudge across her nose. Peter decided not to mention it.
    ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘She doesn’t say much.’
    She raised a questioning eyebrow.
    ‘Coma.’
    ‘Ah.’ She nodded, as though he’d just said his wife was at the supermarket. He was used to the sudden intake of breath and the awkward pause while people frantically tried to think of what they should say. This was usually followed by profuse outpourings of sympathy or worse, pity. But Grace took it as though it were perfectly commonplace.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she said after a moment. ‘That’s harsh.’ There was still no pity. No concerned voice. ‘At least you know she’ll be well looked after here.’
    ‘Yes.’ It was strangely comforting that she just took his revelation at face value. No questions. ‘She’s my wife,’ he added.
    This seemed to be of more interest. ‘You must miss her terribly. How long have you been married?’
    Did he miss her terribly? Yes. He did. ‘We’ve been married about eleven months.’
    ‘How long has she been comatose?’
    ‘About eleven months.’
    She looked him full in the face. ‘Oh, that’s heartbreaking,’ she said, and this time there was sadness. ‘Did it happen on your honeymoon?’
    ‘Something like that.’
    ‘I’m sorry.’ She sounded genuinely sad about it.
    They sat in silence for a bit. Peter felt his head churning with a mix of emotions. He would normally be angry at this point, but he wasn’t now. Maybe it was being here, in this convivial atmosphere. Maybe it was Grace and the way she accepted his pain without commenting on it. Whatever it was, he felt normal here. It was … nice. Comforting even.
    ‘So, who do you go to visit?’ he asked. ‘I see you around quite a lot.’
    ‘Margaret. She’s a friend of my mother’s. Or rather
was
a friend, when my mother was alive.’
    So the mother was dead. Peter sifted through the implications and tried to find the right thing to say. There wasn’t one. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
    Grace shrugged.
    ‘Do you miss