The Good Terrorist - Doris May Lessing [134]
Alice’s sleeping bag was brought, and more blankets. A hot-water bottle was found in a drawer. It took a long time, but finally Faye was lying clean and tucked into warmth and comfort.
It was well after three.
Alice was thinking: If Roberta was at the hospital, she will have had the message, she will be on her way, she might be here by morning.
Meanwhile, she and Philip must sit up, in case one fell asleep.
No one slept. Faye lay where she had been put, her face like a little ghost’s. She did not close her eyes. She did not look at them. She said nothing.
Philip knelt at Faye’s feet, and Alice sat at her side. From time to time Alice lifted Faye up and put the cup to her lips and Faye swallowed.
Philip went off to make more of this mixture of salt and sugar and water, and to make tea for himself and Alice. But he did not look at Alice, would not meet her eyes.
He had been so badly shocked by her, by the situation, that he was simply divorcing himself from it.
She thought, defiantly, even mockingly: That defines Philip, then! That’s what he’s like!
Morning soon came, it being halfway through May. With the prickly, hollow feeling that accompanies exhaustion, Alice listened to the dawn chorus, thinking that she would like to hear it more often; tried to catch Philip’s eye, to share this moment of renewal, or promise, with him, but he knelt there, like a little devotee, patient, modest, ready to be useful. And absolutely cut off from her.
At last she said, “If you go and sleep, Philip, I’ll make myself stay awake. And then, when I can’t stay awake, I’ll shout up the stairs.” Meaning, I can’t leave her, we can’t, not for a second. He heard this, understood, nodded, and went out.
Faye slipped off to sleep, or was pretending to sleep—Alice did not know which, but was taking no chances. She sat on, from time to time flicking water onto her own face, slapping her cheeks. When she did this she thought she saw a flicker of something that could be amusement, or at least comment, on Faye’s passive face. The sounds of a normal Saturday morning, the milkman, children playing in the street, voices from the gardens. What a lot of sounds there were that she never ordinarily listened to.…
The bloodstained pile in the corner was beginning to sicken Alice. But she could not, must not move. She knew Faye was not asleep.
Time passed … passed. More than once she had caught herself as she dropped off, even jerking awake. Once when she did this, she saw Faye open her eyes; they exchanged looks. Alice: I’m not going to let you; and Faye: You can’t stop me if I want to.
Then, at last, steps bounded up the stairs, the door opened, and Roberta was kneeling by Faye, whose eyes were now open. She said in a voice that mingled passionate love, anger, exasperation, incredulity: “Faye, oh, Faye darling, how could you, how could you!”
Alice stood up, and watched how Roberta gently, tenderly, gathered Faye to her, kissed her, cradled her, then bent down to kiss the wounded wrists, one after the other.
Faye turned her face into the bosom of her friend, and lay there, at home.
Roberta looked at Alice over Faye. Her face was running tears.
As well it might, thought Alice.
Roberta said, “My mother’s in a coma, so it’s all right.”
“That’s all right, then.”
Alice gathered up the stained things and said matter-of-factly, “Philip has been asleep for some hours, so he can come and help when you want help, but I have to sleep now.”
She went to her room, where she did not sleep, not for a long time. She was replaying the scene over and over again in her mind, of Roberta’s infinite tenderness with Faye,