I suppose it’s an easy out. I don’t have to delve too deeply into my feelings regarding living with Conal because at this stage, it just isn’t possible anyway. Of course we can’t brush the whole issue under the carpet. We’ll have to face it at some stage, but fornow everyone seems to have accepted that there is another bigger issue that takes precedence.
But on days like today, when he is making Mrs Bishop blush, and making sure I’m okay, while asking what else he can do to help, I do think that maybe, just maybe, it would be nice. That maybe, someday, I’ll be able to push down my fears and worries and instead just enjoy being with him without panicking about what might come. I might be able to trust the universe to be kind to me and to us. It might just work.
As I’m contemplating life, the universe and everything to a soundtrack of a BBC drama, I get the feeling that I’m being watched. Looking up, I see Conal staring directly at me, and the look on his face is one of love. True love. The kind of love sixteen-year-old me used to dream about. When young Becki wrote in her time-capsule letter about wanting to find love, her dreams were to meet someone who was, yes, ridiculously handsome but also smart, witty and caring. Someone who made her laugh, who gave good hugs. Who loved her family as much as she did, and loved her friends too. That they would all hang out together like a Northern Irish version ofFriendsand maybe her big love would be the Chandler to her Monica. The Mulder to her Scully. The Doug Ross to her Carol Hathaway.
Forty-seven-year-old Becca knows a little more about love, and life. For example, I want to love a man who understands that we have our own baggage to carry. Who treads gently with my heart. I want to love a man who is just as fond of the absolute dingbat that Daniel is as I am, and doesn’t mind his clothes getting covered in dog hair constantly.
But more than that I want to love, and be loved by, a man who cares. I remember reading a quote somewhere online that when you choose who to love, choose a person who not only gives you butterflies, but also who you know you will want tohave by your side when your parents are old and ill. Who will hold your heart very carefully in his hands when the loss of a parent threatens to break it clean in half. That’s what love means as an older woman. And again I am reminded that this is what love means to me, and what I see in Conal, who looks at me as if he believes entirely in my inner strength but also knows that there are times when I need to be held tenderly while my life is in a very fragile place.
Looking at him and how incredibly everything he is, I realise I need to let him know just how much I value him. How much I need him. And how he has made the last few days more bearable just by knowing he is in my life.
I have not cried since that first night in the Room of Doom. I have held it together in an almost robotic manner. I have used dark humour as a coping mechanism, and occasionally I’ve been angry, and grumpy, or I’ve just dissociated widely. But in this room, where my mother is watching a TV programme with Mrs Bishop, both of them totally content, while a man who loves me looks at me like I’m the most important person in the world to him, I feel tears prick at my eyes, and my chest contracts.
I am going to cry. And it’s not going to be pretty. It’s likely to be an exceptionally ugly cry, in fact. And I don’t want my mum to see it. I don’t want her to worry that I know something she doesn’t. I don’t want to tell her that I’m not actually crying because she has scared me shitless, but that instead I am crying because there is a man who loves me, but more than that, who makes me feel as if I deserve to be loved. She’d be happy for me, of course, but it would fall a little into the ‘making a holy show of yourself’ category to have this epiphany in a hospital ward.
Instead, I give a little nod in his direction, acknowledging his look. Tell him I’m just nipping out for some fresh air beforetaking myself to the nearest visitor toilets, locking the door, covering my hand with my mouth and crying until I throw up.
When I am suitably calm again, I wash my hands and face, put the seat down on the loo and sit down, taking my phone from my pocket.
I immediately click on my group chat with Niamh and Laura.
Becks
Lads. I think I really, really love him
It’s not quite giving ‘Reader, I married him’ but it’s close enough.
Niamh replies first.
Niamh
Tell us something we don’t know.
Laura follows.
Laura
Yes. We know.
The conversation continues:
Becks
No, but I mean really, REALLY love him. He’s a good man. One of the proper good men.
Niamh
Well, yes he is. But you still don’t have to do anything that you don’t feel totally comfortable with. Moving in is a big step.
Laura
Niamh’s right. But yes, even I can admit my big brother is a good man and he does love you very much, Becca. Just remember you two can make your own relationship rules and what works for you. If you don’t want to move in together – make it work another way. Find a solution together.
Becks
You are absolutely right, Laura. I love you. I love you both. I’m so blessed to have you in my life.
Niamh
