Chapter 17 December 17th #2
“She had those ones on last week,” I say. “Christ, I bet she’s got all of these.” I finger through a few more packets and see the candy canes, the elves, the tinsel fringed monstrosities. “Oh my God, she has. She’s got them all.” I have no idea what else I could possibly buy for her.
“Wait, I might have something.” She scurries off to the changing rooms, and I follow, my panic brewing, except today it’s for a very different reason.
I don’t want to turn up for Secret Santa Day empty-handed, especially given I’m buying for Debbie.
“These haven’t been put out on the display yet,” she says, rootling through a basket.
“No room, you see, and we decided these ones would probably be the least popular.”
“Why?”
“Well, because they’re a bit snazzy.”
“She loves snazzy.”
The lady whips out a packet. “This snazzy?”
I take in the model sporting a full-on Lapland scene on her legs.
Every possible thing you could pin on Christmas is there.
Reindeers, elves, Mother Christmas, Father Christmas, gifts, stockings, snow, a sleigh, trees, reindeers, decorations.
“Oh my God, she’ll love them.” I take them from the woman’s hand.
“How the hell did they fit the whole of Christmas on this woman’s skinny legs? ”
“Quite an achievement, isn’t it?”
“I’ll take them.”
“Size?”
“Oh shit, they’re different sizes? Don’t they just stretch? One size fits all?”
“Well, they could, but Lapland might be a little faded from the stretch on the bigger lady, if you know what I mean.”
“She’s average, I suppose. Maybe a UK fourteen?”
“I suggest medium.”
“Perfect.”
“Let’s take you to the checkout.”
“Thank you . . .”
“Hilda.”
“Thanks, Hilda.”
“Very welcome . . . ?”
“Camryn. My name’s Camryn.” And it’s in this moment I realise that I haven’t cared for anyone’s name or cared to offer mine in years.
It’s like I’m being seen again.
Or, I want to be seen.
A gust of wind carries me into the reception of the care home, along with a flurry of snow.
My cheeks balloon, my shoulders hunching.
“Camryn, you’re blue!” The receptionist, alarmed, whips a towel off the radiator behind her chair and comes at me with it.
“What on earth are you doing venturing out in this weather?”
“It’s not so bad,” I say, pulling off my hat and gloves, my teeth chattering. “Thank you.” I take the towel and pat at my frozen cheeks, feeling only mild warmth. “Mind if I keep this while I’m here?”
“Take it.” She returns to behind her desk. “You’re the only visitor today, and we’re short-staffed, what with the weather and all.”
“Snowflakes,” I murmur as I sign in.
“Pardon me?”
“Nothing.” I smile and pull the door open, noticing a distinct difference in the noise level, as well as foot traffic.
The corridor’s empty, except for the endless decorations hanging from the ceiling and every wall.
Nothing on the floor though—trip hazard.
Shrugging my coat off as I walk, I peek into each room as I pass. It’s like a ghost town.
When I reach Mum’s room, I find Deirdre checking her blood pressure. She’s awake, and that stirs the dormant anxiety inside.
“Ah, look who’s here,” Deirdre says, tapping buttons on the machine as it whirs.
I laugh under my breath at such a stupid thing to say. Look who’s here? Like my mum might know. I dump my bags on the chair and drape my coat on the back. “How is she?”
“She is in the room,” Mum grumbles.
My eyes must look like saucers. “Sorry,” I blurt, taken aback, looking at Deirdre who’s smiling. “How are you, Mum?”
She squints at me, and my heart clatters, waiting for the inevitable question.
Who are you?
I don’t know no Camryn.
“What happened to your cheek?”
I raise my hand to it, drawing a blank. She noticed? I got mugged. Wait, no, I was attacked. Jumped? Some random believed I looked like the perfect person to rob? “I had an argument with a filing cabinet.”
She frowns, confused. “Why would you have an argument with a filing cabinet?”
“I didn’t mean to.” I look at Deirdre, as if for encouragement or reassurance. Am I doing this right? I’ve completely forgotten amid the endless distress of her rejections how to handle this. “Oh, shepherd’s pie,” I chime, distracting her. That’s it. Distraction.
“Too many carrots,” she says. “They know I don’t like carrots. They’re taking my money too.” Suspicion is rife on her face, her expression cutting on Deirdre.
“I have your money, Mum,” I say, lowering to the chair and taking her hand as Deirdre removes the blood pressure band from around her arm.
“I put it all in the bank for you.” There is no money.
This place soon swallowed it up, hence my brother paying the eight-thousand-pound monthly fee. And he doesn’t let me forget it.
Mum moves her glassy eyes back onto me. They’re not completely empty today, and although she’s not refuted it when I’ve called her Mum, she also hasn’t acknowledged I’m right. She’s my mum. I feel a bit needy wanting her to see me. Call me by my name. Please see me.
Then her cutting look drops like a rock. “Your face,” she murmurs, lifting her arm. No name. But this? I inch forward, allowing her to reach my cheek. “What happened?”
“I walked into a door, Mum.”
“Well, that was silly, wasn’t it? Why’d you do that for?”
“I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
She huffs. “Too busy, aren’t you? Always in a rush, darting here and there, getting Noah to school, yourself to work, back to school, to whatever playdate or after-school club he has to go to. All these clubs! Guitar, gymnastics, football, drama, dance. He should pick one and focus on that.”
I stare at her. Just stare at her. She used to say this to me often, because she cared about our well-being. Never judgy. Just kind. Supportive. “Yes, he should do that.”
She smiles, happy I’m agreeing. “Where is he today then? Football?”
Sundays are for football. She knows it’s Sunday. She knows it’s me. “Yeah, Mum,” I say, taking her hand from my face and squeezing. “He’s at football.”
“Oh, yes. It must be Sunday.” Her eyes narrow, as if contemplating that. “Tell me what’s going on in your world. I can’t keep up.”
I sit forward, relishing the rare interaction. “I think I’ve found someone really special, Mum.”
“It’s about time. You need to settle down, buttercup. Have a family. You’re not getting any younger.”
I swallow. “I know. You tell me all the time.” Until about twelve years ago when I met Dominic, got engaged within a year, married the following year, and had Noah the year after that. But that’s okay. She knows who I am.
Even if she doesn’t.
I have to take a breath when I step outside her room.
For the first time in as long as I can remember, it’s not because I’m hurting.
Suffocating. Today was a good day. Deirdre follows me out, closing the door lightly so not to wake her.
“The carols concert is on Thursday,” she says, casually. “Weather depending, of course.”
I cast her a knowing smile. She knows what she’s doing—catching me on a better day.
“Did you manage to move things around?”
I drop my bags to between my feet and pull on my coat. “I did,” I say, seeing her trying hard not to grin her delight. “You’ll cancel if it’s too bad?”
“No, not cancel. It’ll just be a bit thin on the ground with relatives. I know you’re not shy of a bit of snow.”
I nod, but say no more, slipping my hat and gloves on. “I’ll see you,” I say, collecting up my bags, taking a leisurely walk down the corridor rather than scurrying along as fast as I can. The walls aren’t closing in.
I hear the door click to release as I approach and laugh to myself at the irony. The one day I don’t need to escape, the door is opened before I make it there. I hurry my pace and push my weight into it and nearly fall through it when someone on the other side pulls it open.
I stagger forward a few paces into a man. “Shit, I’m sorry.” I look up. Realise who it is. Step back. “Graham.”
“Good to see you too, sis.”
“Finally found time in your schedule then?”
“I didn’t come here to get earache.” He looks past me through the open door. “Is she with it today?”
“With it?”
“Talking sense?”
“She never talks sense. She’s got Alzheimer’s.”
He looks down at his watch, and I know it’s because he’s mentally calculating how little time he can get away with being here. To be honest, I’m even more surprised than I usually would be that he’s here. The weather is the perfect excuse. “I’m picking up Mindy’s present, and I’m a bit early.”
Right. He’s not gone out of his way. Not made a special trip. Mum’s just fitting into a slot that happens to have cropped up. “I’m going.” I can’t be in my brother’s orbit for longer than a minute without wanting to smash his ignorant face in.
“Hey, Cam,” he calls.
“What?” I don’t look back.
“Sign the papers, yeah?”
I stop, staring forward, trying not to let my simmering blood escalate into a full-blown boil.
I did not want to do this with my brother.
I truly didn’t want anyone, especially him, to take away my momentary bubble of joy.
Although, I do need to know one thing. “Did you know he’s moved on?
” I ask, facing him, watching his face. I might not like him, but I know him well, and the sudden thinning of his lips is a massive red flag. It means he’s about to lie. “You knew.”
“You should do the same.”
“Oh yes. Move on. Easy as that. Just forget I was a mum. Just forget my son was run down and killed. My four-year-old son.”
His wince gives me hope that he’s not a complete inconsiderate bastard. His shoulders drop. “I’m not saying forget, Cam. Moving on isn’t forgetting.”
“She’s pregnant.” I spit the words out like they’re stones choking me.
“I know.”
“She’s going to give Dominic a baby, and he’ll love that child like we loved Noah. I can’t do that, Graham. I can’t have more children. I can’t try to fill the void Noah left behind. All I can do is move forward and hope someday the pain becomes bearable.”
“It will. You should see a doctor, Cam. You’re not looking too great.”
“God, you’re a cock.” I walk out and welcome the cold blast of air that cools my temper down. “Ugh.” If brothers got medals for being dumb, mine would get the gold.
My phone ringing is the only thing that stops me from fulfilling my desire to punch my older brother, and the sight of Dec’s name lights up my world as much as it lights up my screen. “Morning.”
“Afternoon.”
I pull my phone away and check. He’s right, which means I spent much more time with Mum than I usually would.
That alone is reason to smile, and now Dec’s calling.
I’m ignoring the interlude of my brother.
“Afternoon,” I say. “Sorry, time ran away with me unpacking a vanload of groceries from Tesco.”
“You need a Lynette.”
“Wait, did she order it?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“You just completely burst my bubble.”
“I’ll reinflate it tomorrow night when you cook for me.”
“At my place?”
“Yes.”
“Not your place?”
“No.”
I cringe at the snow before me. His place is cosier. Nicer. Bigger. Better equipped.
“Are you out?” he asks.
“Just visited my mum.”
“In this weather, Camryn?” Then he huffs. “Never mind. How is she?”
How is she?
Such a simple question, but Dec has just provided another life raft.
His question makes me feel that I’m not carrying this burden alone.
He cares about her because he cares about me.
“She’s good today.” I brace myself to tell Dec I’ve signed the papers but decide to wait until tomorrow. At our dinner. At my place.
“That’s great. And you? How’s your cheek?”
“Less sore.”
He hums. “Are you going to ask me what I’d like to eat tomorrow night?”
“Well, since your housekeeper ordered it all, I’m going with my gut and assuming she’s catered for your tastes too, in which case I’ll pull something together from the ingredients she ordered.”
“What did she order?”
“You want me to list it all?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not listing it all,” I say around a laugh. “What are you doing today?” God, I want to see him.
He groans. “Catching up on work.”
I pout to myself. It’s going to be a long twenty-four hours. “Well, have fun with that,” I say lightly, hiding my disappointment. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Looking forward to it.”
I smile. “Bye.” Tapping the edge of my mobile on my chin, I ponder something for a few moments before I take a deep breath of bravery and head the opposite way.
Toward Selfridges.
I’m frazzled by the time I make it home, weighed down with bags, having braved Tesco too.
I head straight for Mr. Percival’s door and swing a bag at it, because the handles are cutting off the blood supply to my fingers.
“Come on,” I mutter, hearing the squeak of his walking frame getting louder.
The moment he opens the door, a handle on one of my bulging bags gives and the contents crash to the floor.
I leave it and face Mr. Percival. “I need you to help me make a birthday cake.”