Chapter 27
TOWELS, ANYONE?
Becca
As the ambulance leaves the street, Laura guides me towards the stairs. ‘Let’s pack her a bag.’
‘I… I can do that,’ I say. ‘Can you maybe see if Mrs Bishop is okay? Maybe make her a cup of tea? I think she had an awful shock.’
‘Of course. And just shout if you need me.’ Laura pulls me into a quick hug before I scoot upstairs.
I need nighties, underwear, her favourite slippers and a dressing gown. I need a toothbrush, a hairbrush. Her favourite Nivea Crème. Gathering them together, I at least feel like I’m doing something useful, even if I’m doing it with shaking hands.
I need to get these things packed and get in the car and get my ass to the hospital.
My worries of earlier tonight feel so ridiculously insignificant now.
A man loves me enough to want to live with me.
My friend loves me enough to worry about losing my friendship.
How pathetic am I to have worried about that?
To worry about singing in front of strangers.
I would give anything to have only those things to worry about now. I’d consider myself a very lucky girl. I swear I would.
Laura insists on driving again and I let her.
I am only too willing to let her take control of everything, and she has been doing such a great job of it.
She made Mrs Bishop a cup of sweet tea and helped her back to her own house and tucked her into bed before making sure to get her phone number so she can keep her updated.
She even called Niamh to fill her in on what happened, only to find that Niamh is already aware something is wrong.
Saul had phoned Adam, who was at Niamh’s with Jodie and Clara.
Laura was able to tell me that Niamh is on her way, and bringing Adam to the hospital.
She also called my brother, Ruairi, and he is on his way down from Belfast. Saving me from these conversations is gold-level friendship.
I’m not sure I could find the words if I needed to.
‘Do you think she’ll be okay?’ I ask as we drive over the Foyle Bridge towards Altnagelvin Hospital.
‘I don’t know,’ she says honestly. ‘I hope so. I think it was good Saul was on the phone to her. That will have given her a good chance, I think. So let’s hang on to hope.’
I nod. ‘I can do that,’ I say, which of course is an absolute lie.
‘I can hang on to it for us both,’ she says as if she can read my mind. ‘So why don’t you go ahead and have yourself a big old meltdown now while we’re driving because she’s going to need you to be strong when you get there, and Adam is going to need you to be strong too.’
I nod.
‘I mean it. Go ahead. Have a meltdown,’ she says as if she is ordering me to lose it for a bit. For some reason I can’t quite think of, the whole situation seems so utterly ridiculous to the point that I want to laugh. Quite possibly hysterically.
‘I can’t have a meltdown on demand,’ I say.
‘Really? I remember the Becca Burnside who could faint on demand in secondary school whenever we needed a distraction from handing in our Latin homework. Surely the very same woman could meltdown at will.’
‘What did Will ever do to deserve a meltdown?’ I ask her, one of my father’s old jokes coming instantly to mind.
Any time we watched a movie and some heroic commander would shout ‘Fire at will!’ my dad would ask us what poor Will did to deserve it.
We’d groan in the way all children do at their dad’s jokes but secretly we loved it.
We knew on some level we were parcelling away these little jokes and sayings into sections of our brains where they could be called upon one day in the future when they were needed – perhaps when we were parents ourselves, or when we needed our parents most of all.
‘Very funny,’ Laura says. ‘Your daddy would be proud.’
‘I hope so,’ I tell her. ‘And I hope he’s standing at the end of a long white corridor right now, his back to the light, telling my mother it’s not her time and she better get her arse back into her bed.’
‘I hope so too,’ Laura says.
‘I really have far too much work on to be dealing with a wake and funeral right now,’ I say, leaning totally into gallows humour.
‘And I definitely don’t have time to start clearing that house out to sell it.
Where will I put ninety-seven crocheted baby blankets, a wardrobe largely stocked with Bonmarché’s finest polyester, and Roisin Burnside’s famous towel collection? ’
My mother’s obsession with buying towels is a thing of legend among my friends.
At one stage Niamh asked did we ever wash them or just use a new one each time.
Mum can’t go to Dunnes, Asda, Matalan or Next without stocking up.
She has more towels than any woman living alone needs, or could need.
I’m sure there are towels there that still have the tags on and which she bought in TK Maxx in 2008.
I’ve even teased her she could open a towel museum.
‘You could always eBay them?’ Laura says. ‘Or wrap them as presents. You’ll never need to buy another secret Santa gift again. You fulfil your present-buying obligation and everyone gets lovely new towels. It’s a winner all round.’
‘Do you want some new towels, Laura?’ I ask.
‘I will never say no to new towels. But let’s not jump the gun. Please God, there will be many more towel-buying days in your mum’s future.’
God, I hope so. I promise if there are I will never, ever tease my mother about her strange habit ever again. I promise I will take her out simply to buy as many towels as she might want.
The hospital comes into view and instinctively I take a deep breath, knowing everything might change in the next few hours and ultimately there is very little I can do about it.
I have to push down the meltdown I’m finally ready to have.
It’s too late now. I need to get on with things.
I have to be strong. I have to advocate for the most important woman in my life and I have to plan for a possible mega clearance on Egyptian cotton towels.