Chapter 13 #2
Mum’s hands are clammy as I watch her chest rise and fall with short, shaky breaths.
Her entire body feels cold. I squeeze my hot palms around her hands with an apologetic half-smile because they are sticky from the cream and jam I spread on scones for Vi and my brothers a little bit ago.
The kids are always asking for something.
A snack, a drink, help with the telly, someone to play with.
It never stops. Four kids is too many. I can’t wait for Vi to turn five in a couple of months.
Maybe she can start helping in the kitchen and keep the twins out of my way.
At least she knows how to change Booker’s nappies, though. That’s one job I will never do.
On top of the kids, there’s the doorbell. The neighbour lady keeps ringing our gate, dropping off big pans of food because she thinks that’s what we need. She needs to come by with what we really need. Help.
But stupid Dad won’t let anyone in the door.
The old woman has to leave the food at the gate.
Then he barks at me to go get it. It makes me so mad because I need to be with Mummy.
I’ve spent every single day with her since she stopped getting out of bed a few weeks ago.
If I didn’t have to go to school, I would never leave her. She needs me.
I probably wouldn’t have to do so much if Dad wasn’t such an awful meanie. He won’t let anyone in. Friends, the neighbour, not even our uncle who lives in America and flew all the way here to help.
And he hardly ever lets us out. The only places we can go is the back garden, the woods behind our house, and school. That’s it.
I hate him.
But I love Mummy.
She’s my best friend.
My breath is still heavy from my sprint up the stairs to hurry back to her. I didn’t want to leave her, but I could hear Dad crying in the other room. I knew if he heard the doorbell ring again, he’d shout. He always shouts. Sometimes he even growls.
But crying…He doesn’t usually do that.
Crying makes my stomach hurt.
Crying makes me think bad things are coming.
Mum and Dad think I don’t know what’s going on. They think I don’t know Mummy is dying. But I’m eight. I’m not a baby anymore. I can understand what the doctor says around Mum even though he acts like she’s not here. Dad and the doctor always talk about her. Nobody talks to her.
Only me.
That’s my job. That’s why I spend every day with her.
I could talk to her forever.
But I know forever isn’t going to happen. Last time the doctor was here, he said one word that made everything go from bad to really bad.
“Days.”
Stupid, awful, bloody cancer.
I hate it. Mummy tried to fight it. She had the surgeries she didn’t want to have because Dad made her, but nothing worked. Now my mummy is leaving me.
The sound of a sniffle makes me look from Mum’s hands to her eyes. They flutter open and reveal the brightest blue I’ve ever seen. Maybe it’s because her skin is so white, but it looks like the blue food colouring we dye Easter eggs with. They almost hurt to look at because they are so pretty.
“How’s my best boy?” Mum’s voice croaks in the pretty Swedish accent she has that I love so much. She closes her eyes and winces beneath her smile.
“Just fine, Mummy. Do you need something? Do you want me to get out the cards?” I look over at the table where I’ve stashed a few things to pass the time. Dice, cards, and a notepad for her to write her poetry on. Sometimes I write it for her when she’s feeling poorly.
She shakes her head. “No cards today, love. I just need you.” Her chin wobbles. “We have to talk about something, Gareth. I need to ask you something.”
“Anything, Mummy.” I would do absolutely anything she asked me. I’d climb mountains. I’d fight dragons. I’d blast out a fire if it made her feel even a tiny bit better.
She clears her throat and touches my cheek. “I might be going to Heaven soon, and I need to know if you’re strong enough to stay with me until I go.”
Her words take a minute to climb into my brain. Did she say Heaven? Like, the real Heaven? Or is she talking about a poem of hers?
“What, Mummy?” I ask like a stupid idiot.
“I feel myself dying, Gareth. If you’re not strong enough to stay, I need you to go now.” Her voice breaks and she sucks in a big breath, like she’s trying too hard to be brave. “Because as scared as I am, nothing scares me more than hurting you, my sweet, lovely, wonderful boy.”
I blink and my cheeks are instantly dripping with some sort of liquid. “So you’re going to go to Heaven now?”
She nods.
My head begins to shake. “I don’t want you to go to Heaven!”
Stupid idiot! Don’t cry! Mum’s face looks sadder than I’ve ever seen. I hate when Mum’s face gets sad! Stop it, Gareth. Stop being a baby! She can’t take it!
I squeeze my eyes shut real tight, then open them, trying hard to be a brave man and not a scared little boy. “Do you really have to go?”
“Yes, my boy. I’m tired of not feeling well. In Heaven, I will feel so much better.” Mum sniffles and wipes a dribble of snot from her nose. “Then you won’t have to take care of me anymore.”
“But I like taking care of you!” I cry, losing the fight I have between being a boy and being a man. It’s a line I’ve been tightrope walking since they said she was sick. “I would do anything for you, Mummy. So whatever you need. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
She nods with a tightness to her jaw. “That’s good. Then please just hold my hand.”
“Are you sure I shouldn’t get Dad?” I look nervously at the door. Getting Dad sounds scary, but I’m scared. I’m so, so scared. What if I’m not good enough for this? What if I’m bad at helping her?
“Dad can’t be here right now.” Mum’s eyes look sad. So, so sad.
My eyes narrow, anger replacing tears. “Because he’s mean.” It’s the truth. I hate him.
Her dry lips purse together. “He’s mean because he loves me too much and he’s afraid.
Fear does strange things to people, Gareth.
You see, Daddy has been my bestest friend in the whole world.
We created a life together that most people only dream about and he’s losing that dream.
That’s hard for him to accept without me there to help him. Please try not to be too cross at him.”
“That’s stupid. If he is your best friend, he should be here for you. You’re the one who’s…sick.” I hate saying the last word, but there’s no other way to say it.
She smiles sadly. “Sometimes when you love someone too much, your heart is louder than your head.”
I think about that for a minute, still angry at Dad for doing this to her. “That’s why I’m your best friend now, Mum.” Her eyes sparkle and it makes me feel like I’m ten feet tall. “I’ll be your best friend forever. And I won’t let my heart be louder than my head. Ever. I’m here for you, Mummy.”
“I’m happy to hear that, Gareth, because I need a best friend right now.” She smiles and, even with the wrinkles around her eyes, she’s the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen. “But someday, my boy…Someday your heart will overrule your head, and it will bring me great joy up in Heaven.”
She pulls me by the hand to come closer, her other hand reaching up to the back of my neck and hugging me so my cheek presses against her chest. I can hear her heartbeat, but it sounds far away.
And even her chest feels cold. If it wasn’t for the soft, smooth fabric of her pyjama top, I’d forget all about how nice my mum feels.
It’s funny that a silly shirt can remind me of the way Mummy used to be before she was sick. When she was warm and cosy.
Her breath is cool as she drops kisses in my hair and murmurs, “And let me feel that warm breath here.” Kiss.
“And there.” Kiss. She lets out a soft cry as she slides her fingers through my short strands.
“To spread a rapture in my very hair, O, the sweetness of the pain.” She shakes and squeezes me to her really hard.
I sniffle and look up into her wet eyes. “Is that one of your poems, Mum?”
She shakes her head. “That is Keats, my love. Moments like this belong to the professionals.” She adjusts me so we’re holding hands against her chest bone and adds through strangled croaks, “Touch has a memory. O say, love, say, What can I do to kill it and be free.”
“I don’t want to be free!” I gasp and a cry breaks loose from my chest that I didn’t feel coming.
I squeeze her hand as hard as I can, no longer caring about how breakable she is.
I’m terrified, and I wish a million wishes that my hold could keep her here with me forever.
I reach down and touch the fabric of her soft shirt.
“I don’t want to kill this memory. I want you to stay, Mummy. I hate Heaven!”
I sob and her hand cups my damp cheek. “Hush now, my bestest friend. My bestest friend in the whole wide world.”
She takes a fast breath and her eyes close tightly, wrinkles forming on the lids…
And then…
They soften.
They stop wiggling.
They stop flinching.
They turn still.
“Mummy?” My voice sounds gross. I shake her once. “Mum?”
I squeeze her hands and feel no pressure back.
Nothing.
“Mummy,” I cry one more time, but I know what’s come.
Death.
It came so fast, I didn’t say everything I needed to say.
All the things I should have said. I should have brought the kids in to see her one more time.
I should have told her about how good Vi is at changing Booker’s nappies.
I should have told her about how the twins are starting to write their alphabet letters already.
I should have told her about the nice neighbour lady’s pies. I should have told her so many things.
But it came too fast.
Death.
It took her from me.
My best friend is gone.
The feeling of her long, pale fingers soft in my short, sticky ones feels like tons and tons of weight pressing down on my chest. Yucky, gross weight.
Why didn’t I wash my hands before I came back in here?
Why couldn’t Dad get the kids their snack just once?
Why couldn’t he answer the door? Do something!
My mum’s last touch was my jammy, filthy hands because I had too much to do!
And now there’s just a deadness to her that makes me sick. This isn’t my mum anymore. This is Death.
I let go of her and slide off the bed, backing up until my back hits the wall by the far window. She doesn’t look like Mum anymore. She looks all wrong. Nothing like the woman who loved to make her kids pancakes with special Swedish syrup.
She looks like something that should be in a scary movie.
This isn’t how I want to remember my best friend. I close my eyes and say the words of Keats she just said to me. “Touch has a memory. O say, love, say. What can I do to kill it and be free.”
Keats is right.
I have to kill it.