2. Chapter 2
2
Layla Johnson
My roommate’s voice sucks me out of dragon slaying and back into the real world with an inconvenient bump. I look up from my iPad on the couch. Katy’s holding a glass of wine in one hand and miraculously balancing her MacBook in the other.
“It’s that horrible time of the month again,” she says in a sing-song voice. No amount of singing will make the following ten minutes any less painful.
I groan.
I always groan at this time of the month and no it’s not because of my period.
“Have you updated the figures yet?” I ask tentatively,
“Not yet.” She passes me the wine and I scramble to move my legs out of the way before she sits on me. “Pull up your app, let’s do this.”
At least she allows me to do the honours to see just how fucked I am financially.
No money, two jobs, and very much alone. Except for my whacky roommate, best friend, confidant, oh, and financial advisor. And, of course, my grandad. Oh, and the cat. Although he’s Katy’s.
So not completely alone.
I grab my phone, logging into my banking app, glancing at the minus number and unread notifications, I throw the phone onto the sofa cushion like it burnt me. Leaning back, I groan into my hands. “I’m screwed.”
“It can’t be that bad,” Katy reassures me, picking up the phone. Her eyes widen.
“See…screwed.”
She clears her throat and opens the laptop. “Okay, well, don’t worry about the rent this month. I can cover it.” She inputs figures into the spreadsheet of doom, her long nails that are always immaculately painted tap-tap-tapping away.
I glance at my own nails, chewed and chipped. Getting my nails done is one of the last items on my list of things to buy—If I had money.
“Katy, this is the fourth month you have covered it. I can’t keep doing this.”
“Layla, have you seen your reflection?” Her hazel eyes peer over the top of the laptop. “You’re pale, girl, like deathly pale, which I know isn’t hard for you because you barely see the sun.”
I’m always working, plus it’s March and freezing.
“You have huge bags under your eyes, that no amount of cucumber or tea bags will solve.”
“Myth.” I roll my eyes.
She ignores me and continues to tell me how it is; she’s good at this. She doesn’t do it to be horrible, she just likes to keep me grounded and stop me pretending that it’s all fine. It’s not like I don’t know how up shit creek I am, I just ignore it in the hope that maybe one day it’ll go away.
“You work two jobs to cover your grandad’s care home and your basic living, and babe, I don’t think we can class your life as living. You are too busy working to really be enjoying life. You’re,” she frowns at the computer, “…you’re just not dying.”
I snort. Charming.
“You need a haircut, a gloss, you need new clothes and just generally some upkeep. You need to reassess.” She punctuates the last words like a punch to the gut.
I know I look exhausted; I don’t need my friend pointing all this out to me. I am exhausted. And I am at breaking point. This is not how I want to live my life.
Most 25-year-olds are out boozing and having fun. Me, I’m barely scraping the barrel and, if it wasn’t for Katy, I’d be on the street. And for that I am very, very grateful.
“You need to move him,” she says after a beat, staring back at the screen.
If only I could move him.
“I can’t,” I say, standing up. Of course, I know this is what I need to do. There are plenty of other residential homes in the area that will meet his needs. I just can’t bring myself to do it. My parents chose this place.
“Just move him, he’s what 105?”
“Eighty-three.” I walk into the kitchen, flicking on the kettle.
“Well, at 83, he probably wouldn’t even realise,” she calls from the living room.
I flinch and lean through the doorway that separates the living room from our small kitchen in the two-bedroom flat we share in South Kensington. She at least has the decency to look apologetic.
“He’s got dementia, and although that may well be true, I can’t move him. He doesn’t remember much, but he feels safe there.” Unfortunately . As soon as I think it, my stomach churns with guilt. I’m going to hell for that I’m sure of it. “I can’t have him go through the upheaval.”
This isn’t a new conversation, it’s that time of the month: bills time, chat time. Trying to talk some sense into Layla time.
“Is this what your parents would have wanted for you?”
My gaze whips to hers, and I shoot her a warning look. We don’t go there, ever.
“Look,” she says, pushing the laptop to one side and crossing her legs in front of her, “I’m just trying to make you see. You can’t keep going on like this. You can’t take on the burden of your grandad. It’s time to ask for some help.”
“Who from? I have no one.”
“You have me,” she says, throwing a cushion, which I catch easily. “And there are organisations that can help. Call Citizens Advice. They’ll be able to, well, you know, give you advice and shit. And you need to call the bank. Maybe they can extend your overdraft, or you can explain the circumstances.” She takes a breath before adding softly, “And you need to double check your parents’ will. Make sure you have everything that was left in the estate, and nothing was missed.”
She’s right, I did need to do the last bit. At that awful time, Grandad was executor of the will, but he was already showing symptoms. God knows whether there was something in there that was missed. My parents had meant to update it after his diagnosis, but never got round to it. I’d been holding off investigating because I would need lawyers, and guess what lawyers cost—money, and I had none.
Fuck. My. Life.
“Hi, Grandad.”
He’s sitting in his usual brown chair, making his skin look even paler in contrast. He’s staring out the window, lost, deep in a world where no one can tell what he’s thinking.
The room is small and stuffy, and I potter around, neatly arranging a few of his favourite items on his bedside table, then take in his surroundings, hands on my hips.
I never see him eating the wine gums I bring him, but the nurses and carers assure me that he does; and when he does eat them some of his old self comes back, memories triggered by the flavours, they tell me.
“How are you today? I saw Sylvia, and they said you haven’t been eating your lunch again. You know you have to eat, right?”
He doesn’t answer me, nor does he acknowledge me, but I continue to move about the suffocating room. Walking to the wash basin in the corner surrounded by some of his toiletries, I run the tap, filling a small green watering can and tend to the plants on the windowsill.
I’ve brought the plants here over time to try to bring some life into the room, which is tired and dated, the pale green walls dirty and the lighting dim.
This is what my money buys him.
I both love and hate being here. Love to see him but hate to see him waste away in front of me; hate the environment that sucks the life out of you a little at a time.
I water the plants, pulling off dead leaves and place the watering can back on the windowsill. “Have you at least been drinking?” His cup sits empty on the table. “Ah, good lad, I’ll top this up for you.” I fill the child’s no-spill cup with water from the jug.
“Where’s Sarah?” He grabs my wrist with a strength that always surprises me. His pale, thinning skin is all age spots and blue veins, and I place my hand over his. It breaks my heart every time he asks this, and he asks it every time. But I can’t tell him, not anymore. Telling him would make his confusion worse, so each week I tell a lie.
“Grandad, Sarah—Mum—she’s not coming today.” I swallow past the lump in my throat and pat his hand.
“But she hasn’t been for a while, unless, unless that was her last week? Was that her? Was that my Sarah?” I kneel next to him, his watery blue eyes peering over his glasses, confused and hopeful. “I feel like I haven’t seen her for such a long time. Where is she?”
This never gets easier. “She can’t come this week.”
“No?” His brows draw together.
“She and David have gone on a cruise.”
“Have they?” His eyes brighten.
I nod and continue to pat his hand. He looks at where they touch, that vague expression reappearing. He pulls his hand away his attention caught by something outside the window. “How lovely,” he finally says. “A cruise. I bet it’s somewhere warm, Sarah hates the cold.”
I smile sadly and watch a bird land on the tree just outside his window.
“So, she’s not going to come this week?”
“No, Grandad.”
“But you will?”
“Yes, Grandad, every Tuesday and Friday.”
“That’s nice.” He frowns. “And who are you?”
I pull one of the stools up next to him. “I’m Layla, I’m Sarah’s daughter.”
He stares at me; he tracks his bleary blue eyes over my features. “You look like her.” He smiles softly. “And you come every week to see me?”
“Every single week.” I pick up his hand and kiss it. “Some weeks we even go for walks outside.”
“Outside? Really? To see the birds?”
“Would you like to go for a walk today, do you feel up to it?”
He looks around the room. “I don’t think I can walk very well now Sarah.” He stares down at his legs: underneath his tan trousers, bandages cover the welts on his legs where his dry skin has cracked open from repeated chafing and lack of movement.
“That’s alright, we can prop you in the chair and take you on an adventure. What do you say? Get you out of the room for a bit?” He hadn’t left the room for over three months, and I’m desperate for him to get fresh air.
I hoped that maybe I would see some of the old Grandad again.
Dementia was a bitch.
A few years after my parents died, I put him in this home. I knew it was something they had researched, and they had liked it. It had good weekly activities, a community.
“Maybe we can go next week when Sarah comes in?” He looks at me, hopeful again, and I nod.
“Next week sounds good.”
“Look at that bird sitting there.” He glances sideways, reaching out and holding my hand. “I remember when Eddie and I were in Germany. Did I tell you about Eddie?”
“No.” I lean closer. Of course, he had told me about Eddie, but I could listen to his stories all day.
“Oh, Eddie, he makes me laugh. Even now.”
Eddie has been dead for over thirty years.
“We used to be thick as thieves. I was the lookout while he broke into the safes.” His shoulders shake as he laughs. “Oh, man.”
I pass him his water, and he takes a sip. He’s come alive. He doesn’t remember what he had for breakfast, but he remembers a story from sixty years ago like it happened yesterday.
For over an hour I listen as he moves from one story to another, we eat his wine gums, and he asks me who I am only once more.
It’s been a good visit today, and my heart is full of love.
“So, you will be back Tuesday then?”
I lean down and kiss his cheek. “You better believe it, Grandad.”
“And you will bring me some more wine gums?”
I smile at him and check his water. “Of course. Do you need anything?”
“Can you turn the TV on?”
I pick up the remote and press On. I navigate to an app and pull up his show of choice, Dad's Army , the theme music filling the room.
“Thank you. I’ll see you Tuesday then, Sarah.”
“It’s Layla, Grandad, and yes, I’ll see you on Tuesday. I love you, be good.”
“I’m always good.” He grins, waving goodbye, and I pull his door shut behind me.
I stifle a yawn, turn the key and watch the metal shutter come down over the main entrance to the local health centre. The last doctor left ten minutes ago, leaving me to tidy up the reception area before locking up. I’d spent five years getting my undergraduate medical degree, but after grandad went to the care home the bills started ramping up and I’d had to give up my dream to become a doctor. So instead, I work in administration at the local doctor’s surgery, not exactly my dream but with this job and the café I make do.
Just.
The door grinds metal against metal on its runner in the otherwise quiet night. The evenings were supposed to be getting warmer with spring round the corner, but tonight’s wind crept in between the gaps of my jacket, touching my flesh and leaving goosebumps in its wake.
I hate the long winter nights, but with spring also comes the sadness, as the anniversary of the car crash that killed my parents’ creeps ever closer. I can already feel my mood turning sour.
Sighing, I remove the key, bending down and checking that the shutter is fully secured. Pulling my coat tighter and grabbing my phone from my bag, I send Katy a quick message to say that I was on my way home.
She doesn’t like me walking back but it isn’t exactly through dark and dangerous alleyways, it’s a ten-minute walk with most of it on the High Street, which has plenty of people.
Even in the depths of winter, I enjoy the walk; it allows me to clear my head, which tonight swims with all things financial.
Katy is right, I am barely living; my dreams are on hold. But we all make sacrifices, right? It’s what we do for the ones we love.
I hadn’t explored the Citizens Advice angle before, and I couldn’t continue this path for much longer.
If it wasn’t for Katy, I’d be living in a cardboard box on the very High Street I’m about to walk down. I owe her a lot.
I approach the same crossing that I always use, waiting as the lights change. Horns blare and people shout around me, the mutters of “arseholes” and “idiots” along with gasps from the surrounding pedestrians, and I stop mid step.
Following the direction of everyone’s gazes, I jump back as a Mercedes Benz and Audi come careering round the bend, wheels screeching as they fight for grip against the tight corner.
Fear freezes me to the spot as people around me start screaming and jumping out of the way as the car crash unfolds. I leap back as the Audi drives parallel to the Mercedes, smacks into the front bumper, and miraculously keeps control. The driver of the Mercedes avoids hitting any other cars as the vehicle swerves across both lanes of traffic. The tyres hit the kerb at the perfect angle, or imperfect angle, causing it to flip.
The Audi, after causing the destruction, wheel spins away.
The Mercedes still seems to catapult through the air as though it’s a toy car thrown by a child. There’s a horrible grating of metal grinding against the road, and I flinch and shut my eyes. All I can still see is my parents’ twisted bodies …
Not now. Not now.
I dig my fingernails into my palms to ground myself into the chaos of the present not the pain of the past.
The car slows, tilting on its side as the momentum dispels and crashes back down onto all four warped tyres.
It’s obvious that the occupants will need help.
I start running into the road before anyone else can move.