Chapter 8 #2
When it’s time to get up and leave, Mum’s already gone out to meet her morning walking group before she settles in for an afternoon of online chess, smashing opponents in every corner of the globe.
I feel a flicker of guilt for not saying goodbye to her face.
But I tell myself a letter is fine. Totally borderline socially acceptable.
If someone sent a text or even an email to break up with your mate you’d be like, What a dick.
But no one can moan too much about receiving bad news via a letter, can they?
It’s on paper. Someone wrote it with their hand, like Shakespeare or Kate Middleton, so it must be legit.
When my Uber arrives outside, I wheel my cases onto the street and turn back to my house. My house that I’ve spent most of my twenty-nine years on the planet in. It looks exactly the same but it already feels different; alien and stern, like it senses I’m no longer living in it.
The Uber driver beeps his horn and I take the hint. We load up the car. When we start driving, I can’t bring myself to look back.
Half an hour later, my phone buzzes. My heart leaps, and I wonder irrationally if it’s Angie, Dami, or Max having received their letter, even though I know the post won’t have been yet. It takes me a second to process Vera’s name on my screen.
Hey. Do you feel like doing something this week? We can do it your way this time i.e. inebriated and under cover of darkness. Vx
Shit. I’d completely forgotten about her.
I’m sorry, I can’t. Funny story . . . I’m actually leaving the country today! It was a totally last minute thing but I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone for. x
It seems a bit short and crap, but really, what else is there to say? She comes back immediately.
Oh no—gutted I won’t get to see you again, but that’s so exciting! Well, safe travels and good luck Becky. Have a great trip xx
I’m a bit blindsided by her reply. She’s admitting her feelings to a total stranger without it seeming (a) embarrassing, (b) aggressive, or (c) creepy.
How does one become like Vera? Can I take lessons?
I reply saying thanks and that I really did have a good time on our date.
Whether or not I was actually interested in pursuing a relationship with her is beside the point.
I spend the rest of the journey checking the time, wondering if the post has arrived, and panicking about whether the letters have been opened yet.
I picture them sitting in my unsuspecting friends’ corridors.
I imagine Fran picking Max’s up and handing it to him, having no idea what she’s passing on.
I see Angie’s pinched, disapproving face as she scans the words. AGHHHHHH.
Thank God I don’t have to see any of these people for at least half a year. Maybe not even then. I’m going to have to stay on the other side of the world forever. I can LITERALLY never show my face in the UK again.
What on earth was I thinking?
A few hours later, when I’m through security and waiting at the gate, my phone buzzes again. This time it’s a call from Mum.
Oh God. Has she read my letter already? Is she racing after me right now, hunting me down with a crazed look in her eye, my total lack of responsibility having finally pushed her over the edge?!
I don’t answer. It’s all good, it’s all good. Probably just calling to ask me if I want the shell-shaped pasta or penne from Sainsbury’s.
Oh God. She’s calling again. Bloody hell. I know I’m not going to be able to dodge her calls forever, but . . . maybe just at least until I’m safely across the Indian Ocean.
I let it ring off, when my phone rings again. This time it’s Gavin. Huh. That’s weird. Gavin never calls me.
“Hello?” I answer cautiously.
“Were you avoiding my call?” It’s Mum. The sound of her voice makes something inside my stomach shrivel and I start sweating. I am so busted.
“No, no,” I say. “I just, er, I couldn’t find my phone in the bottom of my bag, and then . . .”
“Becky,” Mum says. I might be imagining it, but I think I hear her voice wavering? “I’m . . .” She sniffs.
Oh my God. Definitely not imagining it. She’s upset.
She’s read the letter and she’s upset. This is even worse than I thought.
I can’t remember the last time I heard my mother cry.
What if she tries to stick her head in the oven, like that one time she threatened to do after I finished her stir-fry sauce?
“Mum, I . . . I’m sorry, I—”
She cuts me off. “Becky. I’m in the hospital.”
My entire body freezes.
“You’re what?”
“I’m in the hospital.”
My blood is running cold. Icy trepidation shoots through my limbs. “What do you mean?! Why? What happened?”
“I . . .” She clears her throat. Her voice sounds small. “I took a tumble down the stairs.”
“Oh my God! Mum! Are you OK?!”
“Well, I’m alive,” she says.
“How bad was it? Do you need me to come?”
“Oh, well, the doctors don’t know yet. Gavin’s here. I’m sure you’re very busy.” She sniffs again.
“Uhhhh . . .” I stare gormlessly out the window as an overhead voice announces that my flight is boarding.
I’m barely computing what she’s saying. My brain has gone blank and, the opposite of just five minutes ago, I feel numb.
My brain is deciding what to do, but my heart knows already.
There is no way I can get on a flight now.
There is no way I can’t go to the hospital.
“Becky? Are you still there?”
“Of course I’m coming, Mum,” I say eventually. “I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”
“I’ll send you the details.” She hangs up.
I head over to a member of staff to explain the situation and ask how the hell I can retrieve my bags from the plane. As she goes to talk to her manager, I stare out the window and half watch a plane take off in the distance.