Chapter 9
The hospital feels small. I have a vivid memory of coming here once before, as a child, when Mum had a minor operation to have her appendix removed, and my mind being blown by the size of the place.
Now, as I wait in the reception area for someone to tell me where to go, I’m struggling to believe that this is the same place. Is it really the same? As I look around the tiny plastic chairs, the low ceilings, the crowded car park, it feels like my world has shrunk.
I guess it doesn’t help that an hour ago I was off to explore new horizons and now I’m approximately two miles from where I grew up. But I don’t have time to think about that.
“Sandra Alderton,” I repeat to the nurse.
I’ve been sent to three different stations and for some reason Mum and Gavin aren’t picking up their phones.
I’m trying not to let panic take over, but my mind is filling with all sorts of terrible reasons for their silence.
Just how bad is she? What if she’s got broken ribs, a collapsed lung, internal bleeding?
An even worse thought keeps nagging . . . What if this was because of me? What if she was so shocked from reading my letter that she fell? What if this is all my fault? Because I got carried away by a tarot reading?!
I try to soothe myself. Mum probably hasn’t even read it yet and she’s probably fine. Of course she’s fine.
“Down the hall, room B,” the nurse replies.
“Thank you.” I pause. The nurse senses me hovering over him and looks up from his charts once more. “I don’t suppose you have anywhere I can leave these?” I point at my two huge suitcases. For some reason I’m whispering.
“You can take them in with you,” he says.
“I, errr. I can’t do that. It’s a long story.”
The nurse raises an eyebrow as if to say, You’d better explain it then, because I don’t have time to look after your suitcases without a very good reason.
“See, Dan . . .” I glance at his name tag. “I was supposed to be leaving the country,” I hiss. “And, er, I hadn’t told my mum and if she sees them . . .”
Dan raises his eyebrow even higher. For a moment I think he’s not going to come through, but eventually he sighs and gestures for me to pass them behind the counter. I thank him profusely and hurry off to find Mum’s room.
When I see her lying in the bed, I’m immediately struck again by that feeling of being the wrong size. I’m like a giant standing in a dollhouse. Mum looks so small. She’s lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. She doesn’t look at me when I come in.
“Mum?” I choke. I’m going to cry.
“Hello, Becky.” Her voice is feeble. She keeps staring upward.
I hurry over to her. She looks so frail. Her expression is drawn and her skin looks deathly pale. Oh my God. I tried to hold it together on the way here but it all starts crumbling. Was this because of me?
I spot her mobile on her bedside table.
“Oh.” I point at it. “I’ve been calling you?”
Was she ignoring me because she read the letter? Would she really have been so petty to ignore my calls at a time like this, even if she had read it?
“Sorry,” she whispers to the ceiling. “I’ve been preoccupied.”
I relax a little. Of course she wasn’t ignoring my calls. She called me.
“So what happened?!” I pull up a chair by the side of her bed. “Where’s Gavin?”
“He went home to get some of my things. I fell down the stairs,” she says softly.
“Oh no! Mum!” For all that she annoys me, I feel intensely protective. My poor, poor mum. “How?!”
“I was distracted. I’m getting old and fragile.” She moves to sit up and winces. I lean over and stop her pillow from sliding out from under her.
Guilt clenches my stomach. “Distracted by . . . something in particular?” I feign innocence.
She makes an indeterminate sound and I relax some more. If it had been my letter there’s no way she wouldn’t have mentioned it yet. I mean, she calls me when I’m at work if she so much as suspects I touched her fancy shower gel. She’s not exactly one to hold back.
“Do you know what’s wrong?” I ask.
“They aren’t sure yet about the extent of the injuries,” she rasps. “We’re waiting for test results.”
Extent of the injuries. That doesn’t sound good. Oh my God. Oh my God oh my God oh my God.
We sit in silence but my brain is buzzing.
I never really understood the term “frantic with worry” before now.
Suddenly I wonder how I’m going to get my suitcases home without Mum seeing them.
With resignation, I accept that I’m going to have to call for backup.
I open up my contacts, take a deep breath, and pray that Damilola hasn’t opened her letter yet.
“Mum, I need to make a call,” I say.
“Who?” she asks.
I briefly wonder if people who don’t still cohabit with their parents have to answer so many questions about their lives. I’m popping out to the shop. What for? I’m going out this evening. Where to? I’ll be back later. What time? I need the toilet. Number one or two?
Does the woman need to know everything? But if I’m deliberately cagey she’ll accuse me of being “childish,” and anyway, now doesn’t seem like the time to argue with her.
“Work,” I answer, and she drops it. Of course, she doesn’t know I’ve quit my job yet.
Oh my God. I’m going to have to tell her I quit my job.
I step outside and phone Dami. To her credit, she doesn’t say much when I explain the situation to her. She’s mostly very quiet, with the odd “OK?” and “wow, OK” thrown in.
“So, you need me to . . . pick up your suitcases?”
“Yes.”
“And let myself into your house?”
“Er . . . yes.”
“And put them in your room?”
“I know it sounds mental . . .”
If it were Angie she’d say, Mental doesn’t begin to cover it, Becky. But Dami says, “Wow, OK.”
“I promise I’ll explain everything better later,” I plead.
“OK?” she says. “OK. We’re coming.”
“We?” I repeat. Oh God. Please say Phil isn’t coming.
“Angie’s here. She wasn’t in the gym today. She came to work from mine and brainstorm bits for the new studio.”
No. Nonononono. Not Angie. There’s a reason why I called Dami! Apart from the fact she works from home on Wednesdays, she Lets. Things. Go. Angie does not. I will never hear the end of this.
“I . . . ,” I start, but Dami’s already hung up. Still, silver linings. If they’re both on their way here it means that neither of them have read their letters yet.
Twenty minutes later I grab my suitcases from an eye-rolling Dan and hover outside in the car park.
Eventually Dami pulls up in Phil’s car. Well, I say Phil’s car.
It’s technically hers too, but Phil chose it, so it’s basically Phil’s car.
It’s a giant, fuck-off Range Rover that Dami never would have considered buying before she met him.
Angie is in the passenger seat looking like she’s chewing on something sour. Dami just looks worried.
“What’s going on, Becky?” Dami gets out and moves toward me, putting her hand on my arm. Angie lingers behind her, leaning against the car.
“I’m really sorry. Can I explain later? It’s just . . .” I gesture at the suitcases, then back at the hospital.
Dami relents and starts wheeling them toward the boot. I stand like a lemon trying not to make eye contact with Angie, but I can feel her staring at me. She’s been silent up until now but I sense I only have moments.
“So, you were going where?” she asks.
“I . . . Bali.” God. It does sound absolutely ridiculous.
“Why, exactly?” Angie says.
“I was going to find work when I got there,” I say.
“Right.” Angie folds her arms.
“I only just decided . . . It wasn’t a planned thing. I . . . I had an existential crisis over a tarot reading,” I add. Christ. I am never getting rid of the “chaotic bi friend” label now.
Dami finishes lifting my case into the car and closes the boot. They both stare at me.
“It . . . told me I was going to die,” I add, aware I am sounding more and more unhinged by the moment. Neither of them says anything. “Obviously, I realized twenty-four hours later I’m probably not going to die. At least not now, anyway. But it was pretty scary.”
“Honestly, I’m not sure what to say to that,” Angie comments eventually. “When were you planning on telling your mum you were leaving the country?” What she really means is, when were you planning on telling us?
“I wrote her a letter,” I mumble.
“A letter?” Dami repeats.
“Isn’t that like dumping someone by text?” says Angie.
“No,” I defy, my muscles tensing. “Categorically not.”
Angie raises one eyebrow.
“I used a fountain pen!” I squeak.
“All right, whatever you say.” Angie smirks. Dami shuts the boot and gives me a pitying smile.
“Look . . . I know I shouldn’t have just upped and left but . . . self-care,” I conclude.
“Oh, Becky.” Dami moves over to me and pulls me into a hug.
Thank the gods of the twenty-first century for how much you can get away with if you use the term “self-care.” “Sorry I didn’t reply to your text.
Self-care.” “Sorry I chose to stay in with my cat rather than come to your child’s christening.
Self-care.” “Whoops, I spent all my salary on retinol creams and Domino’s two-for-one Tuesdays instead of replacing the hoover. Self-care.”
It’s like accusing someone of “gaslighting” you in an argument. You win, no questions asked. God knows what it actually means.
“Are you OK?” Dami mumbles into my shoulder as she holds me.
“Mm-hmm,” I say, basking in Dami’s sympathy. Then I remember that soon she’s going to be opening her own letter. This might be the last time she’s ever nice to me. I grip her tightly.
Angie is still eyeing me quizzically from a distance. “Text us how your mum is, yeah?” she says as Dami pulls out of the hug.
“I will,” I reply.
As I watch them drive away, I think about how that might be the last semi-normal conversation I’m going to have with either of them. I stand outside the hospital for a bit, watching other cars pull in and out of the spot Dami’s car was in only moments ago, before heading back inside.
When I get back, the doctor is just leaving. She smiles at me as she heads out and down the corridor. I sprint into Mum’s room.
“What did she say?!” I grill her. My heart starts pumping. Then I see the black boot with strips of Velcro fastened on Mum’s right leg and the crutches lying by the bed.
“I might not be able to walk for four weeks,” she answers breathily, her hand fluttering to her forehead. “Maybe longer, because of my age.”
I can’t help but think Mum bites my head off if I ever allude to the fact she’s in her sixties, but leans into it when it suits her. Like whenever she wants something down from the attic, suddenly she’s Old Mother Hubbard.
I point at the boot. “So it’s broken? Or is it a sprain?”
Mum squints at me as if I’m suddenly standing very far away.
“I don’t know, Becky . . . Is that important?”
“Well, yes,” I say. “They’re quite different.”
“Honestly, Becky, I can’t remember everything the doctor said.”
“It’s literally just . . . one thing.” I feel irritation rising. “Sprain or break?”
She looks flustered. “Well, if you’re going to bully me about it, I think it was a sprain, yes. A sprain.”
“OK.” I nod. “And . . . did she say anything else?”
She stammers. “Any . . . anything else? What do you mean?” A puzzled frown crosses her face. Her “elderly” voice is back.
“I mean, is there anything else? Is there anything else wrong with you besides a sprained ankle? I thought they were running tests on you?”
Mum looks flabbergasted. “I don’t believe so, Becky. I’m sorry, is my being in a cast not satisfactory? Am I not injured enough for your liking? Do I need to be half-dead, practically settling into my coffin before you’ll come to visit me in the hospital?”
“That’s not what I . . .” My brain hurts. But really, honestly, the answer is YES.
I CANNOT BELIEVE I JUST MISSED MY FLIGHT FOR A SPRAINED FUCKING ANKLE.
“Am I interrupting something?” Mum asks. “Did you have somewhere more important to be today?”
I freeze. Mum doesn’t look at me as she says this, fixating on her phone. Has she read the letter? Does she know I was abruptly moving out?
Surely not. I avoid her question. “So . . . what do we do now?”
“Gavin’s going to be back soon,” she says. “Turns out he didn’t need to get my things after all, so he can take me home. I need rest.”
I look at her properly. She does seem totally knackered.
“Yeah, of course,” I say. Mum is fine, that’s all that matters, and my heart swells with joy at the thought of my cozy bed, my slippers, my cracked ceiling.
Was I really planning to leave all that behind only a few short hours ago? That seems nuts. “Let’s go.”
“Oh, where are you going?” And that’s when I know.
She knows.
“Home?” I say weakly. I feel sick.
“I’m not sure where your home is, Becky,” Mum replies.
She looks me dead in the eye. There’s knowing in her fixed, searchlight stare.
She brings out a crumpled letter from her bag and waves it in my face.
My dancing llamas stare back at me mockingly.
“I found the flight confirmation in your emails. Bali, was it?”
Ughhhhhh.
UGHHHHHHHHH.
I falter for a second. Surely she’s not going to kick me out, today? I came back for her! I came back for her SPRAINED BLOODY ANKLE. She can’t tell me to get lost now?!
Can she?!
“Mum, please, I’ll sort myself out tomorrow, I promise. Where am I supposed to go tonight?”
“Mmm,” Mum murmurs. For a moment I think she might be the bigger person. Then she says, “I’m sure you’ll find somewhere. I wouldn’t want to infantilize you.” She puts her phone in her bag and finally looks at me. “Gavin is nearly here, so I’d better go. Would you pass me the crutches?”
I pass them to her and she hobbles out of the room. I watch her move slowly down the bare hospital corridor toward the car park.
And just like that, I’m homeless.