Against the Tide (23 page)

“I should have been here.” I stroke the hair from her forehead where her skin feels damp to my touch. “I’m sorry, Mum.”

They wheel her out, already hooked up to an IV, and secure her in the back of the ambulance for the journey to the hospital. Annie stands behind me fiddling with her apron. “Do you want me to−”

“I’ll go,” I snap, immediately feeling guilty when I see her face drop at my harshness. “I want to go with her, Annie.”

“Of course,” she says with a small reassuring smile. “You have my number, just call if there’s anything I can do.”

“I will.” I kiss her softly on the cheek.

“I’ll lock up the house and come first thing tomorrow, okay? She’ll need clean clothes and her wash stuff.”

“Thanks, Annie.” I nod and step up into the back of the ambulance.

The journey is bumpy, the ambulance is clinical and stark, and I wonder how much of it my mum is aware of. She hasn’t opened her eyes, hasn’t moved, or even acknowledged that she knows I’m here. The paramedic checks her stats several times throughout the journey and I sit and hold her hand feeling like I will be swallowed up by grief and guilt at any minute. I should have been there, and instead I was thinking about revenge. I feel like I can’t wait a minute longer to see him behind bars because he’s brought my mum closer to the end by doing what he did. Lizzie’s death has shortened her life, I’m sure of it, the way that it happened, so suddenly, so tragic, and I feel that she might die of the grief even before the tumour can take her away.

The hospital is busy, nurses and doctors moving quickly, relatives and patients being wheeled in and out, each going through their own uphill battles. The drone fades into the background as I try to make sense of what the doctors are saying to each other. It’s technical talk, and I’m irritated that I don’t understand.

“Where are you taking her?” I ask impatiently.

One of the male nurses tucks his clipboard under his arm and looks at me sympathetically. “We’re having her transferred to the hospice. They have everything she needs there and we need to free up the beds.”

His matter of fact tone does nothing for my patience and I look at him through dangerously narrowed eyes. “You what?” Did he just say that he needed to free up a bed? I hope for his sake that he didn’t because that would be like dangling a squealing rat in front of a rabid zombie.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr.?” he inquires nervously.

“Mr. James. I’m her son, and from what you just said, you are sending my mum to the hospice because you need to free up a bed?”

“Well, no. That wasn’t what I meant. I merely−”

“If my mum needs to be here, you will treat her no matter how many beds you need to free up, do you hear me?” I grit out, frowning in disbelief at what I’m hearing.

He takes a step back and nervously looks to the doctor. “I-I’m sorry, Mr. James, that wasn’t what I meant. I just meant that in her condition, she would be better suited for the hospice−”

“Finn …” A weak voice stops us all in our tracks, and Mum slides her upturned hand across the stretcher toward me.

“Mum.” I immediately take her hand and lean down to her side. She cracks her eyes open just a fraction to look at me, but that tiny little action causes her too much pain so she snaps them closed again.

“Let them do their job,” she orders in a whisper, giving my hand a weak squeeze.

“I am, Mum, I−”

“The hospice is fine,” she whispers before her face creases in pain and she turns her head into the pillow.

In a couple of hours, we are settled in a room at the hospice. It’s a cosy space, not too clinical and certainly more comfortable for Mum than the hospital wards. The nurses have sorted out her meds so she’s comfortable for the night and in a lot less pain than she was before. The other bonus to her being here is that I’m not restricted to visiting hours when I want to be with her. If I want to stay here I can, and when I’m not here, I know the nurses are taking the best care of her.

I sit in the chair right next to her bedside and watch her carefully. This is the beginning of the end, I know it. I can feel her slipping away and I don’t know what to do. Her skin is sallow and she’s barely recognisable as the vibrant woman she was not that long ago. I want to scream at the nurses to do whatever it takes to make her better, to bring her back to me, to make her stay just a little longer. I’m not ready to let her go. But I’m aware that’s the most selfish thought I could possibly have. I want her here for me. I don’t want to have to deal with her death or even think about what I’m going to do without her here, she’s always been there and I never even imagined a time when I would have to be without her.

She stirs gently, opening one eye then the other when she realises we aren’t in a starkly lit room.

“Finn,” she whispers.

“I’m here, Mum. I’m not going anywhere.” I lean forward and gently encase her small hand between both of mine.

“You should go home and sleep,” she suggests, giving me a weak smile.

“I can sleep here. Just rest.”

“You’re a young man, Finn. Surely you have somewhere better to be than here?”

I think on her words. Shit. Yes, I did have somewhere I should have been. If I had Megan’s number, I would have called, but I don’t, and meeting her isn’t nearly as important as being here with Mum. Nothing is. That doesn’t stop me from feeling guilty for leaving Megan standing there all on her own, waiting for me, probably hating me even more with each second that goes by that I don’t turn up.

Trying to sleep in the chair by my mum’s bed is pretty much impossible, but I rest quietly knowing that if she thinks I’m sleeping, she will relax. I check my watch for what seems like the tenth time in as many minutes. It’s three forty five am. Mum is sleeping deeply thanks to the meds they have given her, and I’m restless as fuck. I hate hospitals and I hate hospices. I watched Lizzie slip away in the hospital, and I’m watching Mum slip away here in the hospice. Does nothing good ever come from these places?

The walls start to feel tight around me and every little sound is amplified in this building. I have to get out of here.

What a fucking waste of time and energy that was. I stood outside The Thistle, like an idiot for an hour. I looked at my watch every minute of that hour, and as each of those minutes passed, I felt a little more stupid until I would have been eligible for most gullible twat of the year. What was I thinking? My heart ruled my head, as has become the norm where Finn is concerned, and now I feel like a prize prat. Where did my logical thinking run off to?

When I gave in and went, I expected the third degree and a torrent of ‘I told you so’s’ from Jamie, but what I got was a tight hug and a hot chocolate with marshmallows. After her worrying that Finn was an axe murderer and all the talk about feeding me to the sharks, I think she was just glad to have me back so soon, and in one piece.

It’s gone five am, the sun is just starting to come up and I still haven’t slept. I’m lying in my bed going over every word that Finn has ever uttered to me, and every facial expression he has ever pulled. He wanted to talk so badly. He was so desperate to talk to me about something that he risked getting a beating from Torran and waited down the street from the studio for hours until I left work and walked past him. He seemed so sincere. So why wouldn’t he turn up to meet me after going to all that trouble?

I’m exhausted, but my head is buzzing around with so many thoughts that it doesn’t look like I will be able to sleep any time soon. I get up off my bed and walk over to the window, pulling the curtains right back and glancing over the street below. It’s so quiet. The birds are only just waking up and other than the odd car that drives past, most of Brighton is still asleep. It looks like the perfect time to go for a run across the seafront. Run? I’m kidding myself, I would love to be one of those fit girls that look so sporty and beautiful in their running gear, but I would look like a sweaty beetroot, hence why I don’t run. But it looks like it would be a great time of day to do so if I did.

But I can walk. I’m sick of staring at the ceiling, going around and around in circles in my mind and getting nowhere. So I throw on some jeans and a big baggy hoodie, and slip on a pair of flats before scribbling a note to Jamie explaining where I’ve gone, which I leave at the top of the stairs. I tuck my mobile phone in the back pocket of my jeans and slip quietly out of the front door.

It’s a weird time of day to be wandering around the streets. Knowing you’re up and about before most of the people that live here is almost like a secret that only you know. The pathway overlooks the seafront for miles. It’s a long, flat stretch and I can just amble at my own pace with very little effort. I always gravitate toward the pier. It stems from a childhood fascination with the seaside and the fun that goes with having a fair hovering over the water only being held up by those wooden boards which, if you look down, you can see the sea beneath you through the cracks. I used to love how you could stand on the end of the pier and feel like you’re in the middle of the ocean. But that was when I was small. Now it’s just there. A focal point, somewhere to head toward.

The gates to the pier are always locked at night to prevent teenage stupidity and drunken escapades that lead people to think it’s a good idea to balance on the railings, and they don’t open until nine am. So I wander along the stony beach looking out to the beautiful rich orange sun gleaming over the water as it rises and bounces off the little ripples of the tide. Why don’t I do this more often? It’s so beautiful, so calming. But I guess it’s not often I have such crazy scenarios preventing me from sleeping.

I approach the wooden beams underneath the pier and just happen to glance to my right.

Sitting there with his head in his hands, is Finn.

I stop walking, unsure if I should speak to him or not. Is he drunk? High? Am I still mad with him? If I kept walking, would he notice? I can’t keep walking.

“Finn?”

He looks up slowly, releasing a heavy breath and giving me a faint, thin lipped smile in acknowledgement which holds a weight of sadness. I tentatively walk toward him, forgetting all the anger in my mind that had been directed at him last night. He doesn’t seem to object as I get closer, so I sit just next to him but with enough space between us to not make him feel trapped. 

“I waited for you, last night,” I tell him quietly.

He sits with his knees bent and his arms resting on them. He stares straight ahead narrowing his eyes, and I know he’s heard me by the muscle that tightens in his jaw.

“Why?” he asks bluntly through clenched teeth.

“Why, what? I don’t understand.”

“Why did you wait?”

“Because you asked me to … What kind of game are you trying to play with me, Finn? Did you have no intention whatsoever of meeting me? Was it just a cruel joke because you blame me for something that wasn’t my fault?” My voice travels across the deserted beach and fades off into the distance. God, he’s so confusing and frustrating, and … broken. I contemplate just getting up and leaving. I should walk away and never look back because this is all too much for me, but I know it would leave this, whatever it is or has been between us, unfinished and I want some kind of closure. I need some kind of severance. “I−”