Apple and Rain (9 page)

Rain returns, patting her doll. ‘She’s so tearful all the time. She can tell she’s not at home,’ she says.

‘I’m sure she’ll feel better soon,’ Mum says.

‘She needs a crib, Mom. She’s getting too big to sleep in with me.’

Mum closes her eyes. ‘Let’s look in Mothercare next week,’ she says, as though what Rain’s asking for isn’t beyond weird. As though there’s space in our tiny bedroom for a cot. ‘We have to go shopping for your new school uniform anyway.’ Mum leans her head against the rusting radiator. ‘I’m so fricking tired,’ she says.

‘What school are you going to?’ I ask Rain.

Mum opens her eyes and grins. ‘She’s going to Littleton Park Primary. And as it’s right around the corner from your school, I thought you could walk together sometimes.’

‘I’m bringing Jenny to school with me,’ Rain says.

I don’t want to walk with Rain, but Mum looks so happy about the idea, I can’t say no.

‘Sounds fun,’ I say and put my mug to my mouth so I can bite on the rim.

We order pizza for dinner. With cans of lemonade and garlic bread on the side. Afterwards, Mum takes me into my bedroom and tells me to put my things in the plastic boxes she’s hidden beneath the bunk beds. She hasn’t had a chance to buy any wardrobes yet. ‘We’ll get some soon,’ she says.

Rain is standing in the door frame. She kisses the doll’s nose.

‘Tomorrow evening I’ve arranged for some old friends of mine to come over to meet you both, so try to get a good night’s sleep,’ Mum says.

‘A party?’ Rain whines. ‘Jenny hates them.’

‘It’s not a party. It’s . . .’ Mum fondles the air for the right word, ‘. . . a do.’

‘A
do
? Like a dodo? Like poop?’ Rain says.

‘No, honey, you were right the first time. It’ll be a small party,’ Mum says.

Rain stamps a foot.

‘Let’s have an early night so we can get up fresh and plan the food,’ Mum says. She takes our hands. ‘Both my babies with me again. What a day. Oh, what a day!’ Her eyes water at the corners. ‘Goodnight then.’

‘Goodnight,’ I say. I watch her leave the room.

‘I sleep up here with Jenny,’ Rain says. She climbs the ladder to the top bunk. I ignore her and unzip my suitcase. ‘Don’t use any of my boxes!’ she shouts.

At three o’clock in the morning I give up trying to sleep. It’s useless with Rain climbing in and out of her bunk – going back and forth to the kitchen every hour. I throw my legs over the side of the bed. ‘What are you
doing
?’ I ask.

‘Jenny’s hungry at night.’ She waves a baby bottle of milk in my face.

Rain kneels on the floor with the doll lying in front of her and changes her nappy. Then she paces the room for ages humming
Twinkle Twinkle Little Star
into Jenny’s plastic ear. The doll’s eyes are fixed open.

‘Can’t you bring the baby to bed now?’ I ask as kindly as possible even though I don’t want to take this ridiculous game seriously.

Rain’s eyes are white marbles in the dark. ‘Go home if you don’t like it. This was
our
room before
you
came along.’

Even in my half-asleep haze I feel hurt. Not because Rain doesn’t want me around – that I get – but because it dawns on me that even though I see Rain as someone who’s come along and spoiled things between me and Mum, really it’s me who’s new and out of place.

I burrow back beneath the covers and pull them up to my chin thinking about my bed at Nana’s house, and how it was mine alone and no one else’s. It would be nice to crawl into it. Just for a couple of hours.

20

Mum leaves me at home with Rain and goes to the supermarket where she buys baguettes, crackers, cheese, grapes, sweets, biscuits, and bottles of wine and beer and Coke for the party, plus other groceries for the week. As I’m unpacking, I open a box of Jaffa Cakes for breakfast.

Rain rifles through the shopping I’ve piled along the counter. ‘You forgot Jenny’s milk,’ she complains.

Mum pats Rain gently. ‘Look, here’s the milk, honey.’

‘Two litres? That won’t be enough for everyone,’ she says.

Mum sighs and Rain goes storming off to the bedroom. She slams the door behind her so hard the walls judder.

Mum shakes her head. ‘She throws away the old diapers and gets me to buy fresh ones. Now she’s insisting on more and more milk. What next, a changing table?’

‘I’ll tell her the doll’s not alive, if you like. I mean, I don’t care if she gets mad at me,’ I say.

‘I tried that six months ago when it all started. Don’t think I didn’t try. She pretends she can’t hear you, or she’ll act like you’re making a joke. It hurts her to know the truth, and the doctor . . .’ She trails off because she’s already told me what the doctor said – it’s a normal phase – but when will it end? Will she still be carrying it around when she begins secondary school –
my
secondary school? How long is everyone meant to wait for her to figure it out? How long are we all meant to pretend?

‘Maybe you need a second opinion,’ I say quietly because all of a sudden Mum is rubbing her temples and breathing fast.

‘I need to get her a therapist. She had a good one in Brooklyn but  . . .’ She looks at the shopping. ‘Maybe we should have stayed in America,’ Mum whispers.

‘What?’ If she’d stayed in America then where would that have left me?

‘Oh, I don’t mean it,’ she says. She blows me a kiss.

‘I’ll put away the food,’ I say.

‘I’m not sure about the party any more. Don’t think I’m in the mood,’ Mum says. Her forehead is furrowed with lines.

‘But you bought all the stuff.’ I hold up a bunch of bananas, which makes her smile.

‘Banana cocktails?’ she asks.

‘Sure! We’ll mash them and mix them with this.’ I hold up what looks like a bottle of champagne.

‘If people don’t like the taste, we’ll force-feed it to Jenny,’ Mum says. She laughs finally, but not before she sees Rain in the hallway, watching and clutching Jenny to her chest.

When I show Mum my neon green T-shirt, she sucks in her cheeks. ‘For a party? Really?’

‘I wore it to the school disco last term,’ I say. I feel my face flush because it’s so obvious that Mum doesn’t approve.

‘How about something a little more . . . feminine,’ she says.

I’m not sure what she means. I don’t wear skirts, except to school. I don’t like showing off my legs.

‘I’ve something that might fit you,’ she says, and dashes into her bedroom and out again, carrying a yellow dress. She holds it up to the window, so I can see it in the light. It’s the same colour as the one I wore when I was Trish’s bridesmaid, but this dress has silver sequins along the neckline. ‘It’ll look amazing.’

‘I’m not sure.’

Mum presses the dress against me. ‘You can’t go around in boys’clothes for ever, you know, sweets.’ She winks, and I want to feel part of some lovely conspiracy, but I don’t; I just feel really embarrassed.

So I go to the bathroom, put on the dress, and study my figure in the mirror. I don’t feel like myself. I step into the hall.

‘Wow!’ Mum says.

‘I look like I’ve been pumped full of custard,’ I say. I’m fatter than Mum, so the dress is tight across the tummy, but I have no breasts, so it sags at the chest.

Mum laughs loudly, throwing her head back and showing off her back teeth. ‘You look like a
girl
,’ she says. ‘Remind me what size shoe you take.’

‘Four,’ I mutter.

‘I’m a five! And I’ve a lovely pair of sandals to go with that dress.’

‘Not high ones,’ I croak, but it’s too late. She’s in and out of her bedroom again and holding a pair of strappy high heels.

‘I won’t be able to walk in them,’ I say.

Mum kneels in front of me and slips the shoes on to my feet.

‘Aren’t sandals for the summer?’ I say.

‘Who cares? You can paint your toenails,’ she says, like that might keep my feet warm.

I try staggering around for a minute when Rain appears again.

‘You look weird,’ she says. Her voice is flat and honest.

‘She looks great!’ Mum says, and puts her arm around me. I love the touch of that arm, especially facing Rain, and I feel myself expand.

The shoes suddenly feel less uncomfortable. The dress isn’t so bad.

I go to the kitchen to arrange the nibbles.

21

The party starts at eight, but no one shows up until ten when everyone piles through the door together. I carry around a plate of cheese and crackers, telling everyone I meet that I’m Mum’s daughter.

‘Annie’s kid? Really?’ ‘You look like her.’ ‘She really does!’ ‘Cute dress!’

‘Want some Brie?’ I ask.

The food runs out quickly. The drinks don’t. Everyone keeps sipping wine and the more they sip, the louder the room gets. Even though it’s freezing out, the windows are open, so people can blow smoke through them. The music gets louder and louder.

‘Apple, Apple, there’s someone you have to meet,’ Mum shouts. She waves at me through the throng of people.

I weave my way towards her. She hands me her glass of red wine. ‘You seem like you need a drink,’ she says. She laughs. The man next to her laughs too. And they’re both watching me. I take a gulp of the wine. It tastes like cough medicine, only worse.

‘This is Merlin,’ Mum says. She pushes the man towards me.

‘As in the druid?’ I ask.

The man nods like a mechanical toy. ‘Exactly. Although my real name’s Martin. But who remembers a name like that?’

I take another swig of wine and shudder. Mum grabs a bottle of Coke from the kitchen counter and uses it to top up the glass.

I stare into the maroon concoction.

‘Don’t look so terrified. It’s calimocho,’ she says.

Merlin sniffs. ‘Not without ice and lemon, it isn’t. Ugh.’ He elbows past Mum and returns thirty seconds later with a fistful of ice, which he throws into my glass, splashing the drink all over my arm. Then he sticks a slice of lemon into it too.

I hope he has clean hands.

‘Now
that’s
calimocho,’ he says. ‘What do you think?’

I sip the cocktail, expecting it to taste no better, but it
is
better. It’s sweet with a little fizz. It’s nice and cold. I can hardly taste the wine at all.

I smile.

‘You don’t have to be polite, you know. You can have plain old Coke,’ Mum says. She offers me an empty glass.

I shake my head. ‘It’s good,’ I say.

Mum laughs. ‘A girl after my own heart. Now, Merlin, I have to tell you that Apple didn’t want to wear the dress. But I told her she can’t cover up her curves for ever.’

Merlin’s eyes run up my legs to the dress and follow the lines of my body to my face. I want to tell him I’m only thirteen, but it might be rude to say something like that, so I go quiet instead. I hunch my shoulders to hide myself as much as I can. ‘She’s a beauty all right,’ he says. ‘Like her mother.’ Suddenly he pinches Mum’s bum. I expect her to smack him. Instead, she laughs.

‘Where’s your other one?’ Merlin asks.

‘I don’t know. Apple?’

How should I know where Rain is? She’s probably tucked away somewhere trying to breastfeed.

‘Can you make sure she’s OK?’ Mum asks.

For a second I don’t move. But when Mum tilts her head to the side and smiles, I just want to be useful. ‘Sure,’ I say. It’s a small flat. She can’t be far.

I find her curled up in the top bunk with Jenny. Her eyes are closed. She doesn’t hear me come in. ‘Rain,’ I say. I touch her leg.

She jumps up and pulls out a pair of earphones. ‘What do
you
want?’ She crawls into the corner where I can’t reach her.

‘Are you OK?’

‘As if you care.’ She sits the doll on her lap and rests her chin on its head.

‘Mum wants to know,’ I say.

‘Well, you can tell
Mom
I’m fine, except Jenny can’t sleep with all the noise. When are they leaving?’

I shrug. People are still arriving.

‘But it’s almost midnight,’ she says. She points to the clock above the tiny desk we’ll have to share once she starts school.

‘Why don’t you come in and dance or something?’

‘Is that booze?’ she asks, staring at my glass.

‘It’s none of your business. Are you coming or not?’ I ask. I know I’m not being nice. I can’t help it.

Rain pulls the duvet over her head. ‘Get out!’ she shouts.

Back in the sitting room, Mum is standing next to a woman with her hair wrapped in a multi-coloured scarf.

‘Rain’s OK,’ I say.

Mum blinks. ‘Huh? Oh yeah, good. Good.’

‘Who’s this?’ the woman asks.