Read By the Time You Read This Online
Authors: Lola Jaye
By the Time You Read This (9 page)
“It’s disgusting.”
“My mom thinks it’s sweet,” she said absently.
My mind remained a mish-mash of nothingness as Carla prattled on.
My mother was pregnant.
“Are you listening to me?” she snapped.
“Carla, the world doesn’t revolve around you, I’ve just found out my mom is pregnant!”
“And I’ve just found out my mom and dad are getting a divorce.”
“What?”
“You heard.”
I lay back on my bed, mouth freeze-framed to “open,” unable to recognize the world I’d stepped back into. Princess Diana was dead, Mom was pregnant, and Carla’s parents were getting a divorce. I’d never even known anyone to get a divorce before. This world called England felt too alien to me and I suddenly longed for the simplicity of the farm and Greg’s fingers on my chest.
That night, even
The Manual
failed to offer me the comfort I craved.
Kevin Trivia:
Your mom originally fancied Charlie when we first met, two days after my twenty-first. Said I was too much of a “show off.” Me?
Miscellaneous: Siblings
Your mom always wanted a large, large family and I was up for it too. Producing a soccer team of my very own (male and female)—the Waltons of South London, if you like. What I’m getting at is this: your mom might decide to have another child. Or two. I don’t know how old you’ll be if and when this happens, but I really hope, Lowey, that you’ll be mature enough to deal with it and not a) dunk its head in the toilet on a regular basis; b) dye his/her hair green just for laughs. (Charlie did that to me once. Not a good look.) I want you to remember that although she or he may not be a part of me, she’ll
still be a part of YOU. By all means there’s nothing wrong with allowing them to do a few chores around the house and then claiming the credit, but it’s also up to you to look out for them, listen to their fears and be the big sister I know you can be. And if you become as close as Philomena and me, then you’re sorted. But don’t worry if you’re not. Ina and I were never close. Even now with the diagnosis and that, I have yet to see her, and on the phone things still feel a bit strained between us…but that’s another story. Having a brother or sister is great because being an only child can be lonely and I don’t want that for you.
But I was happy being “lonely.”
Had been most of my life, anyway (apart from having Dad’s Manual of course). I wasn’t about to allow this child’s imminent arrival to change
anything.
His or her impact on my life would be that of a feather dropped in an ocean. Never mind the constant banging as the Bingo Caller fixed up a cot in the spare room, or produced two rows of shelving over the old chest of drawers. I repeat, Mom’s kid would be making absolutely no impact on my life whatsoever.
That was until she arrived one morning in full screaming glory, wrapped in a pink and white blanket and plonked into my arms, uninvited.
We were at the hospital.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” gushed the Bingo Caller as I gazed down at my so-called “sister,” looking a bit alien-like with her tiny head snuggled against my tummy, the blanket making my skin itch.
My arm began to ache. “Yes…she’s, erm…lovely.”
Amid gushes of pride and Mom informing anyone who’d
listen just how painful the twenty-hour labor had been (and surprisingly more eventful than my thirty-hour one), my desire to escape grew stronger by the minute. But I was trapped. Forced to hold the pink and white blanket, inhale that disgusting hospital smell, while the world and his dog (minus Corey) popped in to have a look at a kid who, on closer inspection, resembled some sort of nocturnal garden creature—all wrinkly skin and oblong-shaped head. What can I say? The Sprog was nothing special, but for some reason Mom, the Bingo Caller, everyone, thought otherwise.
“She is just like you!” gushed my best friend, as the male nurse did his party trick of fluffing Mom’s pillow at the same time as staring adoringly toward Carla. Even with the Sprog in her arms, she was beautiful. Her once short cropped hair now running down her shoulders, shrouding large red lips and eyelashes as thick as falsies. She’d also grown a few inches thanks to the skyscraper-type heels she now insisted on wearing. Although she’d always been beautiful, she was now “supermodel wife of a rock star” beautiful. Cow.
“You think so?” gushed Mom.
“No, I’d go for her dad. His eyes for a start! Just like Corey and his—” said Carla’s mom as the room switched to mute, except for the sound of the male nurse still fluffing Mom’s pillow, his eyes now resting on Carla’s mom’s bosoms. The choice of two sexy women, way too much for him, clearly. A picture of Greg and Corey flashed in my mind and I smiled with the knowledge that at least two men on this earth had found
me
sexy.
“It’s all right if you mention Dad, Mom!” said Carla.
She’d taken the split very badly and in part blamed her mom, which surprised me. Carla’s mom had been very clear about things: the marriage had run its course, the kids were grown and it was time to live again—something like that anyway.
As everyone chatted names and diapers, I planned my breakout.
“Mom, would you like me to get you anything from the house?” I asked, buttoning up my coat as the child stirred slightly in Carla’s arms. “Mom?”
With her lips cracked and smelling of stale sweat, I had never seen my mother look happier. “No, love. I have everything I need right here.” She smiled at the Bingo Caller, who in return planted a kiss onto the thick clump of hair caked to her forehead.
“See you, everyone,” I sang. But I was answered by silence, as all eyes remained transfixed onto this little bundle that stirred in the arms of my best friend.
I slipped away, angry for feeling the way I did. I wasn’t a kid any more, I was pushing twenty-one, and yet…and yet…Mom, the Bingo Caller—and now their offspring—still had the power to encourage general feelings of shittiness to materialize. I returned home, located
The Manual
and reread the section on siblings.
It didn’t help.
T
he Sprog cried constantly. Two a.m., six a.m., with Mom as she breastfed in the kitchen, me wondering if it would ever be possible to drag myself out of bed in a few hours for one of the five job interviews I had lined up. The first was for a PR firm as an office manager, which I had absolutely no chance of getting, what with being
under-qualified, under-experienced and five years under the age limit.
Apply for a couple of jobs you have absolutely no chance of getting.
Why?
You might actually get one of them.
Plus it’s always wise to get in as much experience with interviews as you can. And if you don’t get the job, write to the company and ask them if they’d be kind enough to post you reasons as to why you didn’t get the job. It could be you were under- or over-qualified (yes, I’ve heard that one), didn’t answer certain questions the way they would have liked, anything. It’s always good to know, so you can prepare for the next one…
The interviews went well and, slowly, my confidence grew. Of course, I began to apply for somewhat realistic posts, using (and exaggerating) my office experience in America and my brief stint as a supervisor at the shoe shop. Meanwhile, the new addition to our household may have taken up most of Mom’s time, but she was still able to snatch moments in which to whine about my lack of attention to the Sprog.
“You know I’ve been busy with the interviews. Don’t you want me to find a job?”
“I’m just saying, you could give her a hold once in a while,” she ventured, ambushing me between the wall and her entire bodyweight, complete with babe in arms. “She doesn’t bite!”
“I know that!” But as I looked down at her, nothing really stirred within me. She was some kid who just happened to be related to me slightly. She didn’t particularly
look like anyone familiar and, lucky for her, the Bingo Caller needn’t be mistaken for her real dad any time soon.
“There you go!” said Mom in triumphant tones, as I placed my arms around the little body, which had really grown since our last encounter. She still felt so fragile, so soft, reminding me of the Tiny Tears doll I’d begged Mom to buy me, but which had somehow ended up in Carla’s Christmas stocking instead. The Sprog smiled, and Mom took this as confirmation that we were the best of friends.
“See, she loves her big sister, don’t you my sweet little darlin?” Lately, Mom’s voice could switch from “mildly intelligent woman” to “squeaky children’s television presenter” in seconds. I gazed down at the child, complete with counterfeit smile, wondering just how long was appropriate to stand cocooned between a wall and your mother. As a small cry escaped the baby’s mouth, I sensed it was time to hand her back.
But when the crying continued an hour later, as I attempted to scan the job papers, things became a little clearer for me. And when the crying woke me up at around two a.m. and then again at six, I knew what had to happen around here. So I waited another three hours before lifting my tired body out of the house and went straight into the Job Center, where I located a full-time job, applied and was told I could start right away. As unsuitable as the job was (stacking shelves in a huge superstore during “twilight” hours but paying much more than the daytime wage), it eventually allowed me to gather a deposit and two months’ rent on a two-bedroom apartment with Carla—who’d been itching to move ever since her parents had divorced and her father had moved to Barcelona.
D
uring my last night at home, I peered into the Sprog’s cot, watching her chest move up and down, her tiny eyes closed to the world around her. By now she was cute(ish), large curls dominating the Winnie pillowcase found in Mothercare as Carla and I shopped for our new home. And not for the first time, I tried so hard to feel “it” this unconditional love Dad had written about in
The Manual.
This feeling you were supposed to feel toward small babies related to you by way of genetic accident. As always, nothing came. No swishes of love. She was just a kid. Just like I’d been to Granny Bates, Auntie Philomena and Auntie Ina. Being tied to someone by blood didn’t guarantee anything. I gently placed a finger on the Sprog’s forehead. “Goodnight,” I whispered gently, knowing she could be anyone’s kid lying in that cot.
Anyone’s.
C
arla and I settled into our two-bedroom apartment overlooking a mangy, often noisy old park, home to twice-weekly unauthorized bonfires and a rainbow of graffiti. Still, it was in Greenwich, almost kissing the border of Blackheath. Far enough away from Mom (a short bus ride away) but still close enough to roots planted by my dad. And I needed that familiarity.
Along with the less than flash scenery, the dreary inside walls of our apartment sometimes reeked of damp, but none of this mattered. Carla and I were two young women armed with the freedom to do what we liked, when we liked. New Jersey—or at least the experience—was still reverberating through my body like aftershocks of an earthquake and I couldn’t wait to replicate my experiences. All change. Time to start handling
my own life.
Which un
fortunately meant managing bills, home cooking and lugging bags of laundry two streets away to the launderette.
A
t first I loved living with Carla. But after a while, say, like a WEEK, some of her attributes began to grate on me. For instance, her general laziness in regards to hygiene, an inability to pick up after herself and her constant bitching about my choice of television program. The most exasperating had to be the sound of her and Fred (new, rocker boyfriend) having sex in the room next door while I attempted something resembling sleep after a long overnight shift at the superstore. A pattern I’d hoped had been left at Mom’s, thanks to a screaming baby. Still, every now and then I pinched myself, just to remind me that I was away from the chaos and unwanted family portrait scenes of my previous life, which had to be a good thing.
Of course, I’d visit Mom’s for some Sunday dinner (often armed with a bag of washing). Aghast at how the once spotless house I grew up in had become increasingly untidy, with toys and diapers strewn about and all to the soundtrack of a crying baby. I’d load the washing machine as Mom or the Bingo Caller cradled the Sprog while whistling the theme tune to
Coronation Street
(which, apparently, she loved). Then I’d disappear next door to Carla’s mom, returning just in time for the final spin. One Sunday, Carla’s mom was out so I had to stay at Mom’s and sit through the Bingo Caller playing “daddy,” watching his daughter intently as if trying to sink into those tiny little eyeballs, his face lovingly contorted into something I would never again see in my own dad’s eyes. This made me sad.
“Are you all right, Lois?” asked Mom, making me jump. I pulled out the last of my underwear.
“Why shouldn’t I be?”
“You were looking at your sister and—”
“No I wasn’t!” I snapped. Horrified to feel a tiny stream of water trickle from my left eye, I quickly removed it with my fist.
“Love, I know we haven’t had a chance to have a chat since you moved out. Or even about America. So much has happened…” said Mom, now at the table, watching me with that same “Do you have something you want to tell me, young lady?” look I hadn’t seen in years.
“Yes, I know, Mom.”
“Go on then,” she urged.
I smiled. “I’ll start with Carla, shall I?”
“Uh oh. What’s it really like living with your best friend?”
“She CAN be a bit messy at times.”
Mom scurried around for the biscuit tin and dipped in with a silent invitation for me to join her. As I hadn’t much planned until evening shift, I sat on the chair opposite, my bum immediately squashing a rubber duck.
“Your sister, she loves that thing.”
“Really,” I said dryly.
“Tell me about America.”
“That was an age ago, Mom.” A time I replayed in my mind nightly. A time permanently etched into my psyche, my being, my everything. “I can hardly remember much about it.”
A flicker of my own guilt surfaced as her expression switched to that of expectation. It wouldn’t hurt to tell her
something,
however small.
“Okay, if we want to get all dramatic about things, it was the summer I finally came of age, if you like.”
Mom threw me a look that said, “I’m not sure what you’re on about but because it sounds mildly important I’ll at least
try
to understand.” So I began. The Empire State Building. The bratty children. Erin. Greg (censored, obviously). The director’s knobbly knees. Learning to survive on my own. The s’mores. The housekeeping. The lovely weather. The brown bear droppings outside my dorm window. Dancing around a campfire.
“It sounds lovely.”
“It was.”
“Did you meet a young man?”
“No,” I said quickly. Mom narrowed her eyes in mock disbelief and I burst into uncontrolled fits of giggles. I felt myself relax as the powerful but steadied patter of tiny feet entered the kitchen.
