Dandelion Clocks (12 page)

‘That picture's fine, Liv – I love it,' says Mum.

Isaac is still listening to his music and Dad is skimming through a leaflet on counselling services. I'm keen to get off this conversation and on to a subject that's easier to talk about – something that doesn't make me feel bad.

‘It's good that you've got a room all to yourself,' I say, ‘although I suppose it might be quite nice to share too. You could have midnight feasts – like a sleepover for adults!'

‘I suppose you could,' Mum says.

‘So how come there's nobody in that other bed?' I say, pointing to the spare bed opposite. ‘I thought Dad said there was another lady in your room?'

This is something I'd been really worried about before we came to visit Mum. Dad had said she'd made friends with a lady who was already in the room that Mum was put in – and that she was being kind to Mum and telling her all about St Mary's, showing her photos of her kids and asking Mum all about us. Dad said that it was good for Mum to have someone else to talk to. I didn't want to see someone else who was ill, though – ill people always make me feel a bit funny (not funny ha-ha but funny weird), and I was scared that Mum would make me talk to her new friend and I might say the wrong thing or do something stupid. So I'm really glad that the other bed in Mum's room is stripped bare with just a plain pillow at the top and a stack of sheets and blankets folded neatly at the bottom.

I look at Mum. ‘Has she gone somewhere else?' I ask.

Mum opens her mouth to speak but doesn't actually say anything. She looks at Dad and I can see she's worried. She's not smiling any more and the room suddenly feels different. I can tell that something isn't right and I'm desperate to keep Mum talking – last week at home she barely said a word. I want her to smile again so I try to make her laugh.

‘Did she get fed up with you snoring in your sleep and ask to be moved?' I say, grinning and waiting for Mum to tell me not to be so cheeky, but she still doesn't say a word.

‘Mum?' I ask.

‘Liv,' starts Dad, but I interrupt him. I don't like the way it feels as if things are going a bit weird.

‘Where's the lady that Dad says is your friend? Did you fall out with her?' I can hear myself asking stupid questions and feel panic rising in my chest. I want to stop talking but I can't. I don't want to give Dad a chance to say something that I really, really do not want to hear. ‘Was she not very nice after all? She wasn't mean to you, was she?'

‘It's nothing like that, Liv,' says Mum very quietly. ‘Her name was Joanna and she was an amazing lady. We had lots of great chats about our children and she said some things that have helped me very much.'

‘So where is she now?' I ask, then instantly regret asking such a terrible question. Now I can't stop them telling me. I'm so stupid. I'm wishing I'd never started this conversation – it's all gone wrong.

‘Liv,' says Dad again. I look at him and he is
sitting really stiffly in his chair, looking uneasy, which seems funny in a place that goes on and on about making people comfortable. Looking at him makes me want to laugh even though I've never felt less amused in my whole life, and there are giggles building up in my throat. But it doesn't feel very nice and I swallow hard, thinking I'd better not start laughing cos it seems like I might not be able to stop. It feels as if I could actually laugh myself to death right now.

‘Joanna has moved on,' he says.

‘Yes, that's what I'm asking. Where has she moved on to?' I say, hoping that he'll shut up if I'm deliberately difficult.

There is a long pause. I look again at the empty bed – Joanna's bed – and I can't keep pretending. I can feel my tummy start to shrivel and shrink as all my muscles knot up tightly. I suddenly don't feel like laughing any more.

No. No, no, no. I look at Mum, hoping that I've put two and two together and made eighteen. Hoping that I'm actually completely wrong. ‘What – she's actually –' I can't say the word. I am so thick and this conversation is
not
happening. In my mind I am under the weeping willow tree, with my
fingers rammed firmly in my ears and humming loudly to drown out all the terrible thoughts that are flying round my head right now.

Mum takes a deep breath and sits up a bit straighter. ‘Yes, love. It's very sad but Joanna –'

‘Stop!' I shout. I can't say that word and I don't want to hear anyone else say it either.

‘Liv – I know it's hard but she was incredibly brave. I really admired her.'

‘But she had kids,' I whisper, feeling utterly horrified.

‘Yes, three children. The older two are around your age and the youngest is eight.'

‘That's horrible,' I mutter, unable to look at Mum or Dad.

I feel stupid and angry with myself. How could I be so dense? How could I let this conversation happen? Let's be honest – I know exactly what this place is. It's not about head massages or three different choices of breakfast. It's not about sunny rooms or large gardens or chatting to new friends. It's the place where people go to die. My mum is here, waiting in line for her turn – and some time soon her bed will be empty, the book she's reading and her hairbrush will have gone from the bedside
table and my rubbish photo will have been taken down from the noticeboard, as if it was never there. There might even be another person in her bed – maybe another mum who will tell her family all about this wonderful woman that she had the privilege of meeting.

‘Rachel Ellis,' she'll say. ‘That was her name. So young but so courageous.' And her kids will silently be willing her to keep quiet, not wanting to be part of a world where someone's mum can be taken away from her children when they need her.

And I realize that I don't want Mum to be brave. I want her to rant and shout. I want her to scream about the unfairness of it all and jump up and down and yell at doctors and
fight
. Most of all I want her to fight. Because deep down I'm sure that my powerful, bossy, controlling mum could beat this if only she would try a little bit harder. Being here feels like she's given up – that she's quietly shuffling forward in a pair of comfortable slippers to a place where we can't go.

I stare furiously out of the window, determined not to let the tears that I can feel behind my eyes spill down my face. If she's not going to cry then neither am I. Perhaps we haven't given her enough
to fight for – maybe we have to show her it's worth giving it everything she's got to stay here with us.

Mum and Dad are having a quiet conversation now and I zone out, envying Isaac with his iPod. After a while Dad says that we have to leave if we're to be home in time for tea – Isaac finds it really hard if mealtimes are later than normal.

I'm feeling really mad at Mum and I don't want to stay here any longer so I head straight to the door. Isaac follows me while Dad gives her a hug, and then we all step into the corridor and Dad closes her door. Suddenly I feel guilty for leaving – it's so confusing, I just can't figure out how I'm feeling from one second to the next at the moment.

‘Go on ahead, Dad – I'll catch you up,' I tell him and watch for a moment as he and Isaac head down the corridor. Then I turn back and open the door again. Mum is slumped in her chair, eyes closed and looking totally exhausted. Her face is drained and pale and her body looks as if nothing is holding it up – she reminds me of a puppet I used to play with after its strings tangled, that ended up flopped in the corner of my toy box, limp and useless.

‘Bye, Mum,' I whisper, but she doesn't even open her eyes to look at me.

I close the door as quietly as I can and start walking back towards the stairs. By the time I've caught up with Dad and Isaac outside I am feeling more tired than I can ever remember being. I don't even have the energy to argue with Isaac about who sits in the front of the car, and sink on to the back seat, glad of the peace and quiet.

As we drive through town I think about Mum, all on her own, knowing what is going to happen to her but not knowing what it'll feel like or even when it'll happen. I wonder if she might feel a bit like I did on Transition Day to high school. That weird feeling of not really belonging anywhere. I'd been at Compton Heath Primary for seven years and I thought that the hardest part would be when we left, but actually it wasn't. The most difficult time was after Transition Day when we'd visited high school but had to go back to Compton Heath for a few weeks. It just felt wrong – like my time there was done and I was an impostor. Everything was so familiar but really strange at the same time. The chairs were too small and the rooms felt shabby and the teachers suddenly seemed different. It felt like losing something that belonged to me – and then realizing it was never really mine in the first place.

Then I think that this is a stupid comparison to make cos I had a visit to high school and got to see the changing rooms in the PE department, and the canteen and the science labs – but Mum only gets to visit where she is going once, and then she has to stay there. No Transition Day for her, no chance to get ready or to learn about all the new rules.

Maybe that's the whole point of St Mary's Hospice, I think – to prepare her for what's going to happen. Although I don't really see how anyone can do that when nobody can agree on exactly what happens when you die.

We've reached home now and Dad pulls up on our driveway. He turns the engine off and we all sit in silence for a minute, listening to that ticking sound the engine makes as it cools down. I look at our house. It's not dark outside yet, but it looks dark inside. The windows seem to stare emptily on to the street, and I know that even when we're inside with every light turned on, and the radio blaring in the kitchen, or when Leah comes over after work to check that we're OK it'll still feel bleak and lonely.

I wonder if I've missed the real reason why Mum is staying at St Mary's instead of wanting
to spend every waking moment with us. Maybe it isn't to prepare
her
for when she's not here – maybe it's to help us get ready? Maybe she thinks we need to get used to a home without her in it. Perhaps she reckons that Dad needs time to work out how to use the washing machine – if that's the case, then her plan is failing miserably cos I haven't had any clean socks for days now.

It wouldn't surprise me if, even now, my mum is trying to do the right thing for the rest of us. The thing is – she's got it horribly wrong this time. This can't possibly be the best thing for our family. Sure, I thought it was difficult when she was really ill at home last week, but I was stupid and I didn't know it'd be even harder when she wasn't here with us. And that place – it's just letting her give up. If she was at home we could show her, all the time, that she's tougher than this thing – that she can fight and duck and dive and beat it, for us.

And there, on the back seat of our car, I make a decision. ‘I'm not going to visit Mum again,' I whisper. I know this is the right thing to do – but my throat suddenly feels dry and my voice comes out all croaky.

‘What?' says Dad, half turning in the driver's seat to take a better look at me.

‘I'm not going back to that place,' I say again, sounding a bit more confident this time.

‘Oh, Liv.' Dad sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. He needs a haircut – I can't believe Mum didn't have a go at him about it today. She'd never normally let him leave it this long – he looks a state. ‘I know it's hard seeing her there but –'

‘No! I'm not going. If she wants to see me so much then she can come home. To our house. Where we all live.'

‘It's just not that simple, Liv.'

‘It
is
. It should be, anyway.'

‘But there're things she needs – things we – I – can't give her at home.' Dad has turned away, his back to me now, and is staring out of the front window.

I can't believe he's being as passive as Mum – both allowing all of our lives to be ruined. What's wrong with them? Why won't they actually
do
something?

‘Do you
want
her to stay there?' I yell at him. I don't mean to shout at him but it isn't fair – it just isn't.

‘No!' Dad whips his head round to look at me again and he sounds shocked. ‘I want her home, just like you do!'

‘So whose idea was it to send her away?' I ask. Dad doesn't say anything and I feel bad pushing him like this, but I really need his help to get Mum to see sense and come home. By now Isaac has taken his earphones out and I can hear tinny music coming from his abandoned iPod. He's looking interested so I decide to enlist his help.

‘Dad? Did you send Mum to that place?'

‘No, Liv, I didn't.' Dad is looking at me carefully and I can see dark rings round his eyes. ‘I wanted Mum to stay at home but she thought it'd be better – easier – for everyone if she went to St Mary's.'

‘Well, she was wrong,' I say, turning to Isaac. ‘Do
you
want Mum at home?'

Isaac looks from me to Dad and thinks about what I've asked him. For a moment the only sounds in the car come from his earphones and my breathing – I sound like I've just run up a hill. I try to calm down and wait for Isaac, crossing my fingers behind my back and willing him to say the right thing for once.

‘It would be good if Mum was at home,' he begins and I feel my fingers start to unfurl. ‘Mum should be here, where she belongs. Dad forgot to dry out my trainers after my games
lesson yesterday and I think I might have contracted trench foot.'

Dad snorts back a laugh and rubs Isaac's arm as the tension in the car disappears. Then he catches my eye and smiles at me. I've said enough for now – I need to give Operation Bring Mum Home time to develop, but I'm confident that I've planted the seeds in Dad's mind and I know I can trust him to work on Mum. I mean it, though, I think to myself as I get out of the car – I have vowed never to set foot in St Mary's Hospice again, as long as I may live.