Dandelion Clocks (14 page)

Mum's bedroom door opens and then closes gently and I listen for Dad's footsteps, expecting them to head back downstairs. Instead, everything is quiet. I picture Dad standing on the landing outside their room, and I'm just about to get up to look when I hear him moving and then he opens my door.

Suddenly I can't hear the hysterical laughter from the studio audience on the television. The kettle must have boiled because I can't hear that either. All I can hear is the sound of Dad, telling me that Mum has gone. That lying in her bed, listening to the sounds of her home, she has left us and she won't be coming back.

I get up slowly and go out into the hall. I stand outside her bedroom door, very still. I don't need
to go inside to see her – instead I just listen. And as I listen, I'm certain that I can hear the evening breeze, coming through the open window and whispering through the room, gently blowing the seeds from the flowers in Mum's pot across her bed, marking the time that she closed her eyes for the last time ever. I imagine her, drifting quietly away, looking at the flowers I planted so carefully this morning and that she told me made her happy. And I am glad that my dandelion clocks were the last thing that she looked at before she went.

There are lots of things that need to be organized when someone dies. It's amazing really, how much has to be sorted out. Not that I've got anything to do with that. Dad is really busy, on the phone constantly, telling people what's happened and trying to find out when we can have the funeral. Apparently it'll be really soon, which seems weird because we won't have had time to get used to the idea that Mum's not here before we have to say goodbye to her.

Dad told Isaac last night after he'd told me. Leah cried a lot and spent ages in Mum's room, talking to her. Dad asked if we wanted to see Mum. I didn't want to, but Dad thought it might help Isaac to understand that Mum was gone. Isaac went into Mum's room with Dad but came back out straight away. He got a bit cross and said
he didn't know who that was in Mum's bed, but it wasn't Mum, and could Dad please make whoever it was go away. He didn't cry or anything, but when I went into his room later on he was just lying on his bed, looking at the ceiling. His PlayStation wasn't even turned on.

Alice called me this afternoon. Her mum must have spoken to Dad because she already knew. It wasn't very easy to talk to her – I think she was scared about saying the wrong thing and I didn't have the energy to think about other stuff to talk about.

People keep asking me how I am but I can't answer them. Not because I don't want to but because I just don't know. It all seems so unreal. I didn't think it was supposed to happen like this. On television, they always have loads of time to say goodbye when someone dies and it's always really sad but kind of lovely too. This just seems too quick – I actually feel a bit embarrassed, like we got it wrong somehow. Dad tried to explain to me that we have no control over stuff like this and just have to deal with what gets thrown at us. That sounds rubbish. I want to choose what happens to me. Mum's always said there's no such thing as fate – that we decide what happens to us.
If it's true, then that means she decided to leave me. I just don't know what to think any more.

I've come down to the kitchen for a drink, but now I'm here I can't seem to find the energy even to take the juice out of the fridge. I sit down at the kitchen table and wonder why the house feels different. Like something is missing. Then I realize there
is
something missing –
someone
missing – and it hits me that nothing will ever be the same again. It might look the same – same fridge, same table, same brand of juice that Mum always chooses. But it can't be the same, not really.

I sit in the kitchen for ages until it starts to get dark. I should turn on the light or put the lamp on, make it cosy like Mum does, but I can't be bothered. I'm just starting to wonder if it's possible to stay in this chair all night when I hear someone thundering down the stairs and then the kitchen door bursts open and the light blazes on.

‘It's dark,' says Isaac. I try to hide the tears that seem to have been flowing down my face for hours, but they just keep on coming and wiping them away doesn't seem to make a difference. Isaac walks across the room and looks at me very carefully. He looks really serious as he leans towards me and examines my face. I say nothing and watch
as he straightens up and takes a few more steps until he's standing by the wall planner, looking at the photo display of faces that I made for him. Eventually he finds what he's looking for and turns round, walking back until he's standing behind me.

‘You're sad,' he says.

‘Yes,' I tell him and then my brother, who has never tried to work out how I'm feeling in my whole life, pats me on the shoulder. I sit very still while his hand moves awkwardly up and down, as if he's trying to remember the rules for making someone feel better.

After a while, when the patting gets too much, I reach back and grasp his hand in mine. And then we stay, holding hands, while the world outside the kitchen gets darker and darker.

I'm in Dad's studio, printing out my pictures. The room is dark and I feel safe in here. Over the last few days our house has been full of visitors – people wanting to pay their respects to Mum (although she's not here now, she's at the funeral home waiting for tomorrow), people wanting to bring dishes of food for Dad and us, and people wanting to hug Isaac and me and tell us how sorry they are. I know they all mean well but we could do without it. Isaac is getting seriously wound up with all the changes and he shouts at anyone who attempts to touch him. Fortunately, nearly everyone knows it's a bad idea to try to hug him – although there was nearly a nasty moment when the editor of the magazine that Mum wrote for came to visit.

I take my photos over to Dad's big table and turn on the lamp. Mum smiles up at me. These are the last photos I took of her and they're my best ever. I've managed to really capture my mum and I know that these pictures will definitely make it into my box.

Dad gave me the box this morning. Isaac's got one too. Dad says it's a memory box, and that we can put whatever we want inside. We don't have to show anyone else if we don't want to – it's a box for putting anything in that reminds us of Mum. I knew instantly what I wanted to use my box for and that's why I've come to the studio. I'm choosing the photos of Mum that show me who she is and what's important to her. I just wish I had more pictures of her.

Isaac loves his box and started putting things in it straight away. I know I probably shouldn't have done, but I wanted to know how he was going to remember Mum, so I sneaked into his room while he was in the bathroom earlier and took a tiny peek. Inside his box was a sock, a bookmark, a teaspoon and a friendship bracelet that I remember making for Mum last summer. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry – but I guess, as long as it
makes him feel close to Mum, it's up to him what he chooses. And I suppose it's really none of my business either.

I saw Ben this morning but he didn't see me. Dad was out in the back garden with Isaac, and Leah had gone off to the supermarket to stock up on food for tomorrow – apparently people expect food at a funeral, which I think is weird because I don't want to eat anything at the moment. I was in my room and I heard a knock on the front door, only it was really quiet, as if whoever was knocking wasn't certain they really wanted anyone to hear them. I peeped out of my window, making sure that I was hidden behind the curtain, and saw Ben, standing on the doorstep. He looked a bit scared and I couldn't work out why he was just standing there – but then he shoved something through the letterbox and ran back down our path. He jumped into a car that was waiting outside our gate with a woman inside. I guess it must have been his mum. I saw her put her arm round him and glance up at our house, so I ducked back behind the curtain and when I looked again they'd gone.

When I went downstairs there was an envelope
with my name on, lying on the doormat. It's in my room now, next to my bed. I haven't opened it and I don't think I will – but I like seeing it there and knowing that, for now, Ben hasn't forgotten me.

It was raining earlier and I thought that seemed right for today – but the sun came out while we were in the church and actually, that seems totally perfect. The road is still wet, though, and I can hear the squelching sound of the tyres as we speed back towards our house. I really like that noise – for some reason it reminds me of getting up in the middle of the night to go on holiday and falling asleep in the back of the car, wondering where we'd be when I woke up.

I wish I could fall asleep now and wake up when today is over. In fact, I quite like the idea of escaping altogether and waking up tomorrow somewhere completely different. I wonder if this would be any easier if Mum's things weren't all around us and if we were somewhere that nobody knew us. Maybe it would be worse.

We're nearly home now and I know that I have to be brave for this next bit. Dad didn't want to invite people back to our house after the funeral – he thought it'd be too much for Isaac – but Leah persuaded him. She said that lots of people cared about Mum and that they need a chance to say goodbye to her. Then she said that people want to help and that he, Dan, shouldn't be so proud. So Dad asked Mrs Green from down the road to look after Isaac. He loves going to her house – she feeds him cake and lets him mess about with her late husband's collection of model aeroplanes. I wanted to go with him (I pretended to Dad that I thought Isaac might need me, but really I was worried about seeing the grown-ups being all sad), but Dad said I should stay with him and that people would like to see me.

‘Liv? We're here,' says Dad, putting his hand on my shoulder. I look up in surprise and he's right – the car has stopped outside our garden gate.

I suddenly realize how scared I am. Dad has got out of the car and is thanking the driver. I can see them both looking at me but my legs won't work and I have no idea how I'm supposed to move. Maybe I'll have to stay here forever, in the
back of this long, black car that only ever carries sadness and tears.

Dad comes round to my side of the car and opens the door. He reaches in for my hand and gently pulls me.

‘It's OK,' he says quietly to me. ‘You've done the hard part. We can do this together.' And I feel my legs starting to move and then I'm out of the car and walking up the path, Dad's hand holding firmly on to mine.

I hope he's right. The funeral was awful. I couldn't really look at anything or listen to anyone – instead I made myself look at the stained-glass window above the altar and tried to count all the cherubim and seraphim and angels. But I don't know the difference between them, or if there even
is
a difference, so it was a pretty pointless activity. It stopped me having to look at the box lying in front of the altar, though – because I knew that if I started looking and I started thinking and remembering, then I wouldn't be able to stand there and sing ‘This little light of mine' with everybody else, and as it was Mum's favourite hymn I wanted to sing it as well as I could. Mum's friend Beth was sitting in the row behind us and it took all of my efforts to ignore the sound of her
crying. I know everyone is sad but I really wanted her to just shut up until she was somewhere that I didn't have to hear her. I saw Alice sitting with her mum and dad at the back of the church. I didn't tell her it was Mum's funeral today so I'm not really sure how she found out. I suppose everybody knows now – I hate the idea that people are talking about us, but it was nice of her to come.

Dad opens the front door and a wall of noise hits us. He instantly shuts it and looks down at me, with a look of surprise on his face.

‘What's going on, Dad?' I ask him.

‘Sounds like someone's having a party in there!' he says, starting to smile.

‘Is that what we're supposed to be doing?' I say. I'm feeling confused – I thought that funerals were meant to be quiet and miserable, full of people standing around wailing and sobbing. But I can hear people talking. There's even the sound of people laughing. I look at Dad, waiting for him to tell me what to do.

‘I don't think there are any rules for this situation, Liv,' says Dad, ‘but I do know that your mum would have thought this was an excellent way to celebrate today.'

I'm shocked now.

‘Celebrate? What are we supposed to be celebrating? There's nothing good about this but there're people in there
laughing
. What's wrong with everyone?' I turn round and run down the path at the side of our house, into the back garden. I'm furious and upset and not sure about anything any more.

I hear footsteps pounding behind and Dad catches up with me on the lawn, grabbing hold of my hand.

‘We're celebrating Mum's life today. She made many people happy and had lots of friends – and they've all come here to share stories about her and to remember the happy times they've had with her. It's OK, Liv. Mum would have loved this!'

I yank my hand out of his and plonk myself down on the garden swing seat. ‘Well, I'm not going inside! I don't want to celebrate. Mum doesn't think this is OK and neither do I – and I can't pretend that it is!'

‘Nobody wants you to pretend anything, Livvy. And if you'd rather stay out here, then that's fine.' Dad sits down next to me on the swing. I turn and look at him.

‘What are you doing?' I ask.

‘Well, I don't know for certain, but I'm pretty sure your mum would be furious with me if I left you sitting here on your own,' he says.

‘But all those people are in our house! You have to go and talk to them and make sure they're OK!' I'm suddenly feeling really cold and shaky, even though the sun is shining.

‘Oh, I think they'll be fine without me! They've come to think about your mum and they can do that even with us sitting out here. And Leah's inside handing out cups of tea and sandwiches, so they won't starve!'

‘I don't want to make you stay out here,' I tell Dad. ‘I'll go inside if you want me to.'

‘Liv,' Dad says. ‘There is nowhere I would rather be right now than sitting here with you.'

So we sit together in the garden, swinging gently, not really speaking much, but the silence is a good silence and I think Dad is doing what I'm doing – just thinking about Mum. I curl up against Dad and he gives me his jacket to wear – it feels cosy.

Leah comes out to find us after a while, having spotted us through the kitchen window. She brings us two cups of tea and Dad asks her to explain to all the guests that he is needed elsewhere, but that
he's really grateful they all came. Leah tells him that they already know that and they all totally understand.

It starts to get a bit cloudy and the lights go on inside the house. We keep swinging, watching people moving in front of the windows, and eventually I see that there is less and less movement, until the only silhouette is Leah's, washing up at the kitchen sink.

Dad gets up stiffly and stretches. ‘Come on – it's freezing out here now. Let's get you in and warm before I collect Isaac from Mrs Green's.'

We walk through the back door and into the kitchen.

‘Ah – that's right! Appear when I've done all the clearing up!' jokes Leah, coming over and giving me a big hug.

‘Sorry,' I say, but she winks at me, letting me know that it's OK really.

‘All right?' she asks Dad and he nods at her. ‘Everything you asked for is on the dining-room table,' she tells him. ‘And more, from what I could see!'

‘That's great,' he says, and puts his arm round her. ‘Thank you so much for everything you've
done, Leah – we couldn't have managed without you.'

‘Of course you could!' says Leah, trying to make light of his comment – but I can tell she's pleased. ‘It's only what Rachel would have done for me, anyway.'

I think that is a weird thing to say and wonder what today would have been like if it was Leah who had died, and not Mum. And then I feel hot and guilty inside because I love Leah, but if I could choose between them, I would choose for Mum to stay with me, every time.

‘And she would be very proud of her little sister, I know that,' Dad tells her. He turns to me. ‘Right, young lady – you need a hot bath followed by a hot chocolate and then some cheese on toast. No arguments!'

I follow him upstairs and stand in the bathroom while he runs me a bath. He pours in a capful of Mr Matey bubble bath and I haven't got the heart to tell him I haven't used Mr Matey since the last time he ran me a bath – about four years ago. Anyway, he's treating me like I'm a little kid and to be honest, it feels quite nice.

When the bath is full, Dad leaves me on my
own and I get undressed and sink beneath the bubbles. I think about today and how people deal with death in different ways. While we were in the garden, Dad told me about Mexico, where everyone celebrates the Day of the Dead each year. He said they party and eat lots and laugh lots – all as a way of remembering people they love who have died. I can't imagine us doing anything like that, but I suppose it's quite a cool idea. He also told me about a Native American Indian tribe where the women cut their hair if somebody close to them dies. I definitely wouldn't like to do that. And Mum would have a
fit
if she thought I was chopping off my hair after all the months of effort it's taken to grow my fringe out. I'm pleased that Mum has so many friends who love her – but I'm also glad that Dad and I stayed outside on our own, just us, remembering Mum.

The bathwater is cooling down and my toes are going wrinkly, which I really hate, so I clamber out and get warm in my pyjamas and dressing gown. I head downstairs and can hear that Isaac is back – he's moaning at Leah for not cutting the crusts off his toast. Dad meets me at the bottom of the stairs with a mug of hot chocolate.

‘Better?' he asks me and I nod. ‘Good. Before
you have some food I want you to see something.' He leads me into the dining room and up to the table.

I look down, unable to process what I'm seeing. ‘What? How–?' I stutter, not sure what I'm looking at.

Dad seems pleased with my reaction. ‘All those people who were here today? They all knew Mum in different ways. They all shared times with her that they thought you'd like to know about – so I asked each of them to bring one memory with them, just for you. And here they all are!'

Spread out on the table are lots and lots of pictures. And Mum is in every single one of them. I step forward and pick one up. A very young-looking Mum is eating a huge ice cream and pointing at the Eiffel Tower, a big grin on her face. I put it down and choose another – Mum in a rowing boat. I start to pick them up as quickly as I can, hungry for more memories. Mum in a beautiful floaty dress that I've not seen before, Mum on a motorbike (she'd always said her most important rule was that I
never
go on a motorbike!), Mum sitting cross-legged on some grass making a long daisy chain. This last one makes me smile – I'd forgotten what an expert daisy-chain maker she's
always been. I look at photo after photo of Mum, some of her on her own, some of her with friends, and quite a few of her and Dad, holding each other and smiling at the camera.

‘I didn't have enough of my own,' I tell Dad, thinking about the photos I've taken over the last few weeks.

‘We can never have enough memories, sweetheart,' he tells me, looking away from me with a weird, scrunched-up expression on his face.