Letters From My Sister (15 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

‘Go home,’ Mum insists again, after I have given her some more water. ‘You look even worse than me.’

I look at her. Her skin is so pale that she is almost camouflaged by the white pillow and sheets. Nothing covers her head except for a fine stubble of hair and a scar on the left-hand side of her face, curved like a question mark. It’s two weeks after the operation. It was a success in that the tumour was benign and was taken out; but the surgery left her weak and with virtually no movement on her right-hand side. She couldn’t even turn herself over in bed. Everything had to be done for her and she slept a lot of the time. None of us had had any idea that she might not be able to walk after the operation. ‘What’s a Zimmer frame doing at the end of the bed?’ was the first groggy question she asked us. Her next concern was not being able to sign her own name. ‘Mum, why are you trying so hard to write your signature?’ I had asked her, watching her wrestle with the pen and paper.

‘I’ve told you. If I’m going to be like this for ever I want at least to be able to get at my money,’ she said breathlessly.

Thankfully the physiotherapy is already helping her to regain strength and mobility. She has started to get up and walk very slowly, up and down the ward. To say we are relieved is a gross understatement. It is a miracle. When I watched Mum walk for the first time, I was clapping so vigorously that the palms of my hands were burning red.

‘Please, Katie, go home, darling. Take the awkward squad home too.’ She is referring to Dad, who is talking to one of the doctors. She thinks he fusses too much over her. She shuts her eyes. ‘I need to get some sleep. And you do too,’ she adds.

*

When I walk into the house it’s quiet. No Stevie Wonder. No Beatles. I find Bells in the kitchen again, wearing Mum’s denim apron, now quite grubby with a blob of spinach down the front, her small hands encased in red-spotted oven gloves. Yesterday Dad and I returned home and she had made us a cauliflower cheese, using all the leftovers in the fridge. It was the most delicious cauliflower cheese I had ever tasted too. The day before that she cooked a courgette and asparagus quiche. She chose not to come to the hospital today. In fact she hasn’t been since the morning of Mum’s operation. Each day we ask her if she wants to come but all she says is, ‘Tell Mum get better.’ Dad and I make a point of not leaving her for long on her own, coming and going in shifts.

‘Hello, how’s Mum?’ she asks immediately, putting a white dish into the oven and then turning to face me. ‘Mum all right?’

‘She’s OK, a bit grumpy and tired. She sends lots of love. Bells, wow, what are you cooking?’

‘Stuffed pancakes with ricotta and spinach.’ Suddenly the smell makes me ravenous. ‘Made strawberry fool too. You like strawberries? Mum loves strawberries.’

‘I love them. You’re a star,’ I tell her, collapsing into a chair. The table is littered with a cooking bowl, broken eggshells, flour, a greasy block of butter and a few bruised strawberries that haven’t made it into the fool. It’s a comforting mess.

‘How’s Mum?’ she asks again, yet I know she’s not expecting another answer. ‘Make you drink,’ she says, opening the cupboard. The bottle of vodka is laid out for me; Dad’s whisky is ready for him.

She hands me my vodka, which I take gratefully. ‘Bells, you really are amazing.’

Dad walks into the kitchen. ‘Bells has made pancakes for supper and fixed us a drink,’ I tell him and he smiles.

‘How delicious. Thank you, darling.’

‘I might take my drink up with me, have a bath,’ I say, prising my heavy body from my seat.

‘Sit down, Dad,’ Bells insists, guiding him to a chair. ‘Sit.’

I walk upstairs and into my bedroom. Bells has made my bed – just as she has done each day since the operation.

I find myself walking into Mum and Dad’s bedroom. She has stripped that too and there are clean sheets waiting to be put on; all of Dad’s dirty laundry is in the wicker basket by the door. I notice she has placed the photograph of Mum and Dad’s wedding by his bedside light. Bells is like our fairy godmother. I sit down on the bed and pick up the photograph. It’s funny to think she and I weren’t born when that picture was taken; it was the two of them together, starting out. Mum was twenty-six when she married. At the age I now am she would have had me.

I don’t even hear Bells sitting down next to me. ‘Mum all right?’ she presses again.

‘She’s fine. She wants to come home though. She hates hospitals.’ As I speak I realize that wasn’t the most sensitive thing to say in front of her. ‘Sorry, you more than anyone know what I mean.’ I put my head into my hands.

‘What wrong?’

‘I’m tired.’

‘How’s Sam?’

‘We’re not going out any more.’

‘Not nice, Sam.’

‘He was all right.’ I hold the wedding picture in front of both of us.

‘Beautiful Mum,’ Bells says.

‘Very.’ I put the photograph back on the table. ‘Thank you for making my bed, thank you for everything, Bells. You’ve done so much these last few weeks. Dad and I, well, we couldn’t have managed without you.’

Bells rocks forward, scratching her forehead. I don’t think she knows what to say or do when someone compliments her. ‘In Wales, have cleaning rota,’ she tells me. ‘Clean Ted’s room. Ted my friend.’

I smile at her. ‘Ted’s lucky. I want someone to make things better, Bells. For you, Dad, for me, and for Mum, particularly Mum. I want us all to be happy.’

Right now I feel my entire life is slipping away from me.

‘Mum didn’t die like Uncle Roger,’ she says.

She’s right. I know I should be feeling fortunate. Mum is going to be all right. Yet, now that we know she’s going to get better, I can’t help thinking about everything else. My job doesn’t feel that important any more, I have no Sam – not that he’s a great loss, but I do miss that feeling of security. I have no home. I’m worried for Dad. I’m worried about Mum and how we are going to cope when she comes home. I’m worried about everything; it’s no wonder I can’t sleep. Bells is the one ray of light. Alone, Dad and I would have been eating takeaways and sleeping on grubby sheets.

‘Do you get lonely, Bells?’

‘At times.’

‘When?’

‘Night-time.’

‘Me too. Why at night?’

‘Dark. Don’t like dark.’

‘I want everything to go back to normal. I want … hey, where are you going?’ I smile. She’s bored of me. No wonder. I stare up into the ceiling. Two minutes later I am still staring at the same spot until I feel a prod. Bells is standing in front of me with the telephone.

‘Who is it?’

‘Someone on phone for you.’

‘Who?’ I repeat, not feeling like talking to anyone. ‘Is it Emma?’

‘Mark.’

‘Mark?’ Bells has a strange sense of humour. I take the phone from her. ‘It’s Aunt Agnes, isn’t it?’

‘Katie?’ I can hear in the distance. ‘Hello. Katie?’

It’s definitely not Aunt Agnes because it’s a man’s voice. ‘Who is it?’

‘Mark.’

‘Mark nice man. Mark nice. Mark helps.’

‘Bells!’ I say, holding my hand across the mouthpiece. ‘Why did you call him? How did you get his number?’

‘Asked him to see us.’

‘Oh, bugger …’ I take my hand away from the mouthpiece. ‘Hi, Mark!’

‘Katie, I’m so sorry to hear about your mum.’

Hearing his voice makes me want to cry. ‘It’s OK, it’s fine. We’re fine,’ I stutter.

‘Bells asked me if I’d visit. I know this is weird, I hardly know you, but I’d like to. I mean, if there’s anything I can do to help, or …’

‘Bells would love to see you.’ I can’t believe he is on the phone. I tell him Mum is still in hospital and that they think she will be there for one more week, until she can walk independently. ‘Maybe you could come when she’s home?’ I suggest.

‘Fine. Just call me.’

‘That would be great,’ I say, realizing how much I would like to see him too.

After our conversation Bells claps her hands. ‘Mark coming!’

‘How did you get his number?’ I ask again.

‘Took it from bag. Had it in London.’

I can’t stop smiling. Mark is coming to see us. This is so random, so unexpected. Yet, at the same time, nothing feels more right.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Bells and I are standing on the station platform, waiting for Mark to arrive. Things are looking up, at last. Mum climbed ten stairs at the hospital and was finally discharged. She has been at home for two days. It is fantastic having her back. The only worrying thing is that already she’s trying to cook and do too much. Determined to get back to some semblance of normality, she was trying to make some homemade elderflower cordial, bent down to get a large bowl and then bashed her head against the cupboard. Her eyesight has been affected by the surgery and she often knocks or bumps into things. Dad rushed her to hospital as he was terrified she had dislodged the stitches. ‘The awkward squad is back,’ Mum said when the doctor told her she couldn’t keep away. Thankfully it was fine, nothing more than a nasty bruise.

‘Three minutes,’ Bells says, looking at the flashing sign hanging above the platform.

‘Two minutes … One minute … Mark!’ Bells waves.

He walks towards us. His hair looks unbrushed and he is wearing the round glasses that make him look like a professor. I can imagine him wearing a white coat and working in a laboratory. Instead, he’s wearing dark jeans, a pale blue striped shirt, and his face looks tanned. My face is a sickly drained colour from spending too much time in hospital. Bells hits his arm. ‘Hello, Mark.’

‘Hi, Bells.’ He shakes her hand. She hits him again, and he gently hits her back. Then he turns to me. It’s that awkward moment when we don’t know how to greet one another. Hug? Kiss? Hold hands? I lean towards him, ready to kiss formally on the cheek, but he pulls me towards him. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I heard the news. I’m so sorry.’

‘Thank you for coming,’ I say, falling into his arms and not wanting to let go.

*

When I open the front door Mum calls, ‘Darling, we’re in the kitchen.’ She’s longing to meet Mark. ‘Is this the nice chap who helped you find Bells?’ she’d asked, sensing there might be more to it.

Mark, Bells and I walk into the kitchen and are confronted by the sight of Mum, Dad and a rather plump man standing behind a trolley stacked high with wigs.

‘Hello, Mark,’ gushes Mum, holding out a hand. Mum loves men. I always suspect she wanted to have a son. ‘Katie, Bells, Mark,’ she says, examining him closely again to see if he could be potential husband material, ‘this is Mr Marshall, the wig man.’

He extends one thick hairy arm and shakes our hands. ‘Isn’t your mother doing well?’ he beams. ‘All we need to do now is fit her up with a nice wig and then she’ll be the talk of the town!’

Mum pats her head nervously. Her hair hasn’t grown back apart from a few wisps. Dad tells her she looks like a fluffy chick.

Mr Marshall opens the first page of his portfolio. ‘This is Mrs Henderson, she had a terrible time of it, lost all her hair she did. You know that rare disease where it all falls out? For the life of me, I can’t remember what that disease is called. Anyway, she was lying in the bath, she was, and when she got out, all her hair was floating in the water. It was a terrible shock. She was beside herself.’

He shows us the picture of Mrs Henderson before and after. In the after shot she wears a brown wig that looks more like a wooden salad bowl tipped on to her head.

Mr Marshall takes us through the entire portfolio and by now I am dreading what he is going to suggest for Mum.

He closes his portfolio and we all wait with bated breath. ‘Now, how about this for starters?’ Mr Marshall bends down and takes a wig from his trolley. He holds up something ginger and cabbage-shaped, and I am dangerously close to laughing out loud. I know Mark is too, I can feel the vibes coming from him. Mum looks horrified. Dad is speechless. Bells roars with laughter. ‘Very funny,’ she says. ‘Ha-ha, very funny!’

Mr Marshall looks puzzled but gamely carries on. ‘This is a close match to your original colour. Shall we give it a go?’

He places it carefully on Mum’s head, smoothing it over and making sure there is not a single hair out of place. He proceeds to stand back in admiration. Mum looks at Dad, waiting for a reaction. Dad looks at me. I look at Mark. Mark turns to Bells.

‘You need a mirror,’ Mr Marshall says when none of us utters a word. He holds up a square mirror in front of Mum. ‘It looks super on you if I say so myself.’

Mum shrieks with dismay. ‘But I had auburn hair, like my daughter, Isabel.’ She glances at herself again and then quickly averts her eyes.

‘Mum, we can buy you some really pretty silk scarves,’ I suggest. ‘You don’t have to wear a wig.’

We all agree, except for Mr Marshall, who looks crestfallen as Dad and I show him out with his trolley of untouched wigs.

‘Thank you for coming anyway,’ Dad says quietly. ‘I’m sorry if we sounded rude or ungrateful, but I don’t think a wig’s the answer.’

‘No problem,’ Mr Marshall says, ‘but don’t hesitate to ring me if you change your mind. The wig door hasn’t been totally shut, I shall leave it, let’s say, slightly ajar.’

Dad and I try not to laugh again. The wig door?

‘’Bye for now.’ He bustles his trolley out of the door.

When we walk back into the kitchen Mum pats her head self-consciously. ‘It really is very nice of you to come and see us,’ she says to Mark, but I can tell her mind is still on that wig.

‘I think you made the right choice,’ he assures her. ‘A silk scarf will suit you.’

‘Bet you didn’t think I’d end up like this, did you, darling?’ Mum says to Dad, still touching her very short hair. ‘I hardly look the part, do I?’

Look the part, feel the part and you are the part, I can hear Sam chanting in front of the mirror as he shaves.

Dad steps forward and kisses the top of her head. ‘I love you, no matter what. You don’t ever need to hide behind your hair. What did we always say to you, Bells?’

‘You look world in the eye,’ she says.

‘Dad used to say it all the time when we were children,’ I explain to Mark.

‘That’s right,’ Dad confirms. ‘You look the world in the eye.’