Mira in the Present Tense (25 page)

“Comments?” asks Pat.

“It made me feel sorry for her. She only lives upstairs from me. My mum and her mum are friends but I never really think about her that much,” blurts out Ben.

“That's one of the great things about literature—you can get inside even the most difficult people and have some understanding of their situation. It's called empathy. As a character, what were the most interesting details?” asks Pat Print, sitting right on the edge of her seat as if she can't wait to hear our next response. It's infectious, her enthusiasm, and despite himself, Jidé jumps in.

“Her hunger,” answers Jidé, who has finally given up trying to look like he doesn't know the answers, “and her thin, worried mum, her being a nurse and having to look after everyone else…her fat brother…dropping Orla off at school at seven thirty.”

“And her dad leaving,” Ben almost whispers. “I remember that.”

“That's right, Ben…that would have a massive influence on a girl that age. So you can see how from an exploration of what forms a character you've got the beginning of a story,” says Pat, and then she pauses for a moment. I think she's trying to work out how to explain something to us.

“Just a word of caution to all of you. Make sure, if you're talking about people you all know, to understand that this work is done in confidence. Perhaps I should have insisted you change the names.”

“But we still might have worked out who Millie was talking about,” interrupts Ben.

“That's true,” nods Pat. “And I'm sure you're such a sensitive group, you'll be discreet. Now, Mira, do you want to read yours out?”

“I'm not sure now, because I'm writing about my dad!”

“Dads are fair game!” says Pat, making everybody laugh.

Sam Levenson, aged forty. Dark brown hair, what's left of it. Dark eyes, almost black. Pale skin. Favorite color, deep blue. Personality…kind, gentle, makes jokes, swears a lot, hides his real feelings. What I've noticed…he's not keen on art exhibitions, he worries a lot about me, and he doesn't like anything that's too heavy or serious. He doesn't trust people with straight teeth. What I know is my dad loves all of us, me and Krish and Laila and Mum and Nana Josie, and he's going to miss Nana so much when she's gone. What I think he thinks is that I'm a bit strange for wanting to be with Nana so much when she's dying. Generally, I think he thinks I'm a bit morbid.

“Good word that, morbid. What's
your
opinion?” asks Pat.

“Nana said it's a necessary heartbreak…when you love someone and you have to say good-bye.”

“But what do
you
think?” Pat asks again.

“I don't know. Yesterday was the first time I didn't want to be there.”

“What's morbid?” asks Ben.

“Someone with a tendency to think of dark things…dwelling on death,” answers Pat Print. “The thing is, Mira, no matter how much you love someone, sometimes facing the end…can all get too much.”

Pat Print has a faraway look in her eye as if she's thinking about someone in particular, but then she seems to pull herself together, tapping her pen against her notebook and springing back into action.

“There's another exercise I like to play with character…pens at the ready…think of a character, and try to imagine what animal he or she would most be like? Quick, quick…first thing that comes to mind.”

I write
horse
.

“A vegetable or fruit?”

I write
artichoke
.

“A color.”

I write
green
.

“A place.”

I write
Rwanda
, folding over my paper as soon as I've written the word. Of course I'll never read this out—I'll just make something else up if she asks me. Luckily she doesn't.

“OK! Boys. What did you come up with for your characters?”

Ben says just four words, “Seal, onion, gray, psychiatrist's.”

“Intriguing character. Let's hear yours, Jidé?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “I couldn't think of anyone.”

“That's unlike you.” Pat Print casts him a look as if to say, “I'm not sure you're telling me the truth.”

She checks her watch. “I can't believe time's up already. Next week, bring something in, an object, a photo, a painting that means something to you. We're going to do an exercise where you bring the object to life. It's called the ‘pathetic fallacy.'”

“What's a phallus, anyway?” sniggers Ben, trying to embarrass Pat Print. We've just done Life Education
again
so we know all the words for willies. We had to write a long list of the words we thought were OK to use. We came up with eighteen words for a willie, but only eight for a fanny, but that could have been because the boys go so wild and the girls just give up in the end. When Millie and me tried to work it out on our own, we came up with twenty names for a fanny including a few we made up ourselves!

“Pathetic fallacy. It's when you imbue an object with a human emotion.”

“Sounds pathetic,” whispers Ben to Jidé a bit too loudly.

“Let me offer you an example, Ben…ah yes! The rebellious table.”

“I don't get it,” grumps Ben.

“Well, just ask yourself. Is it the table that's rebellious? Or possibly those who sit at the table…what innate energy within the table itself makes it rebellious?” smiles Pat, pushing a giggling Jidé and Ben out of the room.

In the corridor Jidé hangs back. As I draw level with him, he places a note in my hand and as he does so he folds his hand over mine and squeezes it, before striding off down the corridor. My heart is beating ridiculously fast as I duck into the girls' toilets to read…

Mira Levenson. Aged twelve. Looks, long, dark, shiny hair, dark brown eyes (almost black), brown skin, beautiful. Favorite color, copper orange, I think. Personality, clever, bright, serious, shy, funny without realizing it, holds back her thoughts, mystery girl, arty. What I've noticed: she's stronger than she thinks she is; she doesn't speak much at school.

What I know: she's got a loud laugh (when she lets it out).

Her best friend is Millie Lockhart. She doesn't need Millie as much as she thinks she does. Her grandmother is dying and she loves her. She's started talking in Pat Print's class. I know she doesn't know how much I think of her, how much I miss her if she's not around. What I think she thinks about me is that I'm a bit of a joker, but I'm deadly serious.

Deer…apple…green…sea…

See you on Friday!

Love,

Jidé

“What's taking you so long in there?” shouts Millie from the basins.

“Nothing,” I call back, folding Jidé's note carefully into my pocket and trying to wipe the grin off my face.
Love, Jidé.
Now I know what it means to have butterflies in your belly.

Sometimes as I leave Nana at night I stand and look at her, trying to remember everything about her…in case I don't see her again. Then the next day it's like she's almost back to her normal self, sparkly and cheery and sitting up in bed. It doesn't last very long when she's like that, but it makes you think that she might be with us for a little bit longer. Other days she's so sleepy she hardly has the energy to even open her eyes.

I peer round the corner of the ward to see her sitting up in bed, eating. When she sees me, she raises her arm in the air, and I run up to her and give her a cuddle, sploshing prune juice all over her white sheets. Nana is having what she calls an “up time.”

I think about telling her about Jidé and his note, but somehow it doesn't seem right, so I keep it to myself. I wonder what secrets Nana has kept from me. I watch her finishing her prunes. It takes quite a long time, because her hands are very shaky now. The only thing Nana doesn't like about the hospice is the food, which she says is “stodge,” like school lunches. So, whenever we visit, we put something in the fridge on the shelf labeled
Josie Levenson
. Nana's friend Jay is a potter and a cook. Every day she brings Nana some homemade food like vegetarian soups, or a fruit salad with papaya, pineapple, blueberries, and mint, or a green salad with slithers of ginger and fresh coriander…the kind of food that Nana loves. Sometimes when Jay visits, Nana is sleeping, so she leaves the food on her shelf in the fridge. Nana calls this food “Jay's calling card.”

I don't want to be here anymore. I want to be with Laila and her little sparkly smile. I want to sit her in her high chair and feed her until her tiny wrists grow fat bracelets again. When she came home today, it felt like Christmas morning…to see her smiling face again.

“I haven't seen your mum or Laila for a few days. Everything all right?” asks Nana as if she's tracking my thoughts.

“Laila's got a bit of a cold.” I'm shocked how convincingly I can lie these days.

Nana just nods.

“Hi, Josie!” It's Simon's singsong voice.

He peers round the door and knocks on the wall.

“Enter!” calls Nana in her queenly voice.

Simon and Nana are always joking around together, even when they're having serious conversations about politics, which is what they nearly always do.

“You're raining on my parade!” laughs Nana as Simon drips rainwater all over her bed. “Mira, pass Simon a towel.”

Simon wraps it round his head like a forget-me-not blue turban.

“Very fetching,” laughs Nana.

It doesn't take them long to get to talking politics…the war in Iraq and the next peace march…

Simon's not like anyone else I have ever met. He does painting and decorating on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, but only if you get him eco-paint, which doesn't have oil in it. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays he does things like naked bike rides for Climate Change or candlelit vigils outside the Chinese Embassy for the people of Tibet. He's been doing that for ten years. Most weeks he sits outside Downing Street, protesting about something. Nana says sometimes you can't find Simon for days on end. That's when he's doing a meditation. Simon refuses to go anywhere in a car. He either cycles or gets on a train. He's quite old, probably about sixty, but he doesn't look it. He has this long, straggly blond-gray hair, which he says he last got cut in 1965, so it's not that long, considering. He's fresh-faced with pink cheeks and sparkly blue eyes. Simon actually looks like an energetic elf.

After they've talked politics, Nana's eyes grow heavy, as if she's not in control of when she's asleep or awake anymore. Simon stands up to go, but Nana holds his hand.

“There's something I want you to have, Simon.”

Nana tells me to open her bedside cupboard and points to a scrapbook on the second shelf. It's the kind of book with construction paper in it that we use at school. On the front it says
Josie's book of protest
. It's the book that Nana puts all her letters from politicians in. These are the letters where they reply to her about what she's been complaining about. Mostly the letters are from the secretaries of Margaret Thatcher and Tony Blair. Nana's written a list of all the marches she's ever been on and all the banner slogans she's carried in her life. The last march she went on was against the war in Iraq. She made a placard saying,
Not in my name
and I saw her carrying it on the news. I'll never forget the sight of her because I remember wondering how it was possible to be so small and strong at the same time. Simon takes the book from me.

“I'll enjoy this. Good times on the march, Josie…”

“Did you campaign about Rwanda?” I ask. Nana and Simon both turn to look at me, as if I have just earned a place in their conversation.

“Of course we did,” Nana sighs. “Not that it did any good whatsoever. Why do you ask?”

“You know, I've been reading about it…that's all.”

“My work here is done!” Nana laughs, as if
she's
responsible for me knowing anything about Rwanda.

“Dad thinks I shouldn't be interested in stuff like that,” I tell Nana.

“Well, it's hard to see your children go out into the world,” Nana sighs. “But you'll be next. I reckon you've got a few years' campaigning left in you, Simon. Maybe you can recycle a few slogans and leave the book to Mira here when you croak. She'll be about ready for it by then!”

Simon gives Nana a long hug. I can see that she's choking back her tears.

“Fight the good fight!” she calls out to him, clenching her fist.

A silence sits between us as I watch the smile fade from Nana's face and her fist slowly unfurling. I take her limp hand, which is now hanging carelessly over the side of the bed, and squeeze it gently in mine. She nods to me and props herself up on the pillows.