Writing in the Sand (15 page)

He pats my hand. “Tell me your name.”

“Amy.”

“Well, Amy, I can honestly say that letting your mum enjoy a breath of fresh air on a lovely day like today won't have been the cause of her trouble. It's far more likely to have been brewing for a while.”

“She's seemed more tired than usual for quite a few days.”

He stands up. “There's a cafe near the main entrance,” he says. “Why not get yourself a coffee or a soft drink?” He puts his hand in his pocket, as if he might be going to give me some money.

I try to look like I hadn't noticed. “Thank you, I'll do that.”

My sense of direction is zilch. Finding the cafe is going to be an orienteering exercise, minus the map. I hadn't taken any notice of how Mum and I ended up at the High Dependency Unit. We'd come up in a lift and only stopped once – for someone to get out for the Prem Unit, where it had hit me like a brick that I was probably a few paces from where the doctors had saved Robbie's life.

Now I'm off down a flight of stairs, and through a pair of swing doors and down yet more stairs. It's lucky I start spotting
Way Out
signs. Surely this means I'm near the main entrance? Unless I'm near the main
exit
– if there is one. No, it's okay, one more door and I'm beside the entrance.

I don't buy a drink straight away because I need to check my purse for the bus fare home. I try not to make it obvious that I'm counting my money. I don't want to look as pathetic as I feel. Anyway I've got enough, so I buy a cappuccino and take it back upstairs to where Mum is.

I'm still waiting outside the HDU, finishing my frothy coffee, when Mr Dorrington introduces himself. He's tall, thin and willowy – the exact opposite of Dr Briggs. Who now joins him. This somehow gives me confidence, though he looks to Mr Dorrington to speak first.

“We have two issues here, Amy.” He pauses, and I soon realize Mr Dorrington pauses a lot. I wonder if this is just habit, or whether it's more significant. He says, “Your mother is really quite poorly.” My heart pounds. What does that mean?
Your mother is seriously ill. Your mother is very seriously ill. Your mother is…dying?

Dr Briggs says, “We think it's safe to say Mum has a condition called pancreatitis.”

This doesn't sound any safer to me, even when Mr Dorrington explains: “Put simply, this is an inflamed pancreas.”

Dr Briggs says, “In addition, she may have gallstones.”

I can relate better to this because there are some in a jar in the science block at school. He adds, “Though these shouldn't pose too great a problem.”

I have a sudden thought. “Would my mum's arthritis have caused this pancreas—?”

Dr Briggs helps me out. “Pancreatitis?” He shakes his head. “This is something quite separate. Though your mother's poor health won't be helping matters.”

Mr Dorrington says, “Your mother will be in hospital for, well—”

“As long as it takes,” says Dr Briggs. “By which we mean, unfortunately she won't be coming home just yet.”

Mr Dorrington says, “Your mother has explained she is not in touch with your father, and that you and your sister are known to Social Services.”

He stops there. A long pause. And I wait. This could be it. The beginning of the end. Mum in residential care, me on my own and Robbie adopted. Suddenly I'm on the point of tears at the thought of how Mum met my baby without having any idea who he was.

Dr Briggs says, “If we need to be in touch with your sister, can we assume she's on the same number as you?”

I nod. “But she's out more often than me.”

I know what I have to do. And I must do it immediately. Even so, I don't want to look rude, like I'm not grateful for their help. Fortunately Mr Dorrington has to hurry off, and when Dr Briggs asks if I'd like to see Mum, I say, “Do you mind if I find a toilet first?”

“Of course not,” he says. “There's a visitors' loo round the corner, then to your left.” He touches me briefly on the shoulder. “When you come back, let the Ward Sister know who you are. She'll take you to your mum…” He hesitates. “Who, by the way, is a bit wired-up, so try not to be too alarmed when you see her.”

I let him get out of sight, then I run. I amaze myself because I easily find my way to the cafe, which is where I'd seen the phone. And in my purse – actually
in my purse –
is Lisa's mobile number.
And
I've got the right change for the phone.

I punch the number, put my money in and wait. I can't believe it, I
can't
believe it – she answers immediately, sounding quite lively. “Hello?”

“Lisa, it's me. Now listen. Really listen. I've not got long. Mum is in hospital. She's in the General.”

“Why?”

“She's very ill – and you've got to get here to see her. Plus you
have
to say – if you're asked – that you live at home permanently.
Permanently
. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, okay.”

God, is that all she can say?

I speak clearly, so there'll be no misunderstandings. “Come tonight. To the hospital.”

“I hate hospitals.”

“I know, but you've got to come. Mum'll be desperate to see you.”

“Yeah, but… Is she really ill?”

“Yes! She's in the High Dependency Unit.”

“I will come – though…”

“Are you still there?”

“I'm worried about Darren. I thought you were him.”

“Well I'm not.
Now listen
—”

“For God's sake!” she says. “I
am
listening.”

“Just give everyone the impression you'll be at ours tonight – and every night.”

“Okay.”

“Is that all you can say –
okay
?”

“Well – this is a bit of a shock—”

“I'll say this once more, Lisa:
you live with me and Mum
.” I hesitate for a second. “And for the time being, we'll let Mum think you've moved back in.” She sighs, and I add, “
Right?
” But my money runs out. There's not much more I could have said. If that doesn't get through her thick skull, nothing will.

I've got my bearings, and with only one wrong turn find my way back to the High Dependency Unit. I'm not sure if the nurse at the nurses' station is actually the Ward Sister. I don't like to look too closely at her badge – it might look as if I'm fascinated by her enormous bust. She's notices me anyway. “Yes?” But then a phone rings, and it sounds like whoever's at the other end is annoyed. The nurse – or Ward Sister – says it's not strictly her responsibility, and puts the phone down. But it's like she's forgotten me. I clear my throat. She looks up. “Can I help you?”

“I'm Amy Preston. Is it all right for me to see my mother?”

There's this lovely smile. “Of course you can, pet. Follow me.” She tells me Mum is quite seriously ill and that for the time being she has a specialist nurse caring for her. We stop outside a door with clear glass at the top. It's opened by Mum's nurse who says, “Ah, you must be Amy.”

My stomach churns. Why am I nervous of seeing Mum? From where I am, I can't see her because another nurse blocks my view. But then the nurse moves, and there's Mum's bed – the only bed in the room. She's surrounded by wires and tubes, a drip on a stand, and a monitor close by. There's a movement, her hand lifts a little. I go to the bed, touch her fingers.

“Amy, love,” she says, “are you all right?” Typical of Mum – forgetting herself, and worrying about me.

“I'm fine,” I say, “but how about you?”

“They've given me something for the pain. It's wonderful – I'm imagining myself beside the sea.”

“We'll go again,” I say. “I promise.”

“Just thinking about it,” she says, “makes me believe in a future.”

I tell her I've been in touch with Lisa. Her face lights up, then she says, “I hope you didn't worry her.”

“Of course I didn't. She's going to try to get in to see you this evening.”

As her eyes start to close I lean over her and whisper, “Toffee sends his love.” She's already half asleep and probably can't hear me. All the same, I stroke her hand and say, “Night, night, Mum – sleep tight.”

I'm back home. Alone – apart from Toffee, who'd like to go out. Sorry, boy, you'll have to make do with the backyard. (I don't dare leave the house in case there's a call from the hospital.)

I jump as the phone rings. My ribcage squeezes inwards, but it's only Lisa. Amazingly, she's already been to see Mum. “I thought I'd go as soon as possible,” she says. “It must be good for her, mustn't it, to know we care?”

“Absolutely! It'll do her the world of good, knowing we're
both
rooting for her.” I'm so relieved Lisa's made this effort. “Was she awake?”

“Yeah.”

“And pleased to see you?”

“She didn't talk a lot, but she smiled.” There's a pause before she says, “By the way, did they say what's wrong with her?”

“Yes – pancreatitis.”

“Is that serious?”

“Yes, Lisa, it is. That's why she's in the High Dependency Unit,
with her own nurse.
”

“Okay, okay,” she says, “there's no need to get—”

“Get what?”

“Like you're the only one who knows anything. I mean, I
am
your sister. Plus I'm older.”

There's a lot I could say in reply to that. Instead, I say, “Sorry, Lisa, it's been a difficult day.” I pause. “And don't forget, if anyone brings it up – you live here with Mum and me.”

“For heaven's
sake
, Amy—”

“It's
important
.”

“Okay.”

And that's the end of the conversation. I wait for a second, then she turns off her phone.

I stand in the kitchen, listening to the silence. It's strange. Eerie. Usually at this time I'd be sorting out Mum's medication, making sure her pills and capsules are in order. But I haven't got them; the doctor wanted them taken with her to the hospital. I go upstairs to her room. I tidy stuff lying about and put her nightie from yesterday in the bathroom wash basket.

I go back to her room. Sit on her bed. Worry about her. And about Robbie. And the dreadful sadness of Mum not knowing she has a grandson. Of her and Mrs Kelly, sat in our kitchen – neither of them realizing the baby in the buggy has a mum and granny in the same room. Tears trickle down my face.

I'm still sat here – miserable – wishing for all sorts of things that can't come true, when the phone rings in the kitchen.

I spring off the bed and dash downstairs. Oh God – is it the hospital?

I snatch up the phone. “Hello?”

I wait, listening to the sound of breathing. I know who it is before he speaks: “This is Shaun Baxter.”

Shaun
Baxter
. How many Shauns do I know? “Hi, Shaun—”

“Are we taking your mum to the beach tomorrow?”

“Listen, Shaun. She's in hospital.”

He says nothing, but I can tell he's still there. I say, “She was sick and I had to get the doctor. Next thing I know, he calls an ambulance and she's in the General.”

“I'd best tell Mrs Kelly.” The phone goes down on a hard surface. I hear a baby crying in the background. Is it Robbie?

Mr
Kelly comes to the phone. “Hello, Amy. What's all this then?”

“It's Mum, she's got…pancreatitis.”

“She's got what?”

“Pancreatitis – it's an inflamed pancreas. And she probably has gallstones.” I'm starting to cry again, but try to hold it in. “It's serious.”

“Don't upset yourself, love… Is your Lisa there? Can you get her to the phone?”

Hating myself for lying, I take a deep breath.

“Lisa's with our mum at the hospital. She'll be back later.” I wipe my eyes with a corner of the tea towel. “Can I speak to Kirsty?”

“She's at the cinema with Jordan. Let me get Susie for you.”

“Thanks.”

“She won't be a second,” he says, “she's just cooling young Robbie down.”

“He's not poorly, is he?”

“No – just a slight temperature.”

I long to be two people at once: one holding Mum's hand, one with Robbie.

It's a huge comfort hearing Mrs Kelly's voice. “Amy, sweetie, tell me everything. When did all this start?”

I tell her most things, including taking Mum down to the sea – which I'm sure Shaun will have mentioned. And he has.

Repeating my lie, I feel sick. “Lisa should be back any minute. She's been visiting Mum.” (At least that bit's true.)

Mrs Kelly asks which ward Mum is on. When I tell her about the High Dependency Unit there's a short pause before she says, “I think that means it'll be family visiting only… I'll call in to see her the minute she's moved onto a general ward.”

I say, “Thank you,” and she says she'll call me tomorrow, but that I must
promise
to call if there's anything they can do. Day or night. She repeats that:
day or night
. And I'm to tell Lisa the same. It's so good to have her at the end of the phone. I know how lucky I am.

I say, “I'd better go, in case the hospital calls.”

“Of course. Now listen, you're not to worry. Mum will be all right. She's in a marvellous hospital – we know that, don't we?” she says.

I say yes we do, and ask if I can come round tomorrow to see Kirsty.

She says, “Of course. We'd love to see you.”