A Library of Lemons

by Jo Cotterill

  ‘All right.’

  I realise I am still clutching the scrawled-on papers. ‘Oh – here. This is what I was doing.’ I thrust them at him, but he moves so slowly to take them that I put them down on the bed, fidgeting. ‘It’s a story,’ I say. ‘You can read it if you like.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He stares down at the pile of crumpled paper.

  I hesitate for a moment. ‘They’re probably all out of order,’ I say. ‘I’ll sort them out for you.’

  It takes me a few moments to tidy the sheets into a neat pile. ‘There you are,’ I say. ‘I’ll just go and make some tea.’

  He is sitting up. The relief makes me light-headed as I walk to the kitchen. He’s kind of slow to understand, but he’s not doing that zombie thing any more, so that has to be a good thing, doesn’t it?

  I am slightly disappointed to find that he hasn’t moved when I get back upstairs with the tea and a couple of biscuits. The pile of paper still sits neatly on the end of his bed, and he’s still staring at it.

  ‘Your tea,’ I say, putting it down on the bedside table.

  ‘Thank you.’ He doesn’t move his lips much, so it’s hard to hear the words properly.

  I’m not quite sure what to do. I feel frustrated and tired and keyed up and hungry all at the same time. I should probably have something to eat – I don’t think I remember having lunch.

  ‘Tomorrow’s Saturday,’ I say to Dad, perching on the end of the bed and moving my story closer to him. ‘Less than two weeks till Christmas. I mean fewer. Fewer than two weeks. Shall we go Christmas shopping or something?’ I know this is a silly thing to say. We don’t have money for presents, do we? Or do we? I haven’t had any pocket money for a long time. ‘Well, we could go out and look at the shops anyway. They’re full of decorations and things. There’s one in the middle of town that has a whole animatronic nativity scene, Mae says.’

  Dad nods slowly – so slowly that he looks almost animatronic himself. The thought makes me want to giggle. I swallow hastily.

  Dad still sits in bed, staring with a look of faint puzzlement at the far wall.

  On an impulse, I lean forward and take his hand in mine. ‘Dad,’ I say. ‘Dad. Come back. You’ve gone somewhere. Come back to me.’

  To my utter astonishment, his eyes fill with tears as he stares, unblinking, into space. And then he gently takes his hand away from mine and puts it in his lap.

  I have to clamp my lips together very hard, because I have a terrible pain in my heart again. Is he deciding that he doesn’t want to be with me any more? That maybe he doesn’t want to live any more? I leave the room and stand on the landing, clutching the banister for support. What happened to his inner strength?

  The phone rings downstairs. I don’t know whether to answer it or not. Could it be Antonia? The only other person who’d be ringing at this time on a Friday evening is Mae. I want to talk to her so badly. But how can I? How can I tell either of them about Dad?

  I wait. Eventually the phone stops ringing, and I want to cry because I feel so alone.

  I think back to the day Mae held me while I cried about Mum. It felt awful and wonderful at the same time. I didn’t have inner strength that day, I just had Mae. She was my strength. I needed her.

  And then I realise.

  Dad doesn’t need inner strength. He needs me.

  The thought is like a bolt of lightning.

  Dad needs me. This isn’t just about me looking after him when he’s depressed. This is about us, about how we exist, here, together.

  How have I not understood it before? All this time, he’s been acting like he doesn’t need me, telling me that we are two independent people. But it’s a lie!

  Of course he needs me. Just like I need him, like I’ve always needed him – even more since Mum died. So why has he been pushing me away?

  Mae is my friend and I need her. What would I do if I lost her?

  Of course, that’s it.

  He didn’t want to love me like he loved Mum, because Mum died. And when you love someone, losing them hurts so badly you almost wish you hadn’t loved them in the first place.

  And he’s been telling me he doesn’t need me in order to protect me. Trying to get me to build walls around my own heart so that I can’t be hurt in the way he’s been hurt.

  But he’s got all this so wrong. People need people. You can’t just keep yourself apart all the time so that you don’t get hurt. All that means is you get hurt anyway and you’re alone.

  The thoughts explode and collide in my head, and outside it’s as though the world slows to settle into a new pattern.

  Dad isn’t alone. He’s got me. And now I understand where to find my inner strength. It has to be given to you by other people. When someone cares about you, they give you a bit of themselves. It strengthens you. Mae’s friendship has made my life more exciting, warmer, more colourful … happier. And I can tell, from the way she beams when she sees me, that I give her something worthwhile too. We are stronger together than we are apart.

  I’m going to be there for Dad. I won’t leave him. I’ll stay right by his side until he comes out of the crash, because I can give him the strength that he needs to get through this.

  And afterwards, we will be stronger together than we have been apart.

  It’s Saturday morning, and the house feels quiet and peaceful. I sit in Dad’s bedroom and read to him, then I go downstairs and write a new story. I even do a bit of cleaning. I can’t remember the last time someone cleaned the bath taps. I’m surprised how much I like making them shine.

  Mae rings in the afternoon.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I tell her. ‘I felt sick yesterday, so Dad let me stay home from school.’

  ‘I missed you,’ she says. ‘We made our own wordsearches and gave them to each other. Mine was the hardest in the class and no one got all the words!’

  I feel a twinge of envy. I’d have loved to do that.

  ‘You’d have got all the words,’ she says loyally. ‘I’ve saved you a copy so you can have it on Monday.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, hoping so very much that Dad will be better then.

  ‘Have you written your letter to Father Christmas?’ Mae asks.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I haven’t done that for years.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Well, I did one. You never know, right?’

  I smile. Mae is so romantic about that kind of thing. ‘What did you ask for?’

  ‘Books! And book tokens! And a bag that has pictures of books on it. And some new pens.’

  ‘That’s what I’d put on my list. And some notebooks, for new stories.’

  ‘Oh no, notebooks! I forgot about them!’ Mae sounds genuinely horrified.

  I laugh. ‘I’m sure someone will get you notebooks.’

  ‘Are you coming for Christmas?’ she urges. ‘You are, aren’t you?’

  I hesitate. How long does a crash take? Dad can’t leave the house in this state.

  ‘Well,’ I say, ‘he hasn’t actually said yes yet. But he will. I’m sure he will.’ I cross my fingers and hope with all of my heart that I’m right.

  I can almost hear her jogging on the spot.

  ‘You have to come, you have to! I will come over and kidnap you if he says you can’t!’

  I laugh again. It’s so good to laugh – it feels like days since I last laughed. ‘You wouldn’t need to! I’ll run all the way to yours if I have to!’

  ‘I really missed you yesterday,’ she says again. ‘I had to sit with Aaliya, and she kept trying to copy me. It was really annoying.’

  I cradle the phone to my ear as she tells me more about school. I’ve only missed one day, but it feels like longer. Sitting in my silent house with Dad has made me realise how much I like being with other people. Especially Mae and her family.

  But I still can’t tell her what’s really going on. I can’t risk it. So when she says, ‘Do you want to come round tomorrow?’ I have to say no.

  She sounds disappointed.
‘But you’re not feeling sick any more, are you?’

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘but I might be infectious.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to pass on my germs,’ I say, the lies falling easily from my lips. Inside, I feel twisted. I hate not telling her the truth.

  On Sunday morning I have to hold back a gulp when I take Dad a mug of tea and see that he’s actually reading my story. He is deep in concentration, his eyes sliding in neat tracks across the page. I watch him, fascinated, unable to look away and yet knowing how off-putting it is when someone watches you while you’re reading. I make myself put down the mug on his bedside table, my ears almost throbbing from the effort of listening. Will he laugh? Or sigh? But he simply reads, his face a blank.

  I close the door behind me in an agony of anticipation. I have to find something to do while he reads, otherwise I’ll go mad listening at the door.

  I go into my own room and stare at it. It’s time for a change. With some effort, I drag the bed frame from one side of the room to the other. And then I take the clothes out of my chest of drawers and the drawers too, and drag the base to a different position. I go to put everything back in the drawers but hesitate. I have grown out of a lot of these. One by one, I go through my tops, trousers and skirts, putting aside any that are too small. The remaining pile is rather sorry-looking. But maybe I could give the other clothes to Mae’s mum and she could take them apart and make some new ones? That way we wouldn’t need to buy any. I stare closely at the seam of a top. Surely, you just cut through the stitching and then sew it together in a different way, right?

  I’m sure we have a needle and thread in the house somewhere. Before I know it, I’m searching through the kitchen drawers for sewing equipment. And within another half an hour, four tops lie in pieces on my bedroom floor and I am busy drawing a diagram of how to piece them together to make a new one.

  Then Dad appears in the doorway, which makes me jump in surprise.

  ‘I’m going to have a bath,’ he says, and disappears again.

  Well!

  I sit back on my heels for a moment and gaze out at the landing. Has he finished reading my story? What did he think? He didn’t say anything about it!

  But. He’s going to have a bath. It’s the first time he’s got out of bed (apart from going to the toilet) since the crash.

  I mustn’t expect too much too soon.

  This is a good sign.

  On Monday morning, I get up at the usual time, taking a moment to remind myself that the reason my bedroom looks unfamiliar is because I moved everything round. It’s the last week of school, but I’m not sure whether to put on my uniform. I tiptoe to Dad’s door and listen. I can hear his steady breathing, so he must still be asleep. He hasn’t said anything about my story, which is driving me crazy, but I’ve promised myself I won’t ask. He’ll tell me when he’s ready. And after his bath yesterday, he got dressed and we sat downstairs for a while in the sitting room while I read a book. He stared into space, but it was a different space than his bedroom, so I’m taking that as Progress.

  I go downstairs, wincing at the cold flagstones, and make him a cup of black tea. The milk has gone off, so one of us needs to go to the shop today.

  I carry it back upstairs and push open his door. ‘Morning!’

  And then the breath catches in my throat, because the duvet is covered with sheets of paper. My sheets of paper – and also many, many new ones, covered with Dad’s own handwriting. He’s been writing. In the middle of the night. For hours, by the looks of things.

  The mug trembles in my hand, slopping tea over the rim. Hastily, I put it down. What has he been writing? I am gripped with dread. What if it’s all about lemons again?

  I reach out a hand to the nearest piece, but Dad’s eyes flicker open and I step back, almost guilty.

  ‘Calypso,’ he says sleepily. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘It’s a quarter to eight,’ I tell him, though I can’t stop my gaze from straying to the sheets of paper. ‘How are you?’

  He sits up, rubbing his eyes. ‘All right, I think. What day is it?’

  ‘Monday.’

  ‘Monday? Is it?’ He seems confused. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’ I bite my lip. Is he really confused? I mean, he’s often not known what day it is in the past. Should I be worried? ‘But I’ll stay home and look after you.’

  He frowns. ‘Is it the holidays?’

  ‘No. No, it’s school today. But …’

  ‘You should go,’ he says.

  Right now, all I want to do is read what he’s written.

  ‘School is important,’ he says.

  ‘What about food?’ I say. ‘Will you make sure you have breakfast? And lunch? We need milk. Maybe I should come home at lunchtime.’

  ‘No,’ he says, almost irritably. ‘I’m fine, Calypso. For goodness’ sake, I’m a grown man. I think I can look after myself.’

  My mouth falls open, and my eyes sting in shock. Doesn’t he know what I’ve been doing for him over the past three days? Has he no idea how worried I’ve been? How ungrateful! I can’t believe it!

  ‘Fine,’ I say shortly. ‘I’ll go and get dressed.’

  Suddenly, I can’t wait to get out of there. Forget the sheets of paper. I don’t care what he’s been waffling on about. I get dressed and eat my breakfast, each mouthful hard to swallow. I am so hurt I don’t bother to go up to say goodbye. Instead, I pick up my bag and call up the stairs, ‘I’m off now. Bye.’

  There is no reply.

  I slam the door behind me.

  Mae and I have the biggest hug ever when we see each other in the school playground.

  ‘I have missed you SO much,’ she sighs.

  ‘I missed you too.’ And although I try to hold them back, tears suddenly stream down my face.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Mae gasps.

  I shake my head. ‘I lied to you.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I wasn’t sick on Friday.’ Once I’ve started talking, I can’t stop. I tell her about Dad’s crash, about his non-talking, about my sleeping on his floor, trying to keep him alive. And about his dismissal of me this morning, as though I didn’t matter at all.

  Mae stares in horror. ‘Oh, Calypso! That sounds awful! Let me talk to my mum. You can come and stay with us.’

  For a brief, blinding second, I am going to say yes. Dad said he could cope on his own – so let him prove it! But even as I feel my mouth opening to respond, I am shaking my head.

  ‘No,’ I say, wiping my face. And then, more quietly, ‘No, I can’t. That thing – remember I told you about inner strength? Well, I get it now. It was you who showed me, really. That your inner strength isn’t for you – it’s for other people. He needs me. It’s really important that I stay with him. I promised myself.’

  ‘But you just told me he was really horrible to you this morning,’ Mae objects.

  ‘Yes, but … but that was just him pushing me away again,’ I say, realising the truth as I say it. ‘He’s used to being alone. I have to show him that it’s not good for us.’

  The bell rings. Kids rush past us, uninterested.

  ‘Look, it’ll be all right,’ I say. ‘Lisiella at the young carers’ group says everyone goes through a crash. He’ll come out of it. And yesterday he was better than on Friday and Saturday.’

  ‘Calypso! Mae!’ Miss Spotlin is standing in the doorway, looking out across the playground. We’re the last ones out here.

  ‘Tell you later,’ I say, grabbing her hand and pulling her in. ‘I’ve got wordsearches to make.’

  I don’t know quite what to expect when I get home. I stand on the front doorstep for a moment before I push the key into the lock. I’ve had such a good day at school; it’s been like a holiday. I almost don’t want to go in. That deep-rooted fear tugs at me. I’ve been away all day. Has he coped? What will I find?

  I take a breath and open the door.

  From my right, in the
front sitting room, there is music playing. I put down my bag and stand in the hallway for a moment. I don’t know the piece of music, but it’s something big and orchestral. The violins are soaring and the trumpets are punching out a fanfare, then everything explodes in a joyful melody.

  Dad is standing in the middle of the sitting room with his eyes closed. His hands twitch as though he is conducting the invisible instruments, and there’s a strange expression on his face: sort of happy and terribly sad at the same time. Like a pain that’s almost good.

  His eyes open and he jerks, startled. ‘Calypso. I didn’t hear you come in.’

  ‘Sorry. Er – are you all right?’

  He turns down the volume on the CD player. ‘I’m listening to Elgar.’

  ‘It’s nice. Loud.’

  He sinks into the sofa, as though he’s suddenly unable to stand any more. ‘I’m tired.’

  ‘I know, Dad. Did you get some milk? Did you remember to have some lunch?’

  He shakes his head. ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Dad.’ I put my bag on the floor. ‘You have to eat. How can I go out and leave you if you can’t look after yourself?’

  He makes a sound like a snort. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘I’m not, Dad. This is crazy. You have to eat.’

  ‘Maybe I’m crazy,’ he says, with an attempt at sarcasm.

  A pang goes through me. ‘Don’t say that.’

  There’s a silence.

  ‘I want us to go to Mae’s for Christmas Day,’ I blurt out.

  ‘Oh, Calypso, not now.’

  ‘Yes, now,’ I say crossly. ‘You keep putting it off, but they need to know. So they can order the right food and stuff. And it’s the end of next week, Dad. What else are we going to do all day? Sit in silence and get depressed?’

  He huffs. ‘I didn’t realise my company was so poor.’

  ‘Can we go?’

  ‘Are you asking me or telling me?’ he snaps.

  ‘I’m asking,’ I say, feeling tears prick at my eyes. ‘I just think it would be really nice.’ Warm. Fun. Like a family.