by Casey, L. A.
Angel looked at May and May stared at me with wide eyes.
“We’re not Owen or Freda,” Angel said roughly. “We heard everything you said to that fat fuck back on the pier . . . they abused you and broke you down but we are not them. We love you, idiot.”
I felt my body shake.
“Why didn’t you tell me, main man? I’m your best mate.”
May looked hurt that I didn’t confide in him.
“Because you would have told your mum and dad, Hayes would have too. They would have taken me away and you guys were the only good thing I had.”
“You should have told someone, Risk. Fuck, man . . . I didn’t know. I can remember you always being bruised or hurt but I thought you were just clumsy as hell. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I rubbed a hand over my face. “Frankie knew.”
“What?” May and Angel said in unison.
“She knew when we were kids?” May demanded. “You didn’t just share this with her recently?”
“No, she’s known for years. When we were thirteen, I said a pan fell from a cupboard and hit me in the face which is why I was all bruised.” I lifted my hands to my eyes. “She didn’t believe me. She called me out on it, she was even shorter than she is now and she took none of my bullshit. I made her promise to keep it a secret and she hated it, but she did it for me. From then on, she took care of me, you know? She’s always taken care of me and look what I’ve done to her, May? She’s my girl and I wrecked her.”
Fuck. I was going to fucking cry. I pressed my fists against my eyes.
“This is so fucked up,” I croaked. “I thought she was lying to me. She said she heard our records, I didn’t know she meant the instrumentals. I didn’t know she couldn’t hear me without hurting . . . I thought when she sent me away it was because she wanted to. I got everything so wrong.”
The guys said nothing so I dropped my hands.
“I stood her on stage in front of one hundred thousand people and I humiliated her. I insulted her and belittled her . . . all because my feelings got fucking hurt. Again. I fucked up so bad, man. So fucking bad. She told me goodbye.” I shook my head. “Even when we broke up she didn’t tell me goodbye.”
May came my side, Angel too. Both of them clapped their hands against my back. I knew they were going to give me a speech about how the first step in righting my wrong was to go back to rehab, but before either of them had a chance to say a word, Hayes walked into the room. His face was passive.
“Risk.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“Enda Peterson just called.”
I blinked. Slowly.
“Who?”
“Mrs Peterson?” Hayes frowned. “A friend of the Fulton family.”
I had no idea why he was telling me this.
“Well, what’d she want?”
“She thinks one of us should go and be with Frankie.”
My body was like a live wire at the mention of her name.
“Why?” I demanded. “She doesn’t want me. She walked away from me on the pier, why would she want any of you.”
“Because we’re her friends and she needs us.”
“Why does she need you?” I snapped. “Why?”
“Because Mrs Peterson was delivering bad fucking news, you selfish fucking prick! That’s why!”
It took a moment for his words to sink in.
“What bad news?”
Hayes looked down and my gut lurched.
“Hayes,” I stepped forward. “What bad news?”
“It’s Frankie’s mum,” he lifted a hand and rubbed it down his face. “Earlier today . . . she died, Risk. She died in front of Frankie and the girl is broken. Enda is worried sick about her.”
I felt every emotion under the sun in the space of a few seconds. I heard my friends shout as I rushed out of the room and went barrelling down the stairs. I didn’t stop, I didn’t listen, I didn’t. Getting to Frankie . . . it was the only thing that mattered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
FRANKIE
Just keep breathing.
Those three words had gotten me through what was possibly the worst week of my life. I thought the week that followed my Mum’s diagnosis and my break-up with Risk nine years ago couldn’t be topped, but it had been. At least back then, I grieved the loss of my relationship and the boy I loved in private. I had the peace of my own home and the comfort only a mother could provide. This time around, that hadn’t happened. I had no privacy and my mother was no longer the woman she used to be, she didn’t recognise me any more so seeking comfort from her was impossible.
One thing Risk had said was true: the first four days after the concert there were paparazzi lingering outside of my home but from the fifth, they seemed to simply disappear. I followed my normal schedule, I went to work then to the hospice and that was it. I think my routine wasn’t exciting enough for the media so they sought out bigger fish to fry. If they asked me questions, I didn’t answer them. I treated them as if they weren’t there. A time or two when my work was disrupted by paparazzi having the balls to enter the premises, a couple of customers and Joe stood up for me. Three very expensive cameras were broken in a single altercation.
The police were called but everyone in the diner sided against the paparazzi who were saying they were attacked. They got the short end of the stick, they got in to trouble with the police and their expensive cameras were smashed to pieces. Joe also stole their memory cards and broke them so any images of me that were on there were lost. I appreciated the support; it was nice to know that I had people who had my back.
It was Wednesday and I had to leave work early so I could go to the hospice. Michael had an eye test he had to attend because he needed a new prescription for his glasses. He had been putting it off for months and finally decided to get it over and done with. Neither of us liked my mum being left alone in the hospice because of how her health was declining. Once he called and told me he was delayed, I got Joe’s permission, left work early and headed straight to the hospice. I had just walked through the doors when I spotted Erica, one of the lovely nurses.
“Frankie.” She smiled when she saw me. “How’re you, hon?”
“I’m good,” I lied.
I wasn’t good, all of mine and Risk’s issues were still up in the air. We hadn’t spoken since the night of the concert on the pier. I gave him an ultimatum and I had no clue if he made a choice on it or not. He hadn’t contacted me so for all I knew he made his choice and it probably wasn’t going back to rehab. I hurt to think that was a possibility but I powered on because life didn’t stop, it kept on going . . . no matter how much I wanted to hit pause.
After I spoke to Erica, I walked down the hallway towards my mum’s room when my phone rang. When I saw it was Michael calling, I answered.
“I just got here,” I told Michael. “Erica says she is a little off today.”
“I’m on my way,” he said. “Bloody machine acted up, but it’s done. I collect my new glasses on Wednesday.”
“Don’t rush, take your time.” I opened the door to my mum’s room. “She’s asleep.”
“Okay, see you soon, kid.”
I hung up and closed the door behind me. Mum’s body jolted and her eyes suddenly opened. She managed to lift her hand to her chest and, for a moment, I worried she was in pain but when she dropped her hand and sighed, I relaxed.
“Hello there,” I smiled fondly as I approached her and removed my bag and coat, draping them over the chair. “D’you know who I am, lovely lady?”
My mum stared at me, tilting her head slightly as she tried to place me in her mind.
“It’s okay if you don’t,” I assured her. “I can tell you a nice story of how we know each other, if you’d like?”
“You don’t have . . . to do that,” Mum shook her head after a moment. “I know who you are.”
Her words were mumbled, but I heard her.
“Oh, yeah?”
Amused, I hung up my coat and asked, “Who am I?”
“You’re my baby.”
I felt my lips part for a moment as shock consumed me before I hurriedly moved to sit on the side of my mother’s bed. I grabbed her hand and lifted it to my mouth. I kissed it gently and never wanted to let it go.
“D’you know my name, Mum?”
“Yep,” she grinned, her voice was no more than a whisper. “My Frankie.”
My heart jumped.
“Yes, Mum,” I trembled. “Yes, it’s me. It’s Frankie. I’m Frankie!”
“I know who you are,” she tittered to herself, wheezing as she went. “I’d never forget you . . . you’re my girl.”
I couldn’t believe it. She recognised me. She knew me! I wanted to jump and scream and cry my eyes out. My mum knew who I was!
“I love you, Mum.” Tears welled in my eyes. “I love you so much. You’re the best mother to me, you gave me all the love in the world. I am the woman I am today because you raised me to be her. I love you. Always remember that, okay? Frankie loves you so much.”
“I l-love you too, little.”
Hearing her nickname for me, and her declaration of love, caused me to choke back a sob. Mum frowned at me. I could see confusion in her eyes but I didn’t want this moment of her knowing who I was to end. I leaned over her, kissed her face and hugged her tightly. She returned my hug and when I cried she chuckled and patted my back. When I leaned back from her embrace, she stared at me and sighed.
“Did a boy hurt you, sw-sweetheart?” She clicked her tongue in frustration. “Tell me all . . . about it.”
I wiped my tears away.
“I’m okay, Mum.”
She nodded, yawned then wiggled a little in her bed. She busied herself with her covers and by the time she looked back at me, the familiar squint of confusion had her in its grip once more.
“Who are you, hon?”
When she asked the question this time, it didn’t hurt as much because I knew that inside her beautiful mind, and warm heart, I was there. I was her little and even though she didn’t always know who I was, I knew that deep inside, I was protected by her like I always was.
“My name is Frankie,” I smiled and wiped my cheeks. “I thought I’d sit with you a while, if you wouldn’t mind?”
“I’d love that,” Mum beamed. “What’s your name?”
“Frankie,” I repeated.
“Oh, I love that . . . name for a girl . . . be-beautiful.”
I smiled. “I like it too.”
I picked up mum’s roll of knitting and handed it to her. She took it from me instantly, unwound her patch and positioned the needles correctly in her hand and began knitting. As I watched her, I wondered how long it would be before she forgot how to knit or lost the mobility in her hands to be able to do it. How she gripped the needles right now was already clumsy, like she didn’t know how to do it. I thought of things like this whenever I was with her. I wondered how long it would be before she could do anything for herself. Every single one of those thoughts scared me to death.
“That wool is a beautiful colour,” I said to Mum as she knitted. “Do you like that colour.”
“It’s okay,” Mum replied with a shrug. “It’s my daughter’s . . . favourite colour, you know? She’s only a toddler. I’m knitting . . . her a cardigan.”
She was struggling to speak and I had to strain to hear her and when I realised what she said my heart clenched. What my mum was knitting was nothing more than mess of a random stitches. She wasn’t following a pattern, each time she began to knit, the end result would always be different to whatever she was working on. It didn’t really matter though, she never remembered what she had previously knitted, she just enjoyed the activity of doing it. Her mobility was getting worse and worse and I knew that soon she wouldn’t be able to hold her knitting needles. Simply holding them was a victory of sorts for her.
“It’s going to look beautiful on her.”
“I know.”
I snorted as I moved to the chair next to Mum’s bed, I took out the paperback I was reading and flipped to the page that I had bookmarked. Ten or fifteen minutes had passed by when Mum let out a big sigh. I bookmarked my page and returned my book to my bag.
“What’s wrong, Mum?”
“Enda,” Mum smiled at me. “When did . . . you get here?”
“Just now,” I said. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m tired. My chest . . . is heavy.”
I stood up, got her oxygen mask, turned it to the level Michael always did and fitted it over her face. She didn’t smack my hands away or fight me on it, which I was grateful for.
I tucked her blanket around her. “I’ll go and make you a cuppa, okay? It’ll help you relax.”
She reached out and touched my hand. “Two sugars, sugar.”
I laughed, lifted her hand and kissed it. “Coming right up.”
I left the room, feeling like a weight had fallen off my shoulders. I leaned against the hallway wall for a moment and I processed what had just happened. She recognised me. My mum knew who I was. I held back tears of joy as I pushed away from the wall and walked towards the tea and coffee station. As I placed the tea-bag into a cardboard cup, and filled it with boiling water, I kept replaying over and over in my head my mum saying my name and calling me her little. A little thing like that brought me so much happiness, I knew I would never forget it as long as I lived.
With two cardboard cups of tea in hand, I turned and walked back down the hallway and into my mother’s room. I was half-way across the space before I looked at her and I stopped dead in my tracks. For a second, I thought she was asleep but she didn’t look right to me. I got a sick feeling in my stomach.
“Mum?” I stepped closer. “Mum, are you okay?”
When she didn’t respond, I hurried over to her side and it took me all of two seconds to realise that she wasn’t breathing. I dropped both cups of tea to the floor. I stood as still as a statue. Inside, I was crippled with pain, and fear welcomed me into its open arms, but on the outside I could barely breathe. I felt myself stumble over to the door of Mum’s room, Erica was walking by when she caught sight of me.
“I think she’s gone.”
I heard myself say the words but instantly my heart firmly denied them. This wasn’t real. This was too soon. Much too soon.
Erica shouted something then hurried by me into the room. Somehow, I walked over to the bed’s end without collapsing. Two other nurses entered the room. Their focus entirely on my mum.
“This is too soon, Erica. The doctor said six months, she’s only been here two.”
I sounded so calm, so serene, it confused me because inside I was screaming.
“You have to help her, Erica.” I felt my hands shake. “I’m not ready for her to leave me. Please. We were supposed to have more time.”
Erica and the other nurses didn’t help my mum at all and I knew why. She made the decision to not be resuscitated when she . . . when she died. She was at the end of her life; when she went, she wouldn’t get any help from anyone.
“I’m so sorry, honey,” Erica said. “Time of death, 2.06 p.m..”
“No.” I moved to the bedside. “This is wrong, this isn’t real.” I took my Mum’s warm hand in mine. “Don’t leave me.”
She didn’t reply and I couldn’t accept that she never would.
“God,” I felt my heart pound against my chest. “Please, don’t do this to me. Don’t take my mum away from me.”
I didn’t realise I was having an asthma attack until drawing in a deep breath was suddenly impossible. I gasped as my hand went to my chest, which felt like a weight was sitting on it. My vision distorted and a loud ringing sounded in my head. I felt hands on me and I heard voices but none of them were clear. Everything was out of focus and inaudible. It was only when my mouth was opened and the familiar tip of my inhaler entered that I forced myself to inhale. The usual taste of chemicals coated my tongue. It was odd, b
ut I always liked the taste because I associated it with being able to breathe. I thought of this as I inhaled a few more puffs.
Slowly, I blinked the room back into focus.
“There we go.” Erica’s face came into view. “Slow and steady breaths for me, Frankie. That’s it, girlie.”
I kept my eyes on Erica as I followed her instructions. I realised I was sitting on the floor after a minute or two, I just wasn’t sure how long I had been down for. Nothing throbbed or ached, which told me I didn’t fall. My brain told me that Erica and the carers likely eased me down to keep me from collapsing and hurting myself.
“My mum,” I rasped. “My mum.”
“Just breathe for me, sweetheart. Just breathe.”
I could breathe now, I could inhale and exhale a breath without struggling, but on the inside I felt choked with pain. I ignored the women as I pushed myself to my feet. I turned and stumbled over to my mother’s bedside. I reached out and put my hands on her face. The calmness and confusion that I previously felt fled, and wild panic overcame me when my mind began to comprehend what was happening. I screamed and cried until no sound came out.
I thought I felt pain before, but that was nothing compared to the hollow, aching darkness that claimed me once the light of my mother’s life went out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
FRANKIE
People said the words ‘I’m sorry’ a lot when someone died.
Hours ago, when my mum passed away, I thought I would die too. The pain I felt consumed me and it grew stronger until I couldn’t scream anymore, until it hurt so bad that silence enveloped me in its embrace. Everything became a blur. I remembered Michael running into the room, I remembered him crying and kissing my mum, I remembered him hugging me. I recalled the moment Enda arrived and her whimpers sent echoes around the room. Then her sons came by, then Joe and even Anna. The nurses popped in and out to check on us.
All of them told me they were sorry but what they didn’t know was that I was more sorry than any of them could ever have been for my mum dying. I had silently pleaded with God, hoping if He knew just how sorry I was that He would take pity on me and give her back to me but I knew that now God had the wonder that was my mum there was no way He was ever going to let her go.