We don’t talk on the way to the hospital. I keep thinking about Mum sleeping. I’m still scared it means she’s dead. I’ve never seen a dead person but I imagine Mum chalk-white, with her eyes closed and her mouth gaping open.
We leave the car in the hospital car park. Jack helps me out, tying the rug round my shoulders.
‘You’re sure you want to see Mum?’ he asks.
I nod, though I’m not so sure now. Jack takes my hand and leads me into the hospital and down a maze of corridors. There are red routes and green routes and yellow routes. We keep going down unmarked corridors and losing the right-coloured route. It’s as if we’re stuck in the middle of some grisly children’s game. Then, at long last, we come to the right ward. Jack pulls me in, though my legs have gone wobbly.
‘Excuse me, sir. It’s way past visiting time. You can’t come in here now,’ says a nurse.
Jack pauses. He puts his hands on my shoulders. ‘This little girl must see her mother. She’s very ill. She needs to see her just for a few seconds,’ he says in his best teacher voice.
He doesn’t wait to argue it out, he just steers me onwards, to the end of the ward, to a special room. I bite on my knuckles, terrified. I don’t know what Mum’s going to look like. I want my mum, not some weird nightmare half-dead mother.
I peep round the door and see her. There’s a nurse beside her checking some sort of machine. Mum’s lying on her back, oddly flat now, with tubes coming in and out of her. But she’s still Mum, eyes closed, her hair tousled on the pillow, her hands lying gently curled on the covers.
‘Mum – oh, Mum!’ I say, running to her.
I kiss her soft pink cheek. ‘Mum, it’s me, Ella. Oh, Mum, wake up, please wake up.’
Mum seems to catch her breath. The nurse looks round. But Mum’s eyes don’t open.
‘Mum!’ I say, right in her ear.
It’s like Sunday mornings before Jack, when I used to climb into Mum’s bed and try to wake her up. She’d lie still, eyes closed, pretending. I’d have to tickle her under her chin to get her to open her eyes.
I try tickling her now, very, very gently, but her eyes stay shut. I smooth her hair off her forehead, combing it with my fingers, and then I take hold of her hand.
‘That’s right, Ella. I’m sure Mum knows you’re here,’ says Jack. ‘Give her a goodnight kiss. I’ll bring you back tomorrow.’
I kiss Mum again and then whisper in her ear. ‘Keep breathing, Mum. In and out, in and out. Promise you’ll keep breathing.’
Chapter 3
I don’t go to school on Monday. Neither does Jack. We spend the whole day at the hospital. We sit in Mum’s room on hard orange chairs, Jack on one side, me on the other. Jack talks to her a lot, whispering all sorts of mushy stuff. Sometimes he tries telling her jokes. The nurse laughs a couple of times, but Mum doesn’t give the flicker of a smile. Her eyes are still closed. A lady doctor comes and lifts up her eyelids and peers into her eyes with a little light. I hate this in case she’s hurting her, but Mum doesn’t seem to mind. She lies still, fast, fast asleep.
‘When will she wake up?’ I ask the doctor.
‘We don’t know yet. We’ll have to wait and see. She maybe knows you’re here, so you keep chatting to her, you and Dad.’
He’s not my dad, I say inside my head.
I wish Jack didn’t have to be here too. I don’t want to talk to Mum in front of him. I don’t really know what to say. I just burble stupid stuff.
‘Hello, Mum, it’s me, Ella. I’m wearing my stripy top again. Aunty Liz washed it for me but I don’t like the smell of her washing powder – it doesn’t smell like us, and home.’
Mum doesn’t smell right either. She doesn’t smell bad, but her hair hasn’t got the fresh coconut smell of her shampoo, and she isn’t wearing her rosy perfume. She smells of hospital.
She’s wearing the wrong things too – a silly white gown that ties at the back – and the sheets are white and too crisp. I’m sure she’d sooner have her own soft pink nightie and her own cosy duvet. No wonder she’s got a little frown on her forehead.
I wait until Jack goes out of the room for a coffee. The nurse keeps coming in and out, but I pretend she’s not there. I stretch forward until I’m talking in Mum’s ear.
‘Don’t worry, Mum, you’re breathing just fine. I don’t think you’re really asleep, you’re just having a lovely long rest, aren’t you? Remember when I was little and you used to read aloud to me, and you’d stroke the back of my hand? Look, I’ll stroke yours now.’ I stroke her hand and all the way up to her elbow and back. I will her fingers to move just a fraction. I keep thinking they’re about to, but they stay lying still and limp.
I start crying, my head bent.
‘Ella,’ says Jack, coming back into the room.
He tries to put his arm round me but I jerk away. ‘I know,’ he says quietly.
He doesn’t know. He’s only known Mum just over a year. I’ve known her all my life.
‘Come with me,’ Jack says.
‘I’m staying with Mum.’
‘Just for a minute or two. I want to show you something,’ he says.
‘Go with your daddy, dear. I’ll keep an eye on Mum,’ says the nurse.
‘He’s not my dad.’ This time I say it out loud.
The nurse looks startled.
‘I’m her stepdad,’ says Jack. ‘Ella, please, come with me.’
So I have to follow him, back down the long ward, out into the corridor, down another – until I hear the sound of babies crying.
Oh. I’d forgotten all about the baby. Jack’s trying to smile.
‘I want you to meet your little brother,’ he says.
He’s not my brother, just a half-brother, I think, but I don’t say it out loud because it sounds so mean. It’s easy being mean to Jack, but this brother is only a little baby one day old.
We look through the window of the nursery and see the babies in their grey steel cots.
‘He’s that one, in the corner,’ says Jack. His voice is wobbly again. ‘Poor little chap, all on his own.’
A nurse bustles past. She looks at Jack. ‘Mr Winters? You can go in and give your son a cuddle if you like.’ She nods at me. ‘And you, poppet.’
Jack washes his hands very thoroughly with the special disinfectant stuff on the wall. I rub it all over my hands too. Then we go into the nursery, both of us walking on tiptoe, though most of the babies are wide awake. Some are screaming their heads off. It’s much louder now we’re in the room.
We zigzag round the cots until we get to the one in the corner.
‘Yes, that’s him,’ says Jack.
My eyes are still teary, so I give them a good rub and then look. He’s crying too, but quietly, dolefully, as if he’s really sad, not angry. He’s not red in the face like the babies who are really bawling. He’s pink, with little mottled patches on his cheeks and forehead. His eyes are screwed up and his mouth is open. His nose is just a tiny button. I thought he’d look like Jack, big and bluff, but he’s little and delicate, with the softest fair wisps of hair. His tiny hands are up by his head, his fingers clenched into fists as if he’s fighting.
‘Hello, little chap,’ Jack whispers.
He reaches down into the cot and lifts the baby up very, very carefully. His gown is caught up, so one of his comically tiny bare feet dangles down. Jack smooths his gown and holds the baby against his chest. He’s holding him tightly, but I can see his hands are trembling.
‘There you are, poor little boy,’ he says.
He tries rocking him. The baby snuffles. ‘You like that, don’t you?’ says Jack. He presses his cheek against the baby’s head. ‘My little boy.’
I swallow.
Jack looks at me. ‘Do you want to hold him, Ella?’
I shake my head, but Jack holds him out all the same.
‘Don’t look so worried, it’s easy. Just hold your arms out. There we go.’
He presses the baby against me so I have to wrap my ar
ms round him. He’s heavier than I thought, a warm, solid little weight.
‘Support his head with your hand,’ Jack whispers.
I cup my fingers around his head. His hair feels so soft and silky. His eyes open. He’s looking up at me, still frowning and anxious, but he’s not crying now.
I thought I’d hate him. He’s the whole reason Mum and Jack set up home together. He made Mum ill when he was being born. It’s all his fault. No, that’s silly. He’s just a little baby. He didn’t do anything on purpose. He just grew and got born, and now he doesn’t really want me, he doesn’t want Jack, he wants his mum.
‘Can we take him to Mum?’ I ask Jack.
‘They’re going to try soon. When Mum’s more . . . stable,’ says Jack.
‘He needs her,’ I say.
‘Yes, I know. We all need her,’ says Jack. ‘Right, let’s pop him back in his cot now and go back to Mum. We’ll tell her all about the baby.’
I try to get the baby back in his cot. Jack helps.
‘Does he want to lie on his side or his back or his tummy?’ he asks me.
We put him very carefully on his back because that’s the way all the other babies are lying.
‘I like sleeping on my side best,’ I say.
‘Me too. Your mum says if I sleep on my back, I snore,’ says Jack.
As we trail back to Mum’s special room, I play a game in my head: if I can gabble I love Mum a hundred times, then she’ll have her eyes open when we see her. It’s such a little thing to ask. I’m not saying she’s got to sit up, or give me a big hug, or say my name. All she has to do is open her eyes so she can see I’m there. I picture it again and again: Mum’s eyelids opening, her beautiful blue eyes looking at me as I chant my I love Mums.
I’m only on eighty-two when we get back to her room, so I hang back, pressed against the wall, muttering like mad.
‘Ella? It’s all right. There’s no need to be frightened. Come on, hold my hand,’ Jack coaxes, misunderstanding.
I take no notice at all. I stare at the wall and mumble until I reach a hundred. I’m sure I’ve done it right. I haven’t miscounted. But Mum is still lying there, eyes shut.
I go up to her and shake her shoulder. ‘Mum? Mum? Oh, Mum, please!’
A new nurse frowns. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t bring your daughter in – it’s just upsetting her,’ she says.
‘I’m not his daughter!’ I shout.
‘Hey, hey! I don’t care who you are, you’re not allowed to throw a tantrum in my ward,’ she says.
‘Can you calm down please, Ella? You need to tell Mum about the baby. Describe him to her,’ says Jack.
So I whisper in Mum’s ear, telling her about the baby’s tiny hands and his little button nose and his thistledown hair and his big blue eyes.
‘He’s got your lovely eyes, Mum. Why don’t you open them, just for a second, to show you’re still in there? Show me you’re still Mum.’
Mum lies very still, though her chest goes gently up and down, up and down. Then Jack talks to her while I loll on the orange chair, stretching, crossing my legs, yawning, unable to get comfortable.
After a long while Jack realizes we’ve forgotten to eat.
‘I’m not hungry,’ I say.
‘I’m not hungry either, but we’d still better go and have a snack,’ he says.
I don’t want to, but the nurse is looking at me, and I’m scared she’ll push me out of her ward if I argue again. So I follow Jack, and we trudge up and down corridors again until we find a canteen. We stare at all the food on display. I can’t imagine poking any of it in my mouth, let alone swallowing it.
‘Let’s have two plates of chips,’ says Jack.
I’d never normally be allowed just a plate of chips for my lunch. I usually love chips, and these are good crispy golden ones, but I can only manage half my plateful. Jack eats mine too. We don’t talk. We’ve run out of things to say.
Then we go back to Mum’s room and sit and sit and sit while she sleeps. Eventually Liz comes, in her navy work suit. Mum’s not meant to have visitors, only immediate family, but Jack explains they’re best friends, more like sisters. She gasps when she sees Mum, and then starts crying.
‘Oh, Sue. Oh my God, Sue,’ she says, over and over.
She’s brought flowers, but Mum can’t look at them. She’s brought fruit, but Mum can’t eat proper food. She’s brought make-up and a hairbrush, but Mum can’t do her face or fix her hair.
‘Sit beside her, Liz. Talk to her. I think she can hear us even if she can’t respond,’ says Jack.
But Liz shakes her head, her hand over her mouth. ‘I can’t. I can’t bear to see her like this. Oh God, Jack, I’m sorry, I just can’t,’ she mumbles, and then she runs out of the room.
I hunch up small, horrified.
‘Silly old Liz,’ says Jack.
‘She’s awful,’ I whisper. ‘Mum’s her best friend.’
‘She’s not awful, she’s just upset.’
‘She’ll hurt Mum’s feelings,’ I say.
‘I expect Mum understands. Mum’s just grateful you’re such a sensible girl. You talk to her now, Ella. Brush her hair with the new hairbrush – make her look pretty.’
I brush Mum’s hair until it crackles with electricity and flies up all by itself. I wonder if I brushed Mum all over whether her body would start moving too. But I don’t want to risk scratching her with the hard bristles. I try rubbing her fingers instead, again and again, but they don’t even twitch.
‘Take absolutely no notice of Liz, Mum,’ I say in her ear. ‘You don’t need her. I’ll be your best friend.’
The nurse pops her head round the door. ‘We’re settling our patients down for the night. Are you two staying?’
‘No, we’d better be going now,’ says Jack. ‘Kiss Mum goodbye, Ella. Tell her we’ll come and see her first thing tomorrow.’
We find Liz dithering in the corridor outside.
‘Oh God, I’m so sorry, Jack. I just couldn’t make myself stay in the room. I’ve never been any good in hospitals. I couldn’t stand to see Sue looking so awful.’
‘She’s not awful. You’re awful,’ I say.
‘Hey, hey, Ella, none of that,’ says Jack. ‘She’s just exhausted, Liz, she doesn’t mean it.’
‘I do so mean it,’ I mutter darkly.
‘What do the doctors say? Why can’t they do anything? If her brain is affected, can’t they operate?’ Liz says.
‘Apparently not. They gave her a scan yesterday, but they don’t think there’s anything they can usefully do. We just have to let nature take its course and hope for the best.’
‘Is there any hope?’ Liz asks.
‘Liz!’ says Jack sharply, looking at me. ‘There’s always hope.’
We go back to Liz’s house, Liz in her car, me with Jack.
‘I’ll order in pizzas – I’m too worked up to cook,’ says Liz. She kneads her forehead. ‘I’ve got such a headache, like a real migraine. I had a lousy day at work too – they’re letting people go, I’m going to have to reapply for my own job, I don’t know what I’m going to do . . .’ She witters on.
I’m not listening. I don’t think Jack is listening. We’re sitting here in Liz’s flat, but it’s as if we’re still in the hospital, one on either side of Mum.
Liz opens a bottle of wine and pours Jack a glass.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any beer, Liz?’ he says.
‘I’m not really a beer sort of girl,’ says Liz.
‘Oh well, I’m driving anyway.’ Jack looks at me. ‘I think it’s time we went home, Ella.’
‘Listen, you can always count on me as a babysitter whenever you need one,’ says Liz.
‘Oh, Liz! That would be marvellous,’ says Jack. ‘The baby’s perfectly healthy. The hospital will only keep him in the nursery for a certain amount of time. I’ve been going round and round in my head trying to think how I can fit all the hospital visits around the baby’s feeds.’
&nbs
p; Liz is looking appalled. ‘Oh God. I meant babysit Ella. Jack, I wouldn’t have a clue what to do with a newborn baby. I mean, in a total emergency I’ll keep an eye on him, but I can’t do it regularly. I’m so sorry, but babies are just not my thing. You’ll have to get a proper nanny.’
‘I can’t afford a nanny,’ says Jack.
‘Well, a childminder, someone properly trained. When he’s older, toddling around, I’ll maybe feel more confident.’
‘Mum will look after him then. When she’s woken up,’ I say.
I so want Mum to look after me. I don’t want to stay at Liz’s, but I don’t want to go home all alone with Jack either. However, I gather up my things and thank Liz for having me. She puts her arms round me and gives me a proper hug.
‘Oh, Ella,’ she says, starting to cry, ‘you poor little love, how are you going to manage?’
‘We’ll manage fine,’ says Jack.
We go out to the car and he drives us home.
‘I’m sorry, Ella. I know you probably wanted to stay,’ he says.
I sniff and say nothing.
‘I can’t believe she can be so selfish. She’s your mum’s best friend, for goodness’ sake. Sue would do anything for her. When Liz’s last boyfriend went off with someone else, Sue had her to stay and made a great fuss of her. Yet now Sue needs her, she’s freaked out by the whole situation – OK, some people can’t cope with hospitals, I know that, but I still did hope she’d help a bit with the baby until . . . well, until . . .’
‘Until Mum’s better,’ I say.
‘Yes. That’s right.’
‘She didn’t even order in those pizzas,’ I say.
‘What? No, she didn’t! Well, we’ll go and get our own pizzas, OK?’
We stop at a pizza place. Jack says I can order any combination of toppings, as many as I want, but I can’t remember what I like any more.
‘It’s OK, I’ll choose for you,’ says Jack, though he doesn’t know what I like. He doesn’t even seem sure of what he wants himself.
When we get home, it’s so silent and empty that it seems all wrong to take our pizzas into the still living room. It’s as if we’re eating our pizzas in a church. Jack sits on the sofa. There’s a space next to him where Mum should be. My pizza sticks in my mouth. It tastes like its own cardboard box.
Longest Whale Song Page 3