Artichoke Hearts

by Sita Brahmachari

  He’s just a little bit taller than her, but so thin. His cancer makes him look like an old man. Framed in their archway of flowers, they stand very close, looking deep into each other’s eyes, repeating the marriage vows after the priest, but you can tell that they are lost in their own private world. No one else can really hear what they’re saying.

  I’ve been to a few weddings, so I know the kind of thing the priest must be saying. Suddenly, I have this horrible thought that when he asks the question, ‘Does anyone know any reasons why these two cannot be joined in marriage together,’ at that very moment everyone in the room shouts, ‘BECAUSE HE IS GOING TO DIE.’

  When it gets to that moment, of course, no one says anything, but Laila does start to cry, and the bride turns round and smiles at her and I see that her eyes are brimming with tears. Aunty Mel passes Laila along the line back to Mum.

  Question Mark – he must be the best man -stands next to the groom and passes him the ring. The man’s hand is shaking uncontrollably, so Question Mark has to steady him and help him place the ring on the bride’s finger. Then they kiss, on the lips. I mean really snog, with tongues and everything, for ages and ages, and in that kiss you can really feel so much love and sadness at the same time – like the brightest and dullest colours all merging into each other.

  I look around at all the people in the room. Every single person is crying except for Krish and me. After they’ve been locked into their kiss for what seems like forever, my brother says, ‘Oh! Gross,’ in a really loud voice, breaking the spell. My mum, who is crying her eyes out, of course, gives Krish a hard nudge, but everyone else starts laughing.

  After the wedding, there is champagne. Dad says I can have a sip, but I don’t really like the sour taste. Krish wants some, but Mum says he can’t because he said ‘gross’. Dad sneaks him a sip though, and he licks his lips. I watch Dad gulp his, like he’s downing a glass of fizzy water.

  My mobile rings. I still haven’t found a ringtone that isn’t totally shameful. I rush out into the corridor to take it, thanking Notsurewho Notsurewhat that it didn’t go off during the ceremony.

  ‘Hi, Millie,’ I whisper.

  ‘It’s Jidé. Why are you whispering again?’

  It takes me a few seconds of my heart beating on loudspeaker for me to think of what to say, to get over the shock of him actually calling me.

  ‘Oh! Hi, Jidé, I’m in the hospice,’ is the best that I can come up with.

  ‘Want to come to mine after school next Friday? My mum wants to talk to you about being on some student committee for the Rec.’

  ‘All right,’ I say, trying to make myself sound not that bothered.

  ‘How’s it going, anyway?’

  ‘I’ve just been to a wedding at the hospice.’

  ‘A wedding? Are they really ill then? The people who got married?’

  ‘One of them is . . . the man.’

  ‘She must really love him.’

  ‘She does,’ I say.

  I can’t believe I’m standing in the hospice at a wedding talking to Jidé Jackson about love. Then there is an awkward pause when neither of us can think of anything to say.

  ‘Well, see you later,’ says Jidé.

  ‘See you.’

  Nana was wrong about my mobile. I have got someone to call, and someone who wants to call me.

  I amble along the corridor, wondering how it’s possible that just one call from Jidé can make it feel like we’re properly going out together. This is turning out to be the weirdest mix-up-of-emotions day of my life.

  I sit down next to Nana’s bed and watch her sleeping. That’s when I hear this message jump into my phone.

  Forgot the

  xxxxxxx

  JJ

  I don’t want to wake Nana up with the high-pitched beep that sounds every time I press the keypad because I still can’t work out how to silence it. At least it doesn’t take me half the day to reply this time.

  Me too.

  xxxxxxxx

  Mira

  My thumb doesn’t even hover over the button before I press send.

  ‘I see you’re using that phone of yours now,’ sighs Nana wearily.

  ‘Sorry, Nana. Did it wake you up?’

  ‘Yes! So the very least you can do is tell me who you’re so keen to talk to.’ Nana’s wearing her most wicked grin.

  ‘I wasn’t talking, I was texting.’

  ‘Whatever!’

  ‘It was no one,’ I laugh, flipping the lid closed.

  ‘Is that a no one no one, or a someone no one, or a someone someone?’ she jokes.

  I laugh, but don’t answer her.

  ‘A someone someone then! Good for you,’ Nana smiles, squeezing my hand. ‘There’s nothing sweeter than first love.’

  ‘Naaaaana!’ I squirm.

  ‘Talking of love. How was the wedding?’

  ‘I thought it was sad.’

  Nana nods and closes her eyes.

  ‘Nana, why did they get married, when he’s so ill?’

  She shakes her head and sighs as if she can’t answer my question. ‘It’s one of the many mysteries of the heart . . . They’re in love.’ Then she opens her eyes and smiles, like the sun breaking through a grey cloud. ‘Life goes on, Mira.’

  I wish I could find a chain for Nana’s artichoke-heart charm. Suddenly I feel as if now is the time I should be wearing it.

  ‘What are you up to on Friday?’ I ask Millie as we walk into school together.

  ‘Orchestra, as usual. Why?’

  ‘No reason, I just forgot,’ I lie.

  If Notsurewho Notsurewhat’s looking down on me right now, I’m in so much trouble.

  Miss Poplar has laid out loads of magazines, books and newspapers on the tables. We’re supposed to pick out somebody famous we really admire and then write down the qualities of why we admire them so much. I find it impossible to decide who to choose, because I don’t know the people, so how can you really tell what they’re like?

  ‘Right, does everyone have someone?’ She asks this question at the very moment Jidé and Ben stroll in. Jidé hears it and turns to me, grinning. I concentrate hard on not laughing out loud. What was the score?’ asks Miss Poplar.

  ‘Three nil to us. I scored two; Jidé scored one.’

  ‘Well done, boys . . . now . . . we’ve all picked out someone famous who we admire, so who wants to kick off?’

  Ben’s on form, putting his hand up, even before Millie.

  ‘Pelé,’ he shouts out. ‘He was the greatest footballer of all time, and my dad used to say he was a real gentleman.’

  It’s not difficult to see why Ben chose Pelé.

  Miss Poplar goes around the classroom. Most people just copy each other with names like Madonna, David Beckham, Alicia Keys. Miss Poplar is moving around the room closer and closer towards me, but the only person I can really think of who is kind of famous to me is Nana Josie. Jidé chooses Nelson Mandela because he’s read his biography. Orla chooses the Pope because she’s Catholic and he’s just died and her mum says he was the best pope ever. I expected her to choose someone like Madonna, like Bo and Demi did. Perhaps there’s more to Orla than I thought. I ask Notsurewho Notsurewhat to make a name spring into my mind – anyone will do.

  ‘So, Mira? Who did you choose?’

  ‘I couldn’t think of anyone,’ I say.

  The truth is that I can only really think about two people at the moment. Nana and Jidé.

  ‘Never mind,’ says Miss Poplar.

  This is usually the moment when Demi, Bo and Orla would move in for the kill. I glance up at them, but they’re all busy flicking through their magazines.

  At the end of school Jidé walks out with me.

  ‘Are you still coming over to mine on Friday?’ he asks, slipping his arm into mine, which makes me smile, because he’s obviously sure that I haven’t changed my mind.

  After he’s walked me through the Rec to the road, we stand on the pavement, not knowing how to sa
y goodbye.

  ‘See you then,’ Jidé grins, running off across the Rec before I can answer him. I watch him as he sprints across the football pitch and leaps off the ground, tucking his legs right under him and punching the air. I was definitely supposed to see that!

  Nana says people are arriving from all the different parts of her life. There’s Sylvie the poet, who always brings Nana a single flower from her garden, and cheery Lucy with fire-red hair and bright glass jewels who cries when Nana’s not looking. Sometimes, I just sit and listen to them talking about the old days. When you see Nana with her friends, you get a picture of what her life was like when she was younger . . . before I was born, even before my dad was born. Before Nana was dying, I never really thought about who she is, I mean, apart from her being my nana.

  ‘She’s not famous, your mum, is she?’ Headscarf Lady asks Dad as we come back from taking Piper for a walk.

  ‘She’s famous around here . . . one of the local characters. Why do you ask?’

  Headscarf Lady explains that there’s a woman from Radio 4 in the hospice today, wanting to interview people about what it’s like to have a terminal illness, but they want an ordinary person, no one famous. The programme is going to be about how what people believe in helps them when they’re dying.

  They have already interviewed people about the Pope dying and now they’re going to talk to the couple who got married the other day, the staff and the famous person in the hospice (no one’s allowed to know her name). Then they want one other, not famous person, just an interesting, ordinary person. Nana Josie is not what I’d call ‘ordinary’, but I keep my thoughts to myself.

  When we get upstairs to the ward, Dad asks Nana what she thinks about being interviewed.

  She shrugs and laughs. ‘Well, I never thought I would end up on a radio programme about the Pope, but then if it’s God’s will!’

  Nana asks Aunty Abi to help her put some make-up on before she has the interview.

  ‘It’s not for the telly, Nana.’

  ‘Still, I want them to hear me at my best!’

  The thought of the radio programme has really perked Nana up.

  A young-looking woman clip-clops across the ward and perches on the chair next to Nana’s bed. I thought she would be older. She wears smart clothes that match. The kind of thing Nana never wears. She talks to Nana in a quiet, breathy voice, a bit like some people talk to very small children. Nana keeps saying ‘speak up’ to Radio Woman, who I think is scared to be so close to a dying person. Lots of people are. She asks Nana, in a very sorry way, as if she’s been forced to ask this question, and would rather be doing almost anything else in the world:

  ‘What are your thoughts at this time? What gives you comfort?’

  ‘Do you mean, how does it feel to be dying?’

  Radio Woman whispers, ‘Yes,’ as if she would like to crawl under the bed.

  ‘Well, you’re dying too – you’re just too young to know it.’

  Nana can see that Radio Woman is uncomfortable so she stops joking and answers the question.

  ‘On the whole I’ve been lucky enough to do the things I’ve wanted to in my life. I haven’t been afraid to fight for what I believe in. I’ve seen my children grow up and my grandchildren. I’ve travelled all over the world, and my work is what I love . . . my painting. As a story, everything’s in the right order. You have a life, a good life, you love, you are loved, you get older, you get ill . . . you die. Maybe that bit’s not in the right order. I’ve got this illness before I feel old. That’s a shame.

  Then the woman, who isn’t really listening, goes on to the next question on her list.

  ‘Can you tell us about the coffin you’ve painted?’

  ‘Ah! Yes, my coffin. Well, with the help of my granddaughter here, I’ve painted my own coffin. It’s the sea and sky dancing with dolphins and doves. Oh, and not forgetting my little dog pissing into the sea.’ Nana grins at me. ‘It’s my grand finale! The one thing that’s good about a terminal illness is, if you’re lucky, you get time to say goodbye. My funeral’s going to be a celebration of my life, organized by me. I’ve always loved throwing a party! My only regret is I can’t be there among all my favourite people.’

  Radio Woman doesn’t even smile at Nana’s jokes, which I think is pretty rude. She just moves on to the next question on her list.

  ‘When the Pope was dying, he had his faith. How do you think that changes things? How do your beliefs help you face . . .’

  ‘Well, I couldn’t possibly comment on the Pope, but, if you’re asking me what I believe in, I suppose it’s the human spirit. Not wasting your life and fighting for what you know is right. As for an afterlife, I don’t believe in a heaven or a hell, not that kind of afterlife anyway . . . It’s enough for me that traces of me will live on through what I’ve created in my garden, my paintings, my children, my grandchildren, my friends, even little Piper, my dog. Not just the genetic line, I mean the memory of me, what I’ve managed to communicate to the world. That should be enough for anyone, shouldn’t it?’

  Radio Woman doesn’t answer.

  ‘Who’s behind the glasses and the headscarf?’ Nana asks, as Radio Woman packs up her recording equipment.

  Radio Woman looks confused.

  ‘If I’m the ordinary one – who’s the famous one you’re interviewing? I’d love to know what sort of company I’m keeping.’

  ‘I-I’m afraid I’m not allowed to say,’ she stutters.

  ‘Go on, I’m just dying to know – we all are,’ Nana calls after her in an over-the-top, actressy voice. Radio Woman drops her bag in the doorway, spilling the contents all over the floor. Nana gestures for me to help her pick up her papers.

  When she’s gone, I sit on the edge of Nana’s bed.

  ‘I think you frightened her a bit, Nana.’

  ‘Wicked of me, wasn’t it!’ she laughs. ‘You could say she brought out the devil in me!’

  Nana slumps back on her pillow, exhausted by the effort of the interview. We are quiet now. I don’t want to move or I might wake her, so I just sit very still with her hand in mine.

  The next thing I know I’m being nudged, hard, in the shoulder. Only Krish nudges me like that.

  ‘You’re always hogging Nana,’ Krish complains in an angry whisper that could easily wake her up.

  ‘You can’t hog a person.’

  ‘You can! Just budge over,’ he spits, elbowing me off my seat.

  Nana Josie’s gravelly voice shocks us both because she talks more and more with her eyes closed, so you think she’s asleep, but actually she knows exactly what’s going on.

  ‘Krish, I want you to go to the flat, with your dad, and choose something of mine for yourself and something for Laila too . . . and, Mira, you’re to take my easel,’ she orders, closing her eyes as if that’s all settled now, but Krish is in no mood to back down. Even though he’s smaller than me, he always wins these sorts of fights. He’s not happy till he’s pushed me right off the chair. Then he takes Nana’s hand in his as if it’s his right to sit with her. How can anyone make sitting with your dying nana into a competition?

  ‘What time are we going to the hospice?’ I ask Dad.

  ‘We’re not. Mum’s going with Krish and Laila after school. We’re taking the day off.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No buts, we’re having the day off and that’s final.’

  Dad has to shout over Laila’s screeching – she’s being a complete nightmare this morning.

  ‘Mira, about school. I didn’t want to interfere. I was just concerned about you – you know that, don’t you?’

  I nod, hugging Dad tight. He really does look like he could do with a break. He hasn’t had a shave in days, his skin’s turned a sad grey colour and the dark rings under his eyes have sunk deeper into his face.

  ‘OK,’ I nod,’what shall we do?’

  ‘That’s completely up to you.’ Dad spreads open his arms, as if anything’s possible. That’s when
I have the idea.

  ‘Can we see the Frida Kahlo? I was going to go with Nana. Then we could get a pizza afterwards and walk along the river.’

  Mum and Dad look at each other as if to say, ‘That’s not quite what we had in mind.’

  ‘What if we can’t get in? Don’t you want to go swimming, or see a film or something?’ suggests Dad.

  ‘But you hate swimming.’

  ‘True!’

  ‘Well, I want to go to the exhibition. If Nana can’t come with me, at least I can tell her about it.’

  ‘Have you seen any of Frida Kahlo’s work?’ asks Mum.

  I shake my head.

  ‘It’s not very cheery, some of it.’

  Dad mutates his face into his misery mask. It’s supposed to make me laugh.

  ‘I don’t care. I don’t feel very cheery.’

  ‘Go and get ready then, Mira,’ sighs Dad.

  In my room, I think about texting Jidé, but then I decide that before I go round to his place I should at least pluck up the courage to call him. So I do, but I can’t help but feel relieved when it goes straight to voicemail. I am such a coward.

  ‘Hi, Jidé. I just wanted to let you know that I’m not going to be in today.’ It starts off all right. ‘So, yeah! I’m not ill or anything . . . it’s just that my dad needs a break so . . . and . . . anyway . . .’ Now I really wish I hadn’t left this message. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ I knew I should have texted him instead. I hang up, hurling the phone to the other end of my bed, because I’ve made such a mess of the call.

  We take the tube to Waterloo and that’s when I realize I’ve left my mobile at home. How am I going to wait all day to see if he calls me back? I think about asking Dad if we can go back, but then the questions would start . . . so I try my hardest, for Dad’s sake, not to think about it.