Wishbones

by Virginia MacGregor

  ‘I’ll bring the chair closer,’ I say. ‘Or maybe we could try walking to the car. I can get Jake to help.’

  ‘Maybe I can go next week,’ Mum says.

  ‘Come on, Mum.’ I put pressure under her arm and heave her up. ‘One, two, three…’

  Mum makes it to standing and sways for a bit; her feet are really small, too small to hold her body in balance.

  ‘It’s all about first steps, Mum. You’ll get used to it.’ I guide Mum to the lounge door. ‘You’ll see, the people in the group are really nice. They’ll support you, and you can support them.’

  ‘Give the sales pitch a rest, Feather.’

  ‘We’re nearly there, Mum. Steph’s parked right outside the front door.’

  Mum takes a deep breath and we set off again.

  The front door is open. Sharp January sunshine falls into the hallway.

  ‘Is anyone looking?’ Mum asks.

  I lean out of the front door. Jake and Steph give me a thumbs up smile.

  ‘It’s fine, Mum.’

  ‘You’re telling me there’s no one out on The Green?’

  ‘Only Clay. And Mrs Zas.’ She’s standing on the doorstep looking out, a bright pink headscarf on. ‘But you don’t need to worry about them, Mum, they won’t even notice. And if they do, it’s not important, just ignore them.’ I kiss Mum on her cheek. ‘You’re doing something amazing, Mum. You should be proud.’

  Through the front door, I see Steph standing by her car, the back door of her people carrier open, her brown hair gold in the sun. Mum looks at her too and, even though she’d never admit it, I know what she’s thinking: that she’s missed her best friend.

  Across The Green, I see Clay jogging down through the cemetery, past the children’s graves and out onto the road. Jake’s staring at him too. And so’s Mum. I bet they’re thinking the same thing I am: that someone that thin shouldn’t even be able to run.

  ‘Come on, Mum, we’re going to be late.’

  She keeps staring at Clay.

  ‘Jake – give us a hand,’ I say.

  Jake comes over and takes Mum’s other arm. We help her over the doorframe. And then Mum freezes. She’s staring at a flier wedged into the letterbox.

  ‘Come on, Mum, or we’ll be late.’

  Mum reaches out for the flier but tilts off balance before she manages to grab it. Jake gets it for her.

  ‘Cool!’ he says.

  He hands Mum the flier.

  I lean in and read the headline:

  Lido: Grand re-opening on Willingdon Day, 1st June. And then the line underneath it: New venue for this year’s Junior UK Championships.

  ‘It’s opening again?’ My insides are doing somersaults. ‘And they moved the competition from the Newton pool!’

  I get goosebumps thinking about it opening again. It’ll be the first time in the history of the competition that it’s outside: swimming in the sunshine must be the best feeling in the world. It was exciting enough knowing that the national championships would be in Newton but now it’s even better – it’s going to be right here in the village. I’m going to train even harder to make sure I make it into the regional team. My whole body is buzzing: this is the most exciting thing that’s happened to Willingdon ever.

  Mum shuffles backwards and grabs hold of the side table by the front door. It makes a sharp cracking sound under her weight.

  ‘Mum?’ I put my hand on Mum’s back. ‘What’s wrong?’

  I look at the flier in her hand. There’s a picture of the lido as I’ve never seen it before: bright sunlight, a thousand colours, the pool filled with water and children and families splashing around. And then it hits me. Mum hates water. And crowds. If what the flier says is true, there are going to be loads and loads of people coming down to Willingdon this summer.

  ‘People are looking at me,’ Mum says.

  I look out onto The Green. ‘There’s no one there, Mum. Only Steph.’

  Mum shakes her head. The flier is scrunched up in her hands. ‘They’re whispering. And they’re staring.’

  Mum sways beside me. Jake and I try to hold her but she’s so big I don’t have the strength.

  ‘Steph—’ I call out. ‘It’s Mum!’

  Mum’s legs buckle.

  ‘Mum!’ I grab her arm and Jake tries to hold her from behind, but she slips away from us.

  Steph runs into the house.

  Mum crumples to the floor and I fall with her. My hip bashes into the floorboards. And then a thud as Mum hits the floor, so loud, a tremor shakes the foundations of the cottage.

  Jake scoots down beside me. ‘Feather… are you okay?’

  I bat him away. Ignoring the pain tearing through my hip, I sit up and take Mum’s hand. ‘Mum—’

  Steph kneels beside us. She looks from Mum to me and then leans over, prises the flier out of Mum’s hand and shoves it into the back pocket of her jeans.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ I say. ‘I should have let you take the wheelchair.’

  Mum doesn’t answer.

  ‘Do you think you can get up?’ I ask. ‘If we help you?’ I look up to Steph and Jake.

  All the strength has gone from Mum’s body. I’m worried she’ll never get up ever again.

  I glance at my watch. If we don’t go now we’ll miss the meeting.

  Mum closes her eyes and nods. ‘I want to go back to my room.’

  ‘But…’ I start. ‘The meeting…’

  Mum shakes her head, her eyes still closed.

  ‘Mum? You promised.’

  Mum opens her eyes and looks at Steph. ‘I’d like you to leave, now,’ she says.

  Blood whooshes in my ears.

  ‘I told you this would happen, Jo,’ Steph snaps back. ‘I said you had to talk to Feather…’

  ‘Talk to me about what?’ I ask.

  ‘Nothing!’ Mum yells and then she fixes her eyes back on Steph. ‘I said, I’d like you to leave.’

  ‘But Steph and Jake came to help, Mum.’

  ‘It’s okay, Feather,’ Steph says softly.

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘it’s not okay. Mitch is expecting us. And we don’t have time to wait for another week to go by.’ My voice trembles. I know Mum’s had a shock and I know she’s nervous about going out of the house and that she’s upset that the village is going to get swamped by people and that she’ll have to face them all. But that’s ages away. She’ll be better by then.

  Steph rests her hand between my shoulder blades. ‘We just need to give your mum a bit of time.’ She turns to Jake. ‘Come on, let’s go home.’

  I stand up, my fists tight knots at my side.

  ‘But we don’t have time, do we?’ My hip throbs. ‘We have to do something now, or—’ I break off and hang my head.

  ‘We’ll get your chair, Jo,’ Steph says. ‘And then we’ll go.’

  As I watch Steph and Jake disappear into the lounge and as I watch Mum rocking back and forth as she sits in the middle of the hall, I suddenly feel really tired. Every time I get Mum to take one step forward, it’s like something out there yanks her right back to square one. Worse than square one. Maybe all this is pointless. At least before New Year’s we were happy.

  12

  I slam the front door behind me.

  Mum promised she’d come, I mutter through gritted teeth. She said she was going to make an effort to get better.

  I hate myself for thinking it but a little part of me wonders whether Mum collapsed on purpose, whether maybe she had no intention of going to the Slim Skills meeting.

  I take Mitch’s card out of my pocket and dial his number.

  ‘It’s Feather.’

  ‘Feather? Everything okay?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘I thought you were bringing your mum?’

  ‘So did I.’

  I kick at a clod of earth on the drive.

  ‘What happened?’

  My eyes sting.

  ‘She chickened out.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
There’s a crackly pause down the line, then he says, ‘It’s daunting to join a new group, especially for someone like your mum.’

  ‘But we planned everything – Steph was here with her people carrier.’ I sniff. ‘I even bought Mum a coat.’

  ‘She can come next week, Feather. Try not to worry.’

  Try not to worry – after what those nurses said? After what Jake and I found out about Mum’s BMI? It’s like no one gets it: that we don’t have a choice, that if we don’t do something, Mum’s just going to get worse and worse. And then one day, it’ll be too late to do anything about it.

  ‘Hope it’s a good meeting,’ I say and hang up.

  Jake comes up behind me.

  ‘You okay?’ he asks me.

  ‘Not really.’ I look down the road. ‘You think he saw Mum collapsing?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Clay.’

  Jake shrugs. ‘I don’t think he’d care.’

  Jake doesn’t get that it’s not about Clay caring – it’s about me caring. It’s about me wishing that for once in my life I didn’t have to deal with Mum, that she’d be the grown-up and take care of herself.

  Steph comes out of the house.

  ‘Your mum’s resting,’ Steph says.

  ‘She’s always resting.’

  ‘You can’t expect changes overnight.’

  ‘I don’t. I just expect her to try.’

  ‘She is, Feather. More than you know.’

  I look at Steph and wonder why she’s taking Mum’s side when Mum’s been blanking her since Christmas.

  ‘Did she talk to you? I mean, properly?’

  ‘A little.’

  Which means no. Whatever it is Mum’s holding against Steph, I wish she’d get over it. Steph’s the nicest person in the world, and she’s always been there for us.

  I notice a bit of white paper poking out of the back pocket of Steph’s jeans.

  ‘Is that the flier?’

  Steph nods. ‘Thought it was best to take it.’ She sighs. ‘Though I don’t think Jo’s going to let it go.’

  ‘Let what go?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, just that she’s pretty wound up.’

  Steph’s car is still open, ready to whisk Mum through the streets of Willingdon. Steph even put blankets across the back bench so that Mum would be comfortable.

  I look back at Steph’s car.

  ‘I’ve got an idea.’

  Steph smiles. ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘How many people does the carrier fit?’

  Jake scans the seats. ‘Two and the driver on the front bench, and then another three in the middle… and two in the boot…’

  ‘That’s eight – including the driver. That should be enough.’ I smile. ‘Let’s go.’

  Half an hour later, we’re back at the house.

  I step out of Steph’s car with Mr Ding and Allen, the reporter from the Newton News, and the others from the Slim Skills meeting. They’re standing in a huddle around Houdini; he’s bleating and head-butting their hands and nodding his head to make his bell clang against his chest. Jake went home to catch up on some homework and Steph’s inside getting things ready.

  I look at Mum’s window. The curtains are drawn. Once she sees the trouble we’ve gone to so that we can have the Slim Skills meeting at our house, she’s bound to come round, isn’t she?

  I head into the kitchen. Dad extended it with a conservatory to give Mum a bit more room. It’s the only space in the house that will hold everyone. Mum isn’t in there yet.

  Steph fills up the kettle.

  Mitch puts the scales down on the kitchen floor. ‘You thought I’d forgotten these, didn’t you?’ he says, smiling.

  ‘I’ve made some healthy treats.’ I pull out a tray of granola bars from the fridge. I was going to give them to Mum later tonight as a thank you for having gone to the meeting. ‘They’re made with bananas rather than sugar.’

  I look down at the grey slab of oats.

  When Mr Ding and Allen and the two people from Newton called Mark and Sally are sitting down with their cups of tea and bits of grey granola, I go and get Mum.

  As I skip to her room, I think about how she’ll be so proud of me for organising all this.

  I knock lightly on the door.

  No answer.

  ‘Mum?’

  Still no answer. Maybe she’s fallen asleep.

  I walk in.

  Mum’s in her purple love seat, her feet up on the stool. On her knees, she’s got the spiral pad I gave her to write down things she wants us to get her from the supermarket.

  She’s just sitting there, chewing on the end of her pencil, staring at the wall where the TV used to be.

  ‘Mum?’

  She closes the notebook and puts the pen down on the side table.

  ‘I’ve got a surprise,’ I say.

  I thought she’d ask about all the noise and footsteps and about where Steph and I have been for the past half-hour, but she just sits there, zoned out.

  ‘They’re all here, the people from Slim Skills. And Mitch too. They’re in the kitchen. We’re going to have the session here.’ I gulp. ‘Just for you.’

  She shifts her head and looks at me.

  ‘I’m tired, Feather.’

  ‘But Mitch is going to give a talk about why he started the group; he says that testimonials are really important. All you have to do is to walk across the hall – I can help you. It’s not far. Not nearly as far as going all the way to Newton Primary.’ I look at the chair. ‘I can wheel you in if you like.’

  ‘I’m not up to visitors.’

  ‘But Mum, they’re here—’

  ‘We don’t need other people, Feather. We’re fine, just the two of us.’

  ‘They’re not other people. They’re our guests and they’ve gone to all the trouble of coming here. And they’re waiting for you.’ I’ve got a burning feeling in my chest.

  Mum goes back to the staring at the wall.

  ‘Mum? Are you coming?’

  ‘Not today.’

  Blood rushes to my ears.

  ‘Fine,’ I say and go to the open door.

  Then I spin round.

  ‘You know what, Mum? We’re not fine. You’re not fine. Not if you don’t let me help you get better.’

  A burning feeling rushes up my throat and pushes up behind my eyes.

  The nurse’s words come back to me.

  Six months – if she’s lucky.

  Except luck has nothing to do with it. It has to do with us all pulling together to make sure Mum gets better.

  I did some more research on Jake’s phone while we were driving back from the pool and came across the statistic that one in every eleven deaths in the UK is now linked to obesity. None of the people sitting in our kitchen are anywhere close to obese. They just need to lose a few pounds to feel healthier. And they’re making an effort and listening to Mitch. Mum’s the one who’s really sick and she’s not even making an effort.

  I rush to the front door.

  ‘Feather?’ Steph comes after me into the hall, but I ignore her.

  It’s dark but I grab my bike anyway and pedal down the drive and along the street. I need to get away from it all. I need to get away from her.

  I pedal harder and harder. The wind pushes against my face. It feels good to be out in the cold night air.

  A shadow jumps out in front of me.

  I slam on the brakes.

  My wheels skid. The bike slips from under me and I put my hands out to break my fall. For a second, I feel numb and then my hands burn.

  There’s a figure a little further on from me, lying in the middle of the road. God – I knocked someone over.

  I push my bike away from me and stand up. My whole body’s shaking.

  Straight away, I notice it’s him: his light blond hair glows under the street lamp. His face that makes me feel like I’ve known him his whole life. And then it hits me: he’s been running this whole time. He must have run for miles.
r />   I kneel down. ‘I’m sorry—’

  Clay stands up, drops his headphones from his ears and brushes himself down. From the light of the street lamp, I notice blood on his knee.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say again, my voice shaking. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

  He’s wearing bright blue Nike trainers and music leaks through the big black headphones he’s got clamped around his neck, the beat sounding like one of Jake’s Macklemore albums.

  I pick up my bike.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say again, because it’s all I can think of. And then I burst into tears. Big, embarrassing, blubbery tears.

  Clay looks up and down the street – no doubt to check that no one’s seen him with the sobbing daughter of the obese woman.

  Thinking that makes me blubber even more.

  He touches my shoulder. ‘Let’s get out of the road.’

  The warmth of his hand presses through my T-shirt. He’s really hot from running and there’s sweat glistening on his brow, but it doesn’t gross me out like sweat usually does. It makes my stomach go warm and kind of melt into itself. I don’t ever want him to take his hand away.

  Clay goes over to pick up my bike. As he pushes it over to me, the wheel clicks and I notice a spoke sticking out.

  ‘Here.’ He hands me the water bottle he’s been clutching.

  ‘Really?’ I can’t believe he’s going to let me drink from the same bottle as him.

  He nods. ‘It’ll help.’

  I take the bottle and tip the water into my mouth so that I don’t touch the rim – I reckon he wouldn’t want my snotty slobber all over his bottle. ‘Thanks,’ I say and hand it back to him.

  He leans forward, takes my hands and pours water on my palms. Then he brushes the grit off.

  ‘I used to skateboard,’ he says. ‘I grazed my hands and knees all the time.’

  My palms sting so much I want to yank them away but I don’t want to take them out of Clay’s hands.

  ‘Looks like you were in a hurry to get somewhere,’ Clay says.

  I shake my head. ‘I’ve had a tough day.’

  He pauses, like he’s hesitating, and then he says, ‘Want to talk about it?’

  ‘Not really.’ The words just come out. I don’t mean them: even before I knew who he was, when I saw the suitcase with the I LOVE NYC sticker outside Rev Cootes’s front door, I’ve been dying to talk to Clay. But I’m worried that if I talk to him I’ll make even more of an idiot of myself. And anyway, he hesitated, didn’t he? I bet he just offered to be polite.