Wishbones

by Virginia MacGregor

  I wave back and force a smile but I can’t breathe. Not with all those people looking at me. Not when I haven’t got a clue whether I can trust any of them any more.

  I scan the benches to see whether Clay showed up.

  I understand that if Clay has body issues, he won’t want to get into swim trunks, but he could at least have come to support me. One moment he acts like we’re friends and like he cares about me, and the next he acts like I don’t even exist. I wanted him to see me swimming; I thought that maybe if he watched me win a race, he’d be impressed and that it would make him like me. Which I realise now is totally lame. First, because guys don’t suddenly fancy girls because of their swimming skills. And, second, because no guy in the world would fancy me in my high-necked navy swimsuit and orange swim hat.

  ‘Did Clay say he was coming?’ I ask Jake.

  ‘He’s not well today, he needs to rest.’

  Those are the other words Jake uses about Clay all the time: He’s not well.

  ‘I’m sure he’ll come another time,’ Steph says.

  I wonder whether she’s worked out that I like him. She’s good at stuff like that.

  One of the officials moves forward with the starting gun.

  I’m so angry at thinking about all those lies I’ve been fed that my body feels on fire.

  ‘I’m going to get some air.’

  ‘The race is about to start, Feather,’ Steph says.

  ‘I’ll only be a second.’

  Before she has the chance to answer or Jake has the chance to stop me, I grab my towel and dash out to the changing room and through the fire-escape door that leads to the back of the pool.

  I take in big gulps of air.

  I close my eyes and listen to my heart beating.

  ‘Feather?’

  I open my eyes. It’s Mrs Zas, standing in the fire-escape doorway. The sun reflects off her glasses.

  ‘Is there something wrong? You looked upset out there.’

  Everything’s wrong, I think.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Are you nervous about the competition?’

  I shrug. ‘It’s just a stupid race.’

  She shakes her head. ‘I don’t think you believe that, Feather.’

  ‘I’ve got other stuff to worry about right now.’

  Goosebumps rise on my arms and my teeth chatter.

  Mrs Zas unwinds the purple shawl from around her shoulders and puts it around me. It feels soft and warm and, for a second, I close my eyes and imagine it’s one of the superhero costumes in her shop, one that’s actually got magical powers in it, and that, maybe, if I wrap it around myself tightly enough, it’ll make me disappear.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  Mrs Zas nods. ‘I understand that this is a hard time for you, Feather. With your mother.’

  And at that moment, I want to tell her everything. About Mum and how I’m tired of worrying about her and looking after her and persuading her every day that she needs to get better. How, for some reason I don’t understand, everyone’s been lying to me about the past. And how I’ve never felt this alone in my whole life.

  But something makes me keep my mouth shut.

  ‘I’d better get back to the race,’ I say.

  She steps away from the fire-escape door. ‘Of course.’ Then she kisses my cheek lightly. ‘Break a leg – isn’t that what the English say?’

  I nod. ‘Thanks.’

  I can hear the official’s voice booming through his megaphone.

  ‘Feather?’ She calls after me.

  I turn round.

  ‘You can come and talk to me any time you want to, you know that?’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll be fine.’ I walk back through the changing rooms to the pool.

  ‘Thank God you’re here!’ Jake’s eyes are wild.

  As I step onto the block, the official looks at me and shakes his head.

  ‘I told him you needed the loo. Girls’ issues,’ Jake whispers.

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘It’s the only thing I could think of to make them wait for you.’

  I want to hit him and hug him at the same time.

  ‘Thanks for covering my back.’

  He kisses the top of my swim hat. ‘You’ll be brilliant,’ he says and walks over to sit with the other spectators.

  The official whistles and then hands over to the starter.

  ‘Ready…’

  I kneel down, curling my right foot over the edge of the block and look ahead at the empty lane. Mrs Zas was right. This isn’t a stupid race: it matters to me. It’s what I’ve been training for.

  A loud beep.

  I dive in.

  As my body slices in and out of the water, shouts rise and fall from the crowd.

  I’ve never been this in tune with my body: my arms and legs feel like they’re part of the water – and I know that I’m going faster than usual.

  I want to make Mum proud. I can’t stop thinking that if she used to love swimming, maybe as much as I do, then me winning matters more than ever.

  Feather! Feather! Feather!

  I hear a chant, led by Jake.

  I swim harder.

  I’m going to win this race: it’s the one thing no one is going to take away from me.

  Go Feather! Go Feather! GO!

  I push against the side and swim to the end of the pool.

  Our Beautiful Butterfly, Dad called me at breakfast this morning. He’s been trying to be really encouraging about my swimming. Mum didn’t say a word.

  Is it all my fault? Am I the reason Mum didn’t want to come to the pool again? Why she went off swimming? Because I was a disappointment?

  I push my arms harder over my head. I snake my legs through the water, dolphin-kicking as hard as I can.

  Feather! Feather! Feather!

  I push harder and harder. Blood roars in my ears. The taste of metal pushes up the back of my throat. My heart pounds.

  And then I slam into the end.

  I gasp for breath. I can’t see anyone on either side of me. And I realise I made it. I came first.

  Only, I don’t feel a thing.

  23

  Dad drops me off at the house before heading out on a plumbing job, his first proper job in ages: one of Mr Ding’s pipes are blocked in the takeaway van.

  I’m worried that if I see Mum, I’ll blurt out what I found out about this morning, so I plan to go straight up to my bedroom. Only, when I get into the hall, I hear voices coming through the kitchen door.

  I ease shut the front door, take off my shoes and pad over to the kitchen.

  Through a crack in the door, I see Clay sitting by the window, the afternoon sun so bright behind him that he glows: he looks like he belongs to a world made of air and light and shadows. And he looks thinner than the last time I saw him. Much, much thinner.

  Mum’s sitting in the special wooden chair Dad got from The Willingdon Seed garden centre – it’s big enough for her to be able to sit at the kitchen table with us for meals. He got her a walking stick, too, to wean her off the wheelchair, and that’s propped up against the table.

  ‘Thank you for bringing it back,’ Mum says.

  She nods at the first in the series of Max’s Marvellous Adventures lying on the table.

  So that’s why Clay didn’t come to the pool: he wanted to talk to Mum without me here.

  ‘Reading it brought everything back,’ Clay says. ‘Or most of it.’ He pauses. ‘I called Mum last night.’

  Clay called his mum? Clay hates his mum.

  Mum must have had the exact same thought because her head snaps up she and looks right at Clay.

  ‘You called Eleanor?’

  He nods. ‘She explained everything. Or the bits I didn’t know, anyway.’

  The light from the conservatory shines right into his eyes, a washed-out blue.

  ‘And then she hung up,’ Clay says.

  ‘Eleanor will come round,’ Mum says.

  They’re talkin
g like they’re old friends.

  Mum picks up the book, opens the front cover and strokes the first page.

  Clay plays with the rim of a glass but he doesn’t drink from it. His lips look dry.

  ‘I don’t think she will.’

  My chest goes tight. My wet hair drips down my back.

  ‘It was my fault that it happened,’ Clay says.

  Maybe Clay’s told her about the article he wrote and how he embarrassed his mum.

  ‘Eleanor said that?’ Mum asks.

  Clay pushes his glass away.

  ‘She didn’t need to say it, I knew that was what she was thinking.’

  Mum leans over and takes his hands. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’ She grips his fingers hard. ‘Look at me,’ she says.

  Clay lifts his eyes to her.

  ‘It was my fault. It was all my fault,’ she says.

  Mum’s fault? How could it have been Mum’s fault?

  I get that same feeling that I did this morning, when I found stuff out about Mum that my friends and family, the people who are meant to love me, should have told me.

  ‘I think you should speak to Feather,’ Clay says.

  My heart hammers so hard I’m sure Mum and Clay must be able to hear it. I take a step back.

  ‘Not yet,’ Mum says. ‘She’s not ready.’

  Not ready for what?

  Clay stands up. ‘Well, you’d better tell her something – and soon – or she’ll hear it from someone else.’ He pushes his chair back under the table. ‘Either that or she’ll work it out. She’s pretty smart.’

  I’m angry that, this whole time, Clay’s known stuff about Mum – which means he has been lying to me too. But at least he’s trying to get her to talk; it’s more than anyone else in my life has been doing. And he thinks I’m smart? Is that an equivalent to thinking I’m pretty or fanciable? I shake off the thought. There are more important things to worry about right now.

  And then it hits me. Maybe Clay’s been talking to Jake about this too – whatever this is. Maybe Jake knows a whole load of stuff about Mum that he hasn’t told me either.

  ‘I’d better go,’ Clay says.

  I move quickly back to the front door, open it quietly, make stamping sounds at the top of the ramp, jam the key in, push it open and run down the hall to, hopefully, give the impression I’ve just arrived.

  I nearly crash into Clay.

  ‘Clay – what are you doing here?’ There’s a tremor in my voice.

  I wait for him to feed me a lie.

  ‘I was just saying hello to your mum.’

  ‘Feather?’ Mum calls out.

  I don’t answer.

  ‘I’ll catch you later,’ Clay says.

  I stand there, watching him walk down the hall until he closes the front door behind him. He didn’t even ask about the race.

  I walk into the kitchen.

  ‘I’m glad you’re home,’ Mum says. ‘Dad called – he said you’re through to the regionals.’ She stretches out her arms but I don’t move. ‘He said he’s never seen you swim so fast.’

  Mum smiles but I can tell she’s pretending. If it were down to her, I’d never swim again.

  ‘I’m tired, Mum,’ I say. ‘I’m going to have a rest.’

  And then I go over to her, kiss her forehead, turn back round, go up the stairs to my bedroom and close the door behind me.

  April

  24

  Jake walks over to the research wall in my bedroom.

  ‘Wow – this looks like something out of CSI.’ He brushes his fingers across the photographs and Post-its and bits of string.

  My stomach does a flip. Before this moment, I haven’t shown anyone the wall. I’m hoping that, if Jake does know more about Mum than he’s been letting on, seeing all my research will make him say something.

  Every time I get a new bit of information about Mum, I add it to my board. I’ve got bits of string connecting pictures and Post-its with questions on them. Like the photograph of Mum at the Lido, which is connected to a Post-it with the things Rev Cootes told me and the stuff I found on the Internet: Mum + swimming teacher? Raised money for Lido? And then another Post-it with: Motorway protest?

  When I asked Dad about Mum sitting in the middle of The Green for a week, he shrugged and said that was a long time ago.

  Only it doesn’t matter if it was yesterday or a hundred years ago. The point is that Mum used to be this amazing, brave person who loved to do things in public – and no one told me. It turns out I know next to nothing about Mum’s past. That’s why I’m doing all this research.

  ‘You sure you want to be digging up all this stuff?’ Jake asks.

  ‘Wouldn’t you want to know about your mum – I mean, if she had all these secrets in her past?’

  He looks at me and frowns.

  ‘I’m sure Mum was really different before she had me too, when she was still with Dad. People change, Feather, it’s just what happens over time. Take me, for example.’ He grins and looks down at his trainers. ‘Who’d have thought that I’d have taken up jogging?’

  Jake’s been going out running with Clay. They set off really early because Clay doesn’t like bumping into people. I haven’t told Jake but I don’t think them jogging together is doing Clay any good. I mean, he isn’t going to get well if, on top of starving himself, he burns calories he doesn’t have running around Willingdon all hours of the day and night. If Jake really wants to be Clay’s friend, he should be looking after him.

  ‘Yeah, but not this different. Mum’s like a completely different person from who she used to be. And if we do change, there’s always a reason. We don’t just flip from loving something to hating it without something having happened.’

  Jake rubs his forehead. ‘I guess so.’

  ‘If you ask enough questions and if you look hard enough, you’ll find reasons.’

  The floorboards creak downstairs. Mum’s doing her afternoon laps of the lounge. When she moves, the whole cottage shifts with her. It’s part of the exercise routine I’ve devised for her. She’s been trying harder lately, which I guess is something.

  Jake turns to face me. ‘Feather, are you sure about all this?’ He sits down on my bed. ‘Sometimes, it’s best to leave the past alone.’

  Miss Pierce wouldn’t agree. The past is what makes us understand now, that’s what she says. Jake should know that: he’s sat in her lessons, just like I have.

  ‘I thought you understood how important this was to me,’ I say.

  ‘I just want to make sure you’ve thought it through.’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Don’t you think you should just talk to your mum – or your dad? Ask them straight out rather than doing all this digging around?’

  ‘They won’t tell me anything. Neither will your mum. Or anyone else who remembers far enough back. It’s like the whole of Willingdon is conspiring to keep me in the dark about stuff.’

  Right, now it’s Jake’s chance to say something.

  ‘Everyone in the village loves you, Feather.’ He blinks. ‘Including me.’

  Which doesn’t tell me anything I need to know.

  ‘People who love you are meant to tell you the truth,’ I say.

  Jake shakes his head. ‘Not always. Sometimes it’s because people love you that they keep quiet. Maybe, if they are keeping secrets, there’s a good reason.’ He sighs. ‘Or maybe there’s no reason at all. Maybe…’

  ‘It’s all in my head?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘But you think that, right? You think I’m making all this stuff up? That I’ve gone mad or something.’

  ‘Would I be here if I thought that?’

  I hear Mum’s door open downstairs.

  Jake gets up off the bed and goes to the wall above my desk where I’ve printed off articles about people who’ve died from obesity.

  ‘God…’ he says. ‘Are these stories really true?’

  ‘Yeah, they’re true.’

&nb
sp; There’s one about a woman in Austria who had so much body fat when she was cremated that it set the crematorium on fire: fire fighters got covered in sooty, burnt grease. Now they’ve capped how big someone can be to be cremated so I guess, if Mum does die, she’ll have to be buried.

  There’s another one of a thirty-five-stone woman who died attached to the couch she was stuck to, she couldn’t even go to the bathroom any more.

  And then another woman who got to fifty stone and then had a gastric bypass, but refused to move afterwards even if it meant she’d die from a blood clot. She had a son called Dillon, who cared for her full time. I’ve been meaning to search for him on Facebook, it would be good to talk to someone who understands.

  There’s one story that makes me sadder than all the others. It’s about a twenty-five-stone woman who fell off the couch and couldn’t be lifted off the floor by her son and her husband. She died of the infected sores she got from sitting on the floor for so long.

  The last article is the one of Mum from the Newton News. It’s got a zoomed-up picture of Mum dangling in that net the firemen used to get her out through the lounge window. It’s to remind me why I’m doing all this and why I shouldn’t give up.

  Jake looks pale. ‘This stuff is horrible.’

  ‘Yeah, it is horrible.’

  I feel myself well up. Whenever I look at those articles I think about how, if she died, another picture of Mum would be splashed on the front page of the Newton News, a really unflattering one that she’d hate. And then there’d be a lame headline like THE WHALE OF WILLINGDON SNUFFS IT. And there’d be crap about me and Dad too, how it was our fault for not helping her enough.

  ‘I need to be upset,’ I say. ‘I have to remember how important it is to get Mum better.’ I stare at the picture of a woman lying in a hospital bed with her son handing her a brown paper bag with the McDonald’s logo on the front. ‘You know what two things all these stories have in common?’

  Jake shakes his head.

  ‘First, the overweight people didn’t want to lose weight.’

  ‘And second?’

  ‘The people who loved the overweight people let them die.’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh.’