The Weight of a Thousand Feathers

by Brian Conaghan

  No sooner out the door when Danny’s nipping at my ankles. See, I haven’t told him her MS is worsening, that she’s not going to miraculously leap out of bed one morning and treat us to a swift shopping spree in town. I didn’t tell him because, well, because I prayed for this miracle too. Pure denial. But now he wants to know the score.

  ‘What’s happening, Bobby?’

  ‘Nothing to worry about, mate.’

  ‘Not telling makes me worry more.’

  I wet my lips, straighten my shoulders.

  ‘Thing is …’ My voice wavers. ‘Mum’s developed a type of cold now, Dan,’ I spout.

  ‘A cold?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Like a runny nose and coughs?’

  ‘Well, yes, but a bit worse than that.’

  ‘Worse how?’

  ‘Like a really bad cold that’s hard to shake off.’

  ‘So when is she going to get better?’

  ‘Soon I hope, but I’ve got a feeling it’ll be a while.’

  ‘Next week? Next month?’

  ‘Who knows. She’s going to have good days and bad,’ I tell him.

  ‘Like me.’

  ‘We need to be very patient with her, Dan. Don’t demand too much, OK?’

  ‘Roger that.’

  A cold? How can I shrink Mum’s declining state of MS into being a fucking cold? Maybe I’m trying to convince myself: head wedged up my arse with denial, ill-prepared for what’s glaring. As big brother, I should have all the answers for Danny. Still, I need to protect him. But, as Mum taught us, truth lessens the weight and opens the doors; lying shackles you and darkens everything. I guess even truth has to be tempered with compassion; I mean, who benefits from Danny knowing what to expect until it’s facing us square?

  ‘When will it be gone, Bobby? When will she not have it?’

  ‘She’s going to have it forever, Danny.’

  ‘That’s stupid, all colds go away.’

  ‘Not this one.’

  ‘Will you get it?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘Will I?’

  ‘No, and stop thinking like that, Danny.’

  ‘I hate it.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘I really hate it, Bobby.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And I fucking hate those walking sticks she uses.’

  ‘She needs them, Dan.’

  ‘She’s like an old granny.’

  ‘Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that. She needs those sticks, OK?’

  ‘I just want her to be like all the other mums. That’s all I want.’

  ‘Hey, come on, buddy.’ I wrap my arms around him, squeeze his head into my chest. Try to control his convulsions.

  ‘Why can’t she be like all the other mums?’

  ‘Don’t cry, mate.’

  ‘I just miss my mum, Bobby.’

  And he says it over and over again.

  ‘She’s still here. She’ll always be with us.’

  ‘I want her every day. To go for walks or run around the garden or shout at me.’

  ‘Me too, Dan.’ I find it hard to say anything else after that.

  We hold each other until the well runs dry.

  #1 … incomplete

  there’s a rousing future

  in us all

  except, of course, those who don’t

  crave its coming

  there’s a rib-tickle

  in us all

  except, of course, those who don’t

  care for the howl

  there’s a vast reservoir

  in us all

  except, of course, those who don’t

  covet its rise

  I wonder what riches await me …

  Teens Exposed

  Working alongside the Social Work Department, we can offer respite support throughout the duration of the meetings with Poztive … provide the bespoke care that your mother requires … as part of our experienced and specialised care team … ease your worries and burden …

  And so, against all my natural instincts and general sense of scepticism, I duly accepted their kind invitation and signed my anonymity away to the good people at Poztive.

  A break from mundane young-carer land appeals big time; more stints away from home will work wonders for my adventurous side. The idea of being out without that shroud of worry is alluring. I ask Bel if she can do a bit of free babysitting for an hour or so each week while I go to the meetings. Make sure Dan doesn’t drink bleach, and look in on Mum occasionally, easy stuff. She’s only too delighted to escape her own gaff.

  Seems everyone got here before I did. They’re as mint as I am, cumbersome in their skin too. I know we’re all spanking new but I can’t help feeling the most virgin. Everyone twists their heads in order to get a right proper snoop. Now, I’m not usually lacking in self-confidence, but having that number of eyes on you definitely tests this. Their eyes scorch my body. The slamming door behind doesn’t help.

  Bang!

  Me: Rigid.

  Them: Shuffle. Turn. Stare.

  They’re sat in a small crescent shape. I’m rooted to the spot, watching them watching me, thinking: Are my clothes cool enough? Am I oozing poverty? Is my hair in good nick? Do any of them like what they see? Do any of them fancy me?

  My shoulders relax. My breathing steadies. I want to advance, but something in me enjoys the attention. This is different from the attention I get at school: no faces of faux sympathy, no hangdog expressions among these people. Here I’m an equal, a possibility. Grab it while you can, right?

  ‘You must be Bobby?’ a voice says.

  Comes from the person sitting in the middle of the crescent, isolated from the others. Clearly the leader. Older. Beaming face. Welcoming. Not one of us.

  I lengthen my lips.

  ‘Come, Bobby,’ he says, ‘join us.’ Gesturing me towards the rest of the group. Very cultish. My seat is at the edge of the crescent. Best in the house.

  ‘You haven’t missed anything yet,’ the leader says. ‘We’re only getting started, getting ready for introductions.’

  I flash a quick look at the others: glazed airs. They’re uneasy. Seven young carers. Same age, sixteen or seventeen. One leader, male.

  ‘In fact, before you came in I was just telling the guys here about our motto,’ the leader adds. I nod. ‘Which is?’ he asks, startling some girl, who shifts uncomfortably in her seat, tucking her hands under her thighs and sliding her black Converse beneath her chair.

  ‘Think positive … Stay positive … Be positive?’ she mutters from under her veil of mortification. Poor girl would rather be in her room sifting through a friend of a friend of a friend’s photos on Instagram. Couldn’t blame her. Yet, here she is, purring Poztive’s motto to perplexed strangers in an uber-negative tone.

  ‘Excellent. Think poztive. Stay poztive. Be poztive.’ The leader emphasises the ‘z’ sound as if it’s a motto to live by.

  The girl’s T-shirt is of Nineties band The Sundays. I like her immediately. Wonder if her mum introduced her to them too. Kind of makes perfect sense to have The Sundays emblazoned across her chest. The place isn’t awash with Friday afternoon or Saturday night people; this half-moon crescent is the perfect embodiment of Sunday folk: reflective and jaded.

  ‘OK, guys, since it’s our first meeting I’d like us to go round the circle for some quick introductions, and, if you feel like it, you can talk about who you’re caring for,’ the leader says. ‘But no pressure, you can equally tell us your name and sit down.’

  Really? We have to stand up? I’d call that pressure. I thought it was only the sex, drugs and booze addicts that did that. I feel like saying, Look, we’ve done nothing wrong here, we’re casualties in all of this. Our wounds are not self-inflicted. It’s not our fault. Why do we have to stand up?

  ‘I’ll kick us off,’ the leader says, rising from his chair. ‘My name’s Roddy and I looked after my father from the age of twelve. Dad suffered f
rom a genetic muscle-wasting illness that took away his ability to move. We did everything for him, and I mean everything, which I’m sure some of you here can understand.’

  Roddy speaks about his dad in the past tense, while we’re very much imprisoned in the present. Is there a need for full disclosure at meeting one, Roddy? Can we not just ease ourselves in?

  I shoe gaze; the others do something similar. Roddy reconnects his arse to his chair. I feel slightly embarrassed for him.

  ‘Right, so, why don’t we start at this end?’ he says, meaning I’m last. A girl, Erin, sheepishly rises and gives us her spiel about looking after her dad.

  The Sundays girl is up next. I hunch myself up in my chair.

  ‘My name’s Harriet. I care for my mum. She suffers from seizures because of brain tumours, so somebody needs to be there at all times. The seizures will eventually kill her. That’s a total fact.’

  Talk about lobbing a hand grenade into the pot!

  I’m like, Far too much info, Harriet.

  But she’s calm and unaffected.

  Roddy mouths, ‘Thank you, Harriet.’

  Awkward.

  Then some guy stands, looks down towards Harriet. For a split second I think he’s going to offer her further vomit-inducing encouragement.

  ‘Dig the T, Harriet.’

  Harriet is silent, but a slender grin appears on her face. Her band has been recognised. She’s been recognised. A kind comment, I think. The guy then switches to everyone else, scanning his audience.

  ‘Hey, friends call me Lou. I’m good with y’all callin’ me that too. I’m here today because of my damn mom.’ I think he’s piss-taking when he says that. ‘She deals with what ails her and I deal with that too. We deal together. But I guess y’all know what I’m talkin’ about.’

  ‘We do, Lou. We do,’ Roddy says.

  ‘Cool,’ Lou says.

  This Lou guy has an accent, a full-on American twang; he’s getting away with saying things like ‘I guess’, ‘dig’, ‘damn mom’, ‘y’all’ and ‘cool’ without sounding like a pure dick.

  ‘That’s all I got,’ he says, flopping down in his seat and running his hands through his dark locks. Could do with a grooming; in fact, everyone could be doing with a decent hairdo. And I might just know the hairdresser!

  The guy beside me with short red hair and brown rectangular specs follows. A bit weedy. A bully’s dream. Intelligent-looking guy.

  ‘Hello, my name’s Callum, much prefer Cal though. My mother has profound psychological issues,’ Cal says, looking directly at the first girl to speak, Erin, who tightens her lips in solidarity. ‘My father also has stage four bowel and colon cancer, which has intensified things at home somewhat. Obviously, we don’t know how long he has.’

  Jesus, Cal, thanks for that right hook, left hook double whammy.

  ‘However, he still shows an impressive degree of fortitude. We all continue to fight the good fight.’

  Cal remains on his feet and grins, clearly sending out a defiant message: his plight isn’t going to dent his own happiness. Cal’s clinging on to his individuality, battling back. ‘That sums up everything.’

  He sits.

  Some guy called Tom and a girl called Clare pop up and down before I register what they’ve even said.

  My turn.

  Nervous pangs rip through me; it’s hard enough getting me to share a packet of crisps, never mind sharing the defects of my life. I’m not a big fan of public speaking. Even at school I hate reading aloud – although I’m decent at it – or answering teachers’ questions. The crux being I don’t like the sound of my own voice, nor do I feel the need to be heard. But I guess sharing is one of the reasons we are here.

  My throat is dry. I edge my body up and face the group. I look at Harriet, who smiles. I’m on the verge of saying something positive about her T-shirt, but it would be a lame imitation of Lou.

  Lou beams, which actually increases my confidence.

  Did he wink?

  They all wait for my spiel.

  ‘Hi, my name’s Bobby. I’m seventeen. I care for my mum, who has MS. I also kind of care for my little brother, who’s a cool dude.’

  ‘Cool dude’ doesn’t sound right coming from me. Lou, yes. Me, no. I regret saying it. Regret trying to sound as if I want to be a … cool dude.

  ‘Thanks, Bobby,’ Roddy says as if urging me to sit. ‘And thanks, everyone. I know sharing can be difficult.’

  I hear people nose breathing. We stare at him, awaiting instruction. Tough gig this Roddy guy has. He continues, ‘But at Poztive we are all about you guys – naturally, the loved ones you care for are important, vitally important, but being here is all about you, not them.’

  ‘So we don’t have to talk about the people we care for then?’ Lou asks.

  ‘Focus on you is what I’m saying.’ Roddy gestures to us all. ‘Discuss your likes, dislikes, books, music, films, fashion, whatever. It’s your choice.’

  Lou nods towards Harriet, who looks at the other two girls in the group. I stare at Lou. No eyes on me.

  ‘And your role is to facilitate?’ Cal asks.

  ‘Exactly,’ Roddy says.

  ‘So, basically it’s about shared empathy and catharsis?’ Cal adds.

  ‘In part, yes.’

  ‘What does that even mean?’ Clare says.

  ‘Just that dudes like us can feel better about stuff, right, Cal?’ Lou says.

  ‘Something like that,’ Cal replies.

  ‘Well, I’m up for it,’ Tom says.

  ‘Me too,’ Clare says.

  ‘Sure, what else would we be doing?’ Erin says.

  ‘Exactly,’ Tom adds.

  I search deep for something profound, relevant or witty to contribute. I have nothing.

  ‘I assure you, guys, things happen organically here,’ Roddy says.

  ‘I’m bringing a dictionary next time,’ Harriet says.

  Some of us laugh, not Cal or Erin.

  ‘You’ll get to know one another pretty quickly,’ Roddy says. ‘Especially after we have our residential.’

  ‘Hey, wait a minute. Nobody said anything about a residential. I mean, man, come on. What are we, Scouts or something?’ Lou pipes.

  Harriet sniggers, but shakes her head in agreement.

  Me too.

  I sense a mutiny stirring.

  ‘So, a residential is like camping then?’ Tom asks.

  ‘I can’t camp. My skin’s bad,’ Harriet says. ‘No danger I’m crashing in a tent.’

  ‘Look,’ says Roddy, raising his voice slightly. ‘It’s not a camping trip, OK? The residential is a weekend in the Borders of this beautiful country of ours, where you guys get to stay in a stunning country estate. It’s funded, meaning you’ll all have a nice comfortable bed to sleep in and an indoor toilet. There won’t be a tent in sight.’

  ‘Like a mini holiday?’ Clare says.

  ‘More cultish retreat, I’d say,’ Lou adds.

  ‘I’d imagine it’s about mind expansion and periodic relief,’ Cal says.

  ‘I’m well up for that,’ Tom says.

  ‘It’s a weekend where you don’t have to worry about getting up in the middle of the night to take someone to the toilet, or think about what to make for dinner, or how to organise the medicine for the day. That’ll be someone else’s problem for that weekend. It gives everyone a well-deserved break. Who wouldn’t want that?’ Roddy says.

  A break?

  What’s that?

  What wouldn’t I give for a break.

  Gradually the dynamic is changing. I can see it happening.

  ‘Maybe … it would be … nice,’ Erin says.

  ‘It’ll be brilliant,’ Clare says.

  ‘You serious?’ Harriet pipes. ‘Pissing in fields? Doesn’t sound brilliant to me.’ A shiny ray of sunshine among the dim shadows.

  ‘Potential to be enlightening,’ Cal offers.

  ‘Don’t know what that is, but I want some of it,’ Tom says.
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  ‘I’m not totally down with it,’ Lou says. ‘What do you think, Bobby?’

  He’s asking what I think? Asking for my backup? He said my name.

  Roddy looks at me.

  In fact, they all look at me.

  Somehow within the space of ten minutes I’ve become the group’s designated silent one. The iconoclast. The pain in the arse.

  A free weekend away from the grind sounds like a winning lottery ticket.

  They wait for my reaction, as if I have the casting vote or something.

  ‘Yeah, I could do that … I mean … it all sounds good to me,’ I say.

  Lou sharpens his eyes at me, holds my gaze. He doesn’t blink. Have I said the wrong thing? His lips part, fashioning into a smile. I do believe I’ve just swayed him in the opposite direction. Lou’s head nods slightly.

  Did he wink?

  ‘Right. Cool. I’m sold. So, when do we take off, Rod?’ Lou asks.

  ‘In a few months, after more group sessions,’ Roddy says. ‘And it’s just Roddy, none of this Rod business, Lou.’

  ‘So, basically we have to come here in order to go on the trip?’ Lou asks.

  ‘Basically,’ Roddy says.

  ‘That’s a pure piss-take,’ Harriet utters under her breath.

  ‘No problem. I guess I can do that,’ Lou says.

  ‘Great.’ Roddy springs off his chair. ‘Right, let’s have some merriment.’

  I’m paired with Lou because we’re ‘of similar build’; we’re given a piece of fabric and told that one of us has to blindfold the other. I tie it to Lou’s head and stand directly behind him.

  ‘OK, guys,’ Roddy shouts. ‘We’re going to begin with a simple trust exercise. Those without the blindfold have to catch your partner when they fall.’

  ‘This is kindergarten shit,’ Lou says in his darkness.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ I tell him.

  ‘Hey, Bobby, if you don’t catch my ass you’ll have a world of pain coming your way.’ Lou isn’t being threatening or aggressive, but he sounds apprehensive.

  ‘I’ll catch you,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘Right, everyone start very close, and after each fall I want the non-blindfolded person to take one step back and allow your partner more space to fall into your arms,’ Roddy says. ‘Got it, guys?’