The Weight of a Thousand Feathers

by Brian Conaghan

  ‘What about Bel? She’s a bit shady, isn’t she?’

  ‘Bel?’

  ‘Yes, she’s got that look about her. Mothers can spot it a mile off.’

  ‘What look?’

  ‘The dark-side look.’

  ‘I’ve never seen it.’

  ‘Just ask Bel.’

  ‘And what if she can’t help?’

  ‘You’re clever, you’ll think of something.’

  ‘God, I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation. Most teenagers fight with their parents over curfew time or money. Not me, I get to be my mum’s resident drug dealer.’

  ‘It’s only a bit of hash, Bobby. Come on, do it for me, please?’

  ‘And what if I get caught?’

  ‘Me and Danny will come visit you every two weeks.’

  ‘Seriously, Mum, what if I get caught?’

  ‘I’ll take all the blame. They can hardly shove me in jail, can they? And, anyway, by the time it goes to court I’ll –’

  ‘OK, OK, I’ll do it!’

  ‘Thanks, Bobby. This means a lot to me, you know.’

  ‘Bet it does.’

  ‘It might even take some of the pain away.’

  ‘Suppose.’

  ‘Sure, I’m riddled with drugs anyway. What harm’s one more going to do?’

  ‘So, that’s your birthday then? Stuck alone in here, watching films and getting stoned out your tree?’

  ‘Who said anything about being alone?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We’re going to celebrate together,’ she says.

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘You and me. Together.’

  ‘What about Danny?’ I say.

  ‘We’ll just take him to McDonald’s,’ she says.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘That’s a joke, Bobby. I’ve checked his school calendar – he’s an overnight coming up soon.’

  ‘That’s right, I forgot about that,’ I say. ‘Looks like this is happening then.’

  ‘Can’t wait,’ Mum says.

  Things you do for family.

  Sweet and Sour

  On our first Junk Food Friday shebang, Bel almost chokes on a sweet and sour chicken ball when I tell her about my upgrade from being Mum’s humble caring son to her proud drug pusher. Probably shouldn’t have told her while she was in full munch mode. I don’t even know the Heimlich manoeuvre – mortal sin, given my domestic duties.

  ‘Bobby, seriously? Please tell me you’re shitting me.’

  ‘I’m not shitting you. That’s what she said.’

  ‘Pass me that Coke over.’

  I watch her suck the Coke bottle until the plastic deforms in her hand. She wipes her mouth dry.

  ‘Honestly?’ she says.

  ‘Honestly.’

  ‘No shit?’

  ‘Not even a hint of shit.’ I bite into the soggy fried egg that’s flopped on my noodles. ‘She definitely wants to get stoned.’

  ‘How cool is your mum?’ Bel says, before lashing another chicken ball into her gob.

  ‘Do you think you’ll be able to get it for me?’ I ask.

  ‘Do I look like Pablo fucking Escobar to you, Bobby?’ she says, licking her sweet and sour fingers.

  ‘It’s for Mum,’ I plead.

  ‘No, no, no. Don’t you do that.’ Bel jabs her fork towards me. ‘Don’t you dare do that.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Pull that one out.’

  ‘What?’ I raise my hands up.

  ‘Play the emotional blackmail card.’

  ‘Bel …’

  ‘You’re not playing that card, Bobby. I’m not allowing it, so put it away.’

  ‘I’m only asking …’

  ‘I mean it,’ she says, actually stabbing at my arm with the fork.

  ‘Ouch! That’s sore,’ I yelp.

  ‘Is it away yet?’ She threatens more stabbing.

  ‘It’s away! It’s away!’

  ‘Good.’ She wolfs down the last of her fried rice.

  ‘God, Bel, I was only asking. You didn’t need to attack me.’

  ‘You knew what you were doing.’

  ‘Well, can you at least advise me on how to get some then?’

  ‘Ask someone at school. Ask Jimmy Dick Toes, he’s well into that stuff. Or Spud Murphy.’

  ‘No chance. It’s an automatic expulsion if you even get caught asking. You know that.’

  Bel slumps back on the sofa, rubs her stomach.

  ‘There’s only one thing for it then,’ she says.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask that scooter guy.’

  ‘What scooter guy?’

  ‘The guy who gave you a lift to your therapy session.’

  ‘You mean Lou?’

  ‘That his name?’

  ‘And it’s a young carers’ group not a therapy session.’

  ‘Whatever! Same shit, different name.’

  ‘You reckon he’d have some?’

  ‘You kidding me, Bobby?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Around here a scooter’s not a mode of transport, it’s a special delivery service, if you know what I mean?’

  ‘It’s a vintage Vespa, by the way.’

  ‘Still does deliveries though.’

  ‘You think Lou delivers … stuff?’ I say, thinking back to that seeing-a-man conversation we had.

  ‘God, you’re so naive, Bobby Seed. It’s very cute though.’

  ‘You serious, Bel?’

  She glares, smiles ruefully.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You think Lou will be able to snare some stuff for me?’

  ‘I don’t know, worth asking. He can only say no, can’t he?’

  ‘Suppose so.’

  ‘And do me a favour?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t use the words “snare some stuff for me” again, cos you sound like a dick.’

  She has a point.

  ‘Way I see it, Bobby, you’re not laden down with options, so Mr Scooter might be your only one.’

  ‘Bel, it’s a vintage Vespa.’

  I push away what’s left of the noodles and look intently at her.

  ‘Will you come with me when I ask?’ I say.

  ‘Don’t –’

  ‘No, it’s not emotional blackmail, Bel. Honest it’s not. Please?’

  ‘Fucking hell, Bobby.’

  ‘It’ll just make life easier if you could, like, be my support.’ Her eyes close. ‘Come on, I’ll make it up to you.’ I instantly regret saying that.

  ‘Yeah, by doing what?’

  ‘Don’t know, I’ll think of something.’

  ‘It better be good.’

  ‘So, does that mean you’ll be my wingman then?’

  ‘Don’t ever call me a wing-anything again. But, yes, I’ll support you.’

  ‘Brilliant.’

  ‘If I’m free.’

  I leap towards Bel and give her a massive hug.

  ‘Love you! Love you! Love you!’ I say, and then, again, regret saying it. So this is what being caught in the moment feels like.

  ‘Are you going to finish those noodles?’ she asks.

  Mum Cradles Her Boys

  Two nights after Junk Food Friday, Mum wakes at six in the morning, screaming. It’s not your typical seen-a-spider-climbing-up-the-wall scream; this is a deep, guttural howl that oozes panic. The kind of sound that fires you out of bed no matter how deep your sleep is. Danny appears in my room all flustered.

  ‘What’s that? Bobby, what was that?’

  ‘Calm down, Danny. Stay here and I’ll go check.’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Dan, go back to bed.’

  ‘Is it the burglars?’

  ‘No, Danny. It’s nothing, go back to bed, buddy. I’ll make sure Mum’s OK.’ Throughout our exchange Mum’s cries continue to stab our ears. It clearly isn’t the ‘nothing’ I said it was.

  ‘I don’t want to go to
bed in case they get me,’ Danny whispers.

  ‘Who’s going to get you?’

  ‘The burglars.’

  ‘There are no burglars, Dan.’

  ‘They’ll tie us up and steal Mum’s jewellery.’

  ‘What are you –’

  ‘I’ve seen it on Crimewatch.’

  ‘Well, stay there then,’ I say, pointing to a spot on the landing outside Mum’s door. ‘OK?’

  Danny tuts.

  ‘OK, Dan?’

  ‘Roger that.’

  ‘And what have I told you about watching bloody Crimewatch?’

  When I enter her room, Mum’s lying on her back. Light from the landing creeps in and fondles her face. Her cheeks glisten with fresh tears. She’s barely moving, almost still, her hands contorted near her chest.

  ‘Mum, you all right?’

  I move closer.

  ‘Mum,’ I utter. ‘Mum, what happened?’

  Her body begins to vibrate. I can’t tell if she’s silently crying or her muscles are in some aggressive spasm. Her ribcage sobs through her T-shirt.

  ‘Mum, it’s Bobby. Talk to me.’

  She remains mute.

  Danny joins me.

  ‘Bobby, I’m scared. I don’t like standing out there.’

  ‘Danny, I told you to wait on the landing,’ I snarl at him. ‘Do that or go to bed.’

  ‘But what if they get me?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Danny!’ I snap. ‘Can you not just do as I say for once in your life?’

  His head disappears.

  I’m usually calm under pressure; I don’t lose the rag easily. It’s natural for Danny to worry for his mum, wanting her to be safe. And all he does in life is exactly as I order him to do. I know he’ll be sitting on the landing, head in his hands, terrified that, at any moment, a squad of balaclava-wearing goons will beat the shit out of him. But Danny’s feelings have to be put aside.

  ‘Mum, can I do anything?’

  Tears surge and loiter at the corner of her mouth; her lips slowly part, allowing them somewhere to go.

  ‘Mum, please talk to me.’

  With her eyes rooted to a fixed spot on the wall, I see her chest expand with an intake of breath.

  ‘Happening, Bobby,’ she says.

  Her speech clearly slurred.

  ‘Happening? What’s happening?’ I say.

  ‘Started, son. Started for real.’

  She sounds drunk.

  ‘Are you in any pain, Mum? Shall I get you your painkillers?’

  ‘No painkillers.’

  ‘Mum, you’re beginning to scare the shit out of me. Can you please tell me what’s going on?’ I hate being so forceful but she needs a jolt.

  ‘I didn’t mean to scare.’

  ‘Tell me what’s going on,’ I say. ‘Look at me.’

  She doesn’t.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘My legs,’ she says. ‘My arms.’

  ‘Are they sore?’

  ‘I tried to lift. Can’t lift.’

  ‘Are they too heavy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So …’

  ‘I can’t feel them, nothing’s there.’

  ‘Is it bad pins and needles?’ I stupidly say.

  Mum’s eyes flare up at me.

  ‘Not pins and needles, Bobby. Not this time. I can’t move anything. They’re dead.’

  ‘Maybe you’ve just damaged something in your sleep.’ I don’t know what else to offer.

  ‘I’ve not been sleeping, been lying here all night.’

  ‘Do you want me to give your legs a massage or something?’ I ask.

  ‘Won’t make a difference.’

  ‘It might get the blood circulating and the muscles working again.’

  ‘Won’t make one iota of difference.’

  ‘Maybe a bath?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘This is just a relapse, Mum. These are going to happen more and more.’

  She lets out a loud screech, half pain, half inner agony. I kneel down at her bed, arms resting on the mattress. The praying position.

  ‘Bobby, we knew this day was coming. The brain will be next and …’ Her eyes dart off to some distant place. ‘Oh, God.’ She releases a gasping wail.

  ‘Maybe I should call the hospital,’ I suggest. ‘Should I do that? Can I do that?’

  ‘No point,’ she says, sniffing hard. ‘Doctor comes tomorrow anyway.’

  ‘Tell me, what can I do now?’ I ask.

  Mum tries to reach her hand out and straighten her fingers. ‘Lie beside me, that’s what I want.’

  I link my fingers with hers, careful not to clench too hard. A kind of mother–son harmony. I want to say something totally naff, like, You won’t have to go through this alone. I promise I’ll be by your side every step of the way.

  ‘Lie down, that’s what I want more than anything,’ she says.

  ‘I can do that.’

  ‘Where’s Danny? I heard his voice.’

  ‘On the landing, I think.’

  ‘I want Danny to lie as well.’

  As I suspect, Danny’s head is in his hands when I go to get him. I hunker down and wrap him in my arms.

  ‘You all right, mate?’ I say.

  ‘You swore at me,’ he says.

  ‘I know, I’m sorry.’

  ‘You told me to fuck off.’

  ‘I didn’t say that, Dan.’

  ‘Did.’

  ‘I said “for fuck’s sake”.’

  ‘Same thing.’

  There’s no point arguing when he’s convinced about something.

  ‘Well, I’m really sorry about that. I shouldn’t have said it.’

  ‘You’re right, you shouldn’t have.’

  ‘I was just worried about Mum, that’s all.’

  ‘So was I,’ he hisses. ‘It’s not all yours, Bobby. I worry too.’

  ‘I know you do. I know you do, mate.’

  ‘I count as well. It’s not about you because you’re older.’

  ‘You’re dead right. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again,’ I tell him. ‘Do you want to come see Mum?’

  ‘Does she want to see me?’

  ‘What do you mean? Of course she wants to see you. She always wants to see you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You’re her favourite.’ Danny takes his head away from his arms, his eyes slightly red. ‘And you’re my favourite too.’ I kiss him, to which he flinches.

  ‘No poof moves,’ he says. I pretend this hasn’t registered.

  ‘Come on.’ I get back to my feet and indicate for us to go into Mum’s room.

  Danny rolls his body on to the bed, next to hers; I snake mine in behind her. Mum spoons Danny while I spoon Mum. The mother of all sandwiches.

  ‘Do you want me to put some music on?’ I ask, reasoning that this would be an excellent moment for one of her Smiths or Nine Inch Nails records. I mean, what could be better than cradling your children towards dawn while listening to ‘I Won’t Share You’ by The Smiths?

  ‘I just want to listen to my boys sleeping,’ she whispers.

  After a few reassuring kisses from Mum, Danny conks out. ‘I’m enjoying listening to his breathing. I don’t get to hear it now. So sweet. Takes me back.’

  As I spoon Mum, I jab my legs into the back of hers. Tiny sharp knee digs into her functionless legs. An experiment of sorts. I want to inflict pain upon them, just enough to make her react, to sting her a bit in order to see if the limb thing is real or nothing more than a psychosomatic head muddle. I press harder. Not so much as a jolt. Perhaps she just thought she couldn’t feel them. Maybe Mum’s mind is so intense that it infiltrates and controls what her body is telling her. Or something like that.

  I’m glad when she nods off; it means no more sobbing into Danny’s neck or worrying, wide-eyed, about what will be.

  It would be so easy to be wrapped around them forever, shield them from the outside world. Who else do they have?

  As I listen to
their tandem puffing patterns, all I want to do is chuckle. It’s a fleeting moment but it surges through my bones. I’m with the two people who matter most to me on earth, one a failing body and the other a clumsy mind, and all I want to do is heave laughter from the pit of my stomach. I don’t.

  I must’ve slept because I have one of those visceral dreams again about Mum dying: this time she’s lying at the bottom of a swimming pool. Nose clipped, hands cuffed to walking sticks.

  #4 … complete

  here we lie:

  the blundering brain

  the strongest wean

  knotted around

  the fading frame

  Cold Margherita

  I decide to wait after one of the Poztive meetings. Corner him. Beg him to come to one of our Junk Food Friday nights. How else am I going to get my hands on some quality Class B? Sitting in that session, I can hardly concentrate on what Roddy’s prattling on about or what he wants us to do: discuss issues related to the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child. Hands go up around me and voices bellow things like:

  The right to an education.

  The right to health.

  The right to an opinion.

  The right to a family life.

  The right to get pissed in the park.

  I sit there thinking: The right for Lou to come to my Junk Food Friday event.

  My nerves jangle at the notion of asking Lou for ‘dinner’.

  ‘I can’t give you a ride home tonight, Bobby,’ he informs me at the end of the session.

  ‘That’s OK.’

  ‘Gotta see a man about some puppies.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t matter,’ he says, as if I’m not part of the gang. Think this is what’s called being blown off.

  My guts are in bits as I watch him walk towards the exit door. Why do I let him walk?

  ‘Bye, Bobby,’ Erin says, as she makes her way out. ‘See you next time.’

  ‘Catch you later,’ Tom says, following suit.

  ‘Aw, not going with your boyfriend tonight, Bobby?’ Harriet says.

  Why would she say that? Is it seeping out of me? I know what I am, who I am. I’m not a virus.

  ‘Slumming it on the bus, Harriet,’ I say, with one eye on Lou’s movements.

  ‘Perfectly efficient, perfectly comfortable. The right to a good public transport system is what I say,’ Cal adds.

  Harriet and I look at each other, then Cal.

  I have to go, move, shift.

  I catch up with him just before he slides his helmet on.