‘Hey, Lou.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I was thinking …’
‘Be careful, that shit can hurt.’
‘Eh?’
‘So, you were thinkin’?’
‘Yeah, I was thinking. Would you like to … erm … would you like to … thing is … we … my mate and I …’
‘Jesus Christ! Spit it out, Bobby. I’m growin’ a beard here.’
‘Just wondering if you want to come over to mine on Friday night?’
‘Mine, as in your house?’
‘Yes, me and a mate are getting a takeaway and just, like, chilling and stuff.’
God, I hate how I sound around him.
‘A mate?’
‘Bel. She’s a girl. I mean, she’s a mate, but she’s also a girl. She’s a friend. Not my girlfriend though. Just a mate. A female mate.’
I want the concrete to crumble beneath me. Left side of my brain is screaming: STOP BEING A KNOB. BE YOURSELF, BOBBY.
‘Friday night?’ Lou says.
‘Yes.’
‘Takeaway?’
‘Yes.’
‘You do know takeaway is worse than horse shit, Bobby?’
‘You don’t have to eat it.’
‘You’re right, I don’t,’ he says, patting me on the shoulder.
‘I mean, if you prefer toast and jam – sorry, jello – I can sort that out no problem.’
‘I’ll stick to the horse shit, Bobby.’
‘So, you up for it then?’
‘Sure. Sounds average. What time?’
‘Say, seven?’
‘Cool.’
‘Great, it’s a date then,’ I say.
Another concrete-crumbling moment.
Lou gives me a raised brow.
Does he wink?
We exchange numbers.
‘See you Friday, I guess,’ Lou says.
‘Friday,’ I say.
I watch him rev off into the night. I jog, hoping to catch up with the others.
*
I settle myself on the edge of Mum’s bed, trying to conceal my worry. Eyes can’t lie though. Covers are up to her neck, just a sorrowful head popping out the top. I swipe a few hairs away from her eyes. I badly want her to shift her arse into gear, to get up, face the day, fight the bloody world. Stop lying down, stop convincing yourself that you’re bedridden, that every ounce of your body is numb and unresponsive. You’re consigning yourself to all this: these four walls, questionable music and starched sheets. Come on, woman, it’s supposed to be me and Danny who cave under this inescapable fear, not you. Oh, shut up, Bobby. You don’t live in her body, do you? You don’t feel yours withering inside, do you? No, you simply observe and make crass judgements from the edge of a fucking bed. Allow her a little defeatism, for God’s sake.
And that’s the thing I sometimes fail to see: the physical struggle versus the mental torture. I guess that’s how her thoughts spin: I’ll never be able to jump inside Mum’s psyche, Mrs Sneddon’ll never get into mine and I’ll never occupy Lou’s. That’s how it goes.
‘Who’s coming again?’ Mum asks.
‘It’s a just a friend from the Poztive group,’ I tell her.
‘A friend?’ she says.
‘Just some guy. His mum isn’t well. He looks after her.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘Me, Bel and the guy –’
‘Who doesn’t have a name.’
‘He’s called Lou, Mum.’
‘Well, I’m glad you’re making friends, Bobby.’
‘Just a takeaway and a bit of music. Maybe watch a film. Want to come down and meet him for a bit? Bel’s already here. You could eat with us?’
‘Can’t, I’m going out dancing with the girls,’ she says, fierce grin painting her face. I’m reassured when Mum cracks her rubbish jokes, elated when her speech is coherent. ‘Some other time.’
‘Mum?’
‘Bobby?’
‘The guy from Poztive, he’s the guy.’
‘What?’
‘Lou, he’s the guy.’
‘Speak English, Bobby.’
‘Lou’s the guy who might be able to get some gear for your birthday.’
Mum twists her face as though I’ve said something horrific. She manages to extend an arm over the covers.
‘Gear? What gear? What you on about?’
I lean towards her and whisper, ‘You know, the gear. The hash or grass you asked me to get for you.’
She looks at me with utter bemusement.
‘Bobby, I’ve honestly no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘For your birthday.’
‘Whose birthday?’
‘You asked me a couple of weeks ago, remember?’ I plead. ‘It’s what you want for your birthday, Mum.’
I see the wheels turning as she scuffles with her memory. And there it is: in that little exchange, any reassurance or elation I might’ve felt is blown to pieces, my soul shredded.
‘I didn’t ask you for that,’ she says. ‘I assure you, Bobby, I didn’t ask for that.’
I want to shake it out of her, to shake all the pennies rattling around in her memory bank. Scream into her face. Suck the answer out of her ears. Wrench it out of her mouth. I want to howl. Because, at the very beginning, at the diagnosis stage, the doctors warned us that this could happen. At first, there might be absent-minded moments, which could deteriorate into more serious episodes of short-term memory loss.
We’re a hop, skip and jump away from Mum being locked up in a wasteland. Welcome to Fuckedland.
‘You’re right, sorry,’ I say, wanting to diffuse the situation, avoid terrorising her. Too late, it’s happened. It’s alive. I know it and she knows it. ‘I was joking! It was a joke,’ I say.
‘It’s not too late to hand you back, is it?’ she says.
‘I’d better get down to Bel and Danny.’
‘Have a good night with your deaf friend.’
‘He’s not deaf.’
‘Not yet, but he’ll wish he was after a night with you and Bel.’ She smiles.
‘What can I say, Mother? Comedy gold.’
I wash my face before ambling downstairs. Plop a couple of drops in my eyes. It’s almost seven. What’s the point in even asking Lou now?
‘Hey, I’m pure starving,’ Bel says.
‘Me too,’ Danny says. ‘I could eat a nun’s arse.’
They snigger.
‘We should order,’ Bel says.
‘I want pizza,’ Danny says.
‘Pizza and then up to your room, Dan. OK? You can play Xbox,’ I say.
‘Don’t want to stay down here with you bores anyway,’ he replies.
‘Hey … excuse me, Danny,’ Bel says.
‘No, you’re decent, Bel.’
‘Better be.’
‘Right, I’m warning you two – when Lou comes, don’t just sit there staring at him like a couple of mental patients, OK?’
‘Oh, shut up, Bobby,’ Bel says. ‘You’d give an Aspirin a sore head.’
Danny repeats Bel’s words and almost wets himself on the sofa. It’s like being a primary school teacher sometimes.
‘I’m serious,’ I tell him. ‘Just act normal. In fact, scratch that. Don’t!’
‘Keep your skirt on, Bobby. You’d think the priest was coming the way you’re strutting about,’ Bel says.
‘Just don’t want to make a show of us, that’s all,’ I say.
‘A show of us? Listen to yourself. He’s only someone who goes to that daft self-help group of yours.’
‘Thanks, Bel. You have about as much compassion as an acid attack.’
‘Just telling you to cool the jets, that’s all.’
‘Yeah, well, we don’t get many visitors here, do we?’
‘I think he’d better hurry up,’ Bel says, looking at her phone.
‘We should just order without him,’ Danny adds.
‘How rude is that, Dan, eh?’ I say.
‘Why do
n’t we order for him then,’ Bel suggests.
‘Good idea. Isn’t it, Bobby?’ Dan says.
‘We can’t do that,’ I say.
‘Yes, we can,’ he says.
‘It’s no big deal,’ Bel says. ‘Just order him a Margherita. If he doesn’t like pizza he’s obviously been born without taste buds.’
‘Or he’s gay.’
‘Danny!’ I shout. ‘What have I told you about that?’
I know I should be monitoring Danny’s internet use, be more vigilant with him. I can’t be letting him go around spouting this shit. Can’t have a Trumpian bigot on my hands now. Maybe I need to have a word with his teachers. Or have a Sibling Night, just the two of us. I’ll add ‘stop my little brother from having offensive views’ to my list of chores.
We order.
Danny and Bel maul their food like they’re competing for the title of World’s Most Repulsive Eater. I leave four slices of mine. Lou’s pizza lies chilling in its box. Bel glares at it like a serial killer sat in a van. Danny takes himself up to his room, burping loudly en route. Nice one, Dan.
‘I don’t think your drug dealer’s coming, Bobby,’ Bel says.
‘Ever thought of becoming a detective, Bel?’
‘Don’t take it out on me because your scooter boyfriend hasn’t turned up.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Not my fault.’
‘Did I say it was?’
‘No, but I can tell you’re thinking it. I know you, Bobby Seed. You’ve got one of those weird-working brains.’
‘I think you’ve overdosed on pizza.’
‘Listen, if Mr Scooter’s a no-show I’m having his Margherita. Just saying.’ I shake my head. ‘No use going to waste.’ I tut. ‘What? Think of the Africans, Bobby.’
‘Whatever, Bel. Charge in.’
‘Why don’t you just give him a call? Ask what his deal is?’
I take out my phone, thumb through to Lou’s number. Stare at it, try to memorise it. Who memorises numbers these days?
‘Maybe I should send him a text instead?’ I say.
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he might come back with a question, and before you know it you’ve each sent twelve texts to each other and you’re still none the wiser why he’s blanked you,’ Bel says. ‘Call him.’
‘Right.’
‘Say, Hey, Mr Scooter, why did you stand me up?’
‘Can you stop with the date shit, Bel?’ I snap.
I mean, is a guy not allowed to be friends with another guy without this shit being slung at it?
‘Touchy.’
‘And it’s a vintage fucking Vespa he rides, not a scooter.’
‘Whatever. God!’
‘How many times?’
I’m heating up. I sense steam building inside me, but it isn’t what Bel said, it’s all to do with the conversation I had with Mum. I see the future – a kaleidoscope of horrific images – zipping through my mind. My brain’s like an ailing heartbeat: clobbering, thrashing, pounding. But I guess it is also about Lou not turning up.
Then my phone buzzes and blinks.
Hey dude, apologies for my absence. Mom was in a bad way earlier. Totally fucked up day. U no how it is. Nother time. Thats a Lou promise. Be Poztive. Stay Poztive … whatever it is. It’s full of shit!!!! HaHa.
I thrust my phone into Bel’s face.
She holds on to my wrist and reads.
‘See, he’s a carer for his mum. It’s not easy for him to get away, Bel.’
‘OK, calm down to a riot, Bobby,’ she says.
But I’m not calm, am I?
#5 … incomplete
lou is margherita red
bobby is future blue
bel ate all the pizza
whoop de fucking doo
Dan Does His Homework
A few days later the doctor and nurse come after we get back from school. The nurse spends time bathing and massaging Mum. I think they hate the playlist I’ve made for those moments. No doubt she’s into some sterile shit and hasn’t a clue who Slowdive, Sonic Youth or The Smashing Pumpkins are. Truth, I’m a sterile shit fan too. Whisper it.
I know by the doctor’s face things look bleak. Need to shield Danny from it, make sure his uniform’s folded properly and set aside, allow him some pre-homework telly time to munch Rice Krispies (evening course) and watch Horrid Henry. How he loves that show. Always good to hear his laughter wafting through the house.
I know what to expect. Google told me, as have the doctors, the nurses and the countless documentaries I’ve watched about it. The internet’s full of bad news pages. Like an evil magnet, the internet grabs hold of your jugular and distorts your sense of rationale. It’s nigh on impossible not to gorge on WorstCaseScenario.com.
I catch the doctor at the bottom of the stairs, out of Danny’s earshot. She’s actually very nice; always caring and kind. My only issue is that while she understands Mum’s body, no dispute over that, she hasn’t the foggiest about what goes on between her ears. That’s where my tepidness comes from.
‘So, what do you think?’ I ask.
‘It’s hard to say. On the surface she seems fine, but clearly she’s not. Some memory loss is definitely beginning to show up. Thing is, she might be back to normal tomorrow, that’s how unpredictable this can be. It’s the nature of relapse and recovery.’
BUT IT’S YOUR JOB TO KNOW!
‘But when will …’
‘With this illness, Bobby, we just don’t know with any degree of certainty. As you know, your mum’s condition is lifelong. She’s not terminal, but she is deteriorating. I see this in cases time and again.’ PLEASE DO NOT REDUCE MY MOTHER TO A CASE. ‘Your mum is reaching the secondary progressive stage.’ Or, as I call it, the BBBBB stage – brain, body, bones, bladder buggered stage.
‘You’re sure?’
‘We’ve suspected this for a good while. I think your mum has been expecting it too.’
I say nothing. Doctors, what the fuck do they know?
‘You’ve probably noticed that your mum has lost some bowel function.’
‘I have.’
‘And her balance has been … troublesome.’
‘Worse than that. She can hardly get out of bed now.’
‘And she’s exhausted more than ever.’
PLEASE, SHUT UP. I GET IT!
‘She is,’ I say.
‘How’s her speech been?’ the doctor asks.
‘Sometimes you’d never notice, but other times you do,’ I say. Reality is, she’s like a blathering drunk.
‘That’s common.’
I’ve done my research. I know Mum’s body is fuddled, a matter of time before her whole system regresses. We’ve discussed the implications over several listens of Nirvana and Teenage Fanclub albums. The whats, ifs, whens and whys have been aired. Full-time hospice care terrifies her, and me, yet it might be the only viable option. However, if it all goes belly up before I hit eighteen, then the social workers will be sniffing around us. She’s scared for me and Dan, I think.
‘Her birthday’s coming up. Do you think she’ll be OK by then?’ I ask the doctor. ‘What I mean is, will she be OK to celebrate it? Like, celebrate it properly?’
‘Well, I don’t think she’ll be doing any dancing, if that’s what you mean.’ The doctor smiles.
Wait a minute!
WAIT A FUCKING MINUTE!
Did the doctor just crack a joke? Did she just rip the piss out of Mum’s situation? Did I hear that right? My expression warns her: I’m not going to be complicit in any unprofessional piss-ripping activities here. Only Mum (and me) can piss-rip her situation. Everyone else: door closed.
The doctor’s face alters: sincere, caring. ‘I can’t say, Bobby. Really I can’t. They’ll probably give her some further tests to assess things.’ She now looks desperate, etched with worry and concern. Or is it pity?
‘Will she be OK up here?’ I say, pointing to my temple. ‘Will her sen
ses remain intact?’
‘As I said, each case is different, so I can’t say one way or the other.’
There it is again, Mum reduced to a case.
‘Is she sleeping?’ I ask.
‘I gave her a couple of tablets. She really needs sleep. It’s unhelpful if she’s constantly exhausted and lying awake all night.’
‘Agreed.’
Two minutes later I’m opening the front door and waving the doctor off.
‘Have a good night, Bobby, and try not to worry too much,’ the doctor says, hotfooting it to her shiny car.
I want to follow her. I need to escape the house, get some air into my lungs, allow the wind to ransack me. I imagine the sound of a vintage Vespa, close my eyes for a second and listen to its clattering engine fizz around my insides. I inhale the exhaust fumes and smell that freedom. And I’m away. We’re away.
I wave and slam the door.
‘Danny, finish watching that TV!’ I shout into the living room.
‘Two minutes.’
‘No, not two minutes. Now.’
‘One minute.’
‘You’ve homework to do,’ I say, walking into his space.
‘Twenty seconds.’
‘I’m not waiting any longer.’
‘Ten seconds.’
‘Fine. I’ll tell your teachers you couldn’t be arsed.’
‘No. No, I’m coming.’ He practically knocks me over in his eagerness to get his homework done. Strange. Must have gained a healthy fear of his teachers.
I settle him at the kitchen table in the company of school books. Head down, brain active.
‘Do the best you can, Danny. Try and impress your teachers.’
‘Can you help me, Bobby?’
‘Look, you’re going to have to learn to do your own homework. You need to get the finger out.’
‘But I can’t do this maths stuff, it’s really hard,’ he says.
‘How many times have I’ve shown you? I’ve lost count. Do you want people thinking you’re …’ And that’s where I stop myself from saying the word ‘stupid’. Anyway, thankfully he’s stopped listening to me banging on about his homework. I mean, who gives a shit about homework? Really, who gives a toss? I’m glad Danny’s head is still in Horrid Henry’s world. I’m irrationally annoyed because I can’t call him stupid, thick, dim, brainless or an eejit when I want to. That’s how it is between us: I get irritated at Dan for the slightest thing, then feel guilty for getting irritated, so I compensate by indulging him.
The Weight of a Thousand Feathers Page 9