The Weight of a Thousand Feathers

by Brian Conaghan

  ‘Sorry, what?’ I mumble.

  ‘Are you going to put that up to my lips now?’

  ‘Oh, right. Sorry, I wasn’t …’

  ‘Don’t be hogging it all for yourself.’

  I need to puff it back to life again, another two drags. I bring it towards Mum’s mouth. She tongues her lips then puckers. I pop it into the little gap provided; she sucks until the tip glows, holds the smoke in for a few seconds before exhaling, just as Lou did. Experience! She doesn’t thank me, nor comment on the quality; her eyes remain glued to the film, saying nothing, clearly relishing the return to her past.

  ‘More,’ she says.

  I repeat the process four times. There’s zero conversation between us, not about the film, not about life. I doubt my ability to chat anyway. The only communication we have is when I offer her water and wait until she latches on to the straw, and even that is inaudible rumbles. It doesn’t seem awkward, nor does it bother us too much. To be fair, we’re engrossed in The Breakfast Club.

  She slides down the bed at a pace akin to coastal erosion, but I can’t muster the energy to humph her back up. I don’t think she wants me to though; her slouched position isn’t impinging her view.

  ‘I love this song,’ she says during a musical montage sequence. It’s not directed at me. A tear runs down the side of her face.

  ‘You OK, Mum?’

  ‘This song.’

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘This song brings back so many memories, Bobby.’

  ‘You’re crying?’

  ‘Tears of remembrance.’

  ‘Right,’ I say.

  It feels like an intrusion to ask who, or what, Mum’s tears are really for. With a single swipe of my thumb, I wipe the moisture from her cheek. I say nothing.

  ‘Want me to spark the next one up?’ I ask.

  Her belly springs up and down.

  ‘Go on,’ she says.

  I do.

  It’s probably been about ten minutes, but it seems as if I’ve been staring at Mum’s duvet pattern for about four hours: these never-ending lines of orange cars travelling in the same direction. I imagine hopping inside one and riding off into the unknown, escaping my existence. Bliss! The film means nothing to me. All I can think about is getting the hell out of the hell I’m in. I swear I see myself in one of those cars – in Mum’s duvet – driving off into the sunset. One problem though: the car keeps returning to the starting point again and again and again. Going nowhere fast, which scares me shitless. It’s like, what’s the point in even trying to go anywhere, to better myself? What’s the point in having dreams and aspirations when you can’t share them? When you feel guilty by having them.

  In that moment I vow never to get sucked into this smoking dope lark. I need a mind that’s alive and vibrant. This stuff dulls the senses, distorts time and brings out the melancholic in me.

  ‘What did you think?’ Mum asks when the film’s credits begin rolling.

  ‘Yeah, really good,’ I offer. ‘Although don’t ask me to explain anything that happened in the last forty-five minutes.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Mum giggles.

  ‘At least you’ve seen it before.’

  ‘Long time ago.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll watch the next film without smoking anything,’ I say.

  ‘Can I have a drink, Bobby?’

  I put the straw into Mum’s mouth. She sucks. Earlier I considered buying a special birthday bottle of wine as well, but now the thought of mixing alcohol with everything else is unthinkable. We’d be a mangled mess.

  ‘Thanks, son.’

  After I wipe her mouth dry, she mumbles, ‘Can you hunch me up a bit before the next film?’ She sounds different. Can’t tell if she’s slurring because of the smoking or something more disturbing.

  ‘Course I will,’ I say.

  I feel the dampness as soon as my hand reaches Mum’s lower back. I subtly lift the duvet and peak under. A map of piss confronts me. Not pungent enough to make me recoil – white piss, water piss – but enough for her to notice my changed expression.

  ‘What is it, Bobby?’ she says.

  ‘Nothing, it’s …’

  ‘Bobby, tell me. What is it?’

  ‘Not anything major, just a tiny accident.’

  ‘What accident?’

  ‘A little bit of pee, that’s all.’

  Mum’s head sinks into the pillow; she appears to slide down the bed, like her body has a slow puncture.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say, dragging myself off, ‘I’ll have it sorted in a jiffy.’ I don’t wait for an answer. My rapid dismount turns everything into one terrifying roller coaster. With the aid of a few supporting walls I make it safely to the landing. Think this is officially called ‘being baked out your tights’.

  I always make sure that the airing cupboard is well stocked with clean, crisp sheets. I’ve been doing three to four changes per week lately.

  ‘What do you want next? That Pretty in Pink film or Grease?’ I shout over my shoulder. No answer. ‘I vote for Grease,’ I shout louder. Still no answer. I grab a bundle of clean sheets, tuck them under my armpit. ‘Bel gave me Deadpool a few weeks ago. It’s supposed to be really funny,’ I say on entering the room again.

  Mum’s locked in a daze, her face damp. The whites of her eyes are now a deep pink colour; her whole face appears puffy, as if she’s taken an allergic reaction to whatever was in the joints. Frightens me.

  ‘Mum? Mum, what is it, what’s happened?’

  Silence.

  ‘Mum, you’re scaring me. What’s going on?’

  Her lips move. She says something but I can’t make out what because of the tears, drugs and sniffing.

  ‘Mum, I can’t understand you.’

  More tears then a howl. I’m genuinely scared.

  ‘Should I call someone?’ I say. ‘Mum, talk to me.’

  She gulps saliva.

  ‘I don’t want to live like this any more, Bobby,’ is what she says.

  It isn’t what she says that’s the worst part; no, the worst part is that I don’t have an answer for her. I’ve no words of comfort, no soothing clichés. Zilch. I stand there like a stoned lemon, staring at my petrified mother with fuck all to offer. So I do what I know best and start doing the physical part of caring. I remove the wet sheet and mattress protector; I roll Mum over, yank both bits of bedding out from under her. I can’t bring myself to put on the fresh sheets though; I can’t pretend I haven’t heard what she’s said. I have school, some friends and Poztive to offload my shit on to. Who does she have?

  Before changing Mum’s nightclothes, I climb on the bed, lie beside her. I don’t say anything. We exchange no words. I pull her close, carefully manipulating her figure so we can fit into a proper embrace. Her body’s listless. Legs limp. I slither my frame into hers and clench her tightly. Kiss her head.

  ‘Happy birthday, Mum,’ I whisper.

  ‘Thanks, son.’

  ‘No need to thank me, it was a pleasure.’

  ‘Sorry for crying.’

  ‘Don’t be …’

  ‘For getting emotional then.’

  ‘I’d be disappointed if you hadn’t,’ I say.

  Mum smiles, yet I detect no happiness or joy. ‘We don’t need to watch the other film if you’re not up to it. I mean, if you’re too tired or something.’

  ‘Sorry for peeing,’ she says.

  I flick away her apology, and a rogue tear.

  ‘Mum, it’s fine.’

  It isn’t the complete loss of bodily function that renders this a defining moment. Now it’s all about the disconnect between her mind and body, the ever-expanding gulf that exists between them. Her bones an anchor, her intellect a prisoner. I get it. I do.

  ‘No, it’s not fine, Bobby. It’s not fine and will never be fine.’

  ‘These things happen,’ I say.

  Mum laughs, almost mocks me.

  ‘You actually think it’s about this?’ she says, indicating the inc
ident area. ‘It’s got nothing to do with this.’

  ‘What then?’ I ask. Question number stupid. Of course I know what it’s about.

  She shifts in the bed, her eyes narrow. With her menacing punk hair and defiant expression, she’s a threat.

  ‘Do you have any idea what it’s like to forget your own name, where you are, why you’re where you are? Have you any idea what it’s like to be trapped in your own forgetfulness? Seeing all the action unfold around you and you can’t contribute? Wondering who the hell people are? Have you any idea what it’s like to exist without living, Bobby?’

  ‘Mum, you know I …’

  ‘That’s how it is for me, that’s how I live now. Not every day, but it’s going to get worse. And by worse I mean I won’t recognise you or Danny, and that terrifies me more than anything else. It does. The very notion of it makes me gasp for air, and sometimes when I gasp for the air I can’t feel it entering my lungs. I can’t feel it. I think that gasp will be my final one. Can you hear what I’m saying, Bobby?’

  I nip my nails into my lower arm, dig really hard, trying to inflict something physical that’ll knock the fuck out of the emotional pain that Mum’s transmitting.

  ‘I hear you, Mum.’

  ‘This is me now, Bobby,’ she says. ‘This is who I am. This is the best you’ll ever see.’

  ‘You’re still my mum, our mum.’

  ‘I want to stay that mum, the one you remember.’

  ‘You will be.’

  ‘It’s not about who I was any longer, Bobby.’

  I squeeze into her, caress her cheek. Her head. If only I could reach in and disconnect the MS from her brain.

  ‘We can leave the other film for another time,’ I say. ‘Watch it tomorrow maybe.’

  ‘Did you hear what I said, son?’

  ‘I heard.’

  ‘Not just then. When you came back into the room after getting the sheets?’

  ‘Just then? Just now?’

  ‘Yes, did you hear what I said when you opened the door?’

  Course I heard what she said. I don’t want to admit it, do I? Block-out Bobby.

  ‘I didn’t, Mum. No,’ I lie.

  She twists herself, stares at me for what seems like a lifetime. Some white has returned to her eyes again, pastel colour splashes her cheeks. The effect of the hash has worn off and her brain is evidently rotating in the correct direction once more. Mine too.

  ‘Listen,’ she says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said I didn’t want to live like this any more, Bobby.’

  ‘Mum, don’t …’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘I know. I heard. I did.’

  ‘It’s true. I don’t want to live like this any more,’ she punches at me. ‘I don’t. And I want you to help me.’

  ‘This is crazy talk, Mum.’

  ‘Please help me, Bobby.’

  I return focus to my lower arm.

  ‘You have to help me.’

  And with one request, it’s bye-bye to the old Bobby.

  Sleep Watcher

  More than once I’ve discovered Danny in Mum’s room while she’s asleep, perched at the end of the bed, gazing, transfixed by her peacefulness. No tears, talk or movement. Other times he’ll be closer, tenderly stroking her head or fiddling with the covers.

  I’ve never disturbed him; these are Danny’s moments. Seeing my little brother’s courage and independence fills me with pride. I guess I should be more open about what’s going on with her, about what the consequences will be, but I’ve always thought that I should protect him by not revealing every grubby detail.

  Secretly watching him secretly watching her is a kind of beautiful, heartbreaking connection we’ve all shared.

  I know Mum’s breathing patterns as she sleeps; I know the sounds that radiate from her; I know every flicker her eyes make, every detail. And whenever Danny’s been there I know she hasn’t really been asleep: she’s pretending. This is Danny’s time, you see; Mum doesn’t want to intrude upon it any more than I do, nor does she want him exposed to her deterioration. Even at her weakest, she’s thinking about sheltering her son, as any mother would.

  #7 … incomplete

  mum is brilliance

  mum is compassion

  mum is laughter

  mum was fire

  mum is sincerity

  mum is warmth

  mum is love

  mum was safety

  mum is me

  mum is him

  mum is we

  mum was life

  Mother

  Mum will always be … Mum.

  Our mum.

  No termination.

  The Weight of a Thousand Feathers

  The night Danny returns from his school trip, all he wants is scrambled eggs with toast and jam. Two eggs, bit of milk, pinch of salt, a squeeze of ketchup and a mash-up. That’s the way he takes it. I’ve missed him. I’m stirring the ingredients. Danny’s doing that annoying knife and fork thumping on the table. I want to yank them from his hands and sling them against the wall. That’ll teach you.

  ‘Stop that, Dan.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That hammering on the table. I’ve a sore head.’

  ‘I’ve a sore head,’ Danny imitates me.

  It’s as if I’m in the middle of the road braced for the impact. I close my eyes and await the collision. Double-decker runs right over the top of me, shatters every bone in my body, utter skull-crusher. I continue to whisk.

  I can’t control the bounce of my shoulders. I tense up my stomach to stem the flow, but mostly so I don’t howl. Over and over I replay the conversation with Mum, can’t think of much else. Over and over I end up in a heap. When I do cry out I sound wounded, like I’ve stabbed myself with a fork or put my hand on a naked flame. Danny jumps.

  ‘Bobby, what happened?’

  ‘Nothing, mate. Just …’

  He’s on to me, wants to see the damage. Examines my hands. Nothing. He lifts his head. Our eyes meet.

  ‘Bobby, you’re crying?’

  Can’t blame onions.

  ‘Bobby, why are you crying?’

  ‘I don’t know, mate.’

  LIES. LIES. LIES.

  ‘Did something happen?’

  ‘No, I’m just a bit down, bit sad.’

  ‘Was it because I banged my knife and fork?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to bang so hard.’

  ‘It’s fine, Dan. It’s not that.’ He’s scared. I can’t look at him any longer. I cover my eyes with my arm, flex my face. My entire body shakes with grief. Can’t control it. This must be how Mum feels, times infinity.

  ‘Bobby, don’t. Please, don’t.’ Danny gets on to his knees, hooks his arms around my thigh. For some reason I continue to whisk. My head is scrambled.

  ‘Are you sad for Mum?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes, and for you too.’

  ‘Don’t be sad for me,’ he says, gripping harder. ‘We should keep all our sad times for Mum, and all our happy times for her too.’

  ‘You’re right, Dan, we should.’ I sleeve my face.

  ‘Is Mum sad too?’

  ‘Yeah, Mum’s sad too.’

  ‘Maybe it’s because I was away doing outward pursuits?’

  ‘No, Dan. She was happy you were doing that. She’s sad for other things.’

  ‘But has something changed in her, Bobby? Something worse?’ He asks from his position around my leg. I don’t want to drag him off.

  ‘Yeah, she’s becoming worse.’

  ‘But she’s going to get better, isn’t she?’

  ‘I don’t think she’s going to get better, Dan.’

  His grip hardens; he burrows his head into me.

  Those dreams about finding Mum dead have stopped. I’ve never told anyone about them. Everything is locked in, key thrown away. Just me and my thoughts. I hunker down to join him. We sit on the kitchen floor.

  ‘Why w
ill she not get better?’ he says.

  ‘Looks like the illness has shifted to her head, her brain.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘She’ll start forgetting things more and more. She might not be able to move too well either.’

  ‘Sounds bad, Bobby.’

  ‘It is bad. It is.’

  ‘What will we do?’

  ‘Just be there for her, make sure she has everything she needs, make her comfortable,’ I say. ‘I’m not sure really.’

  Danny brings his head up to meet my wreckage. He’s calm. He parts my hair.

  ‘Bobby?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Is our mum going to die?’

  I can’t answer him. I can’t. I swallow hard and cover my face. For some reason I’m ashamed of the state I’m in. I’m supposed to be the granite in this house. I feel like wet paper. Danny embraces me, rocks me like a newborn. I sob.

  ‘I’d like us to go to the park again like we used to. Remember?’ he says.

  ‘I remember. It’s all in here, Dan,’ I say, tapping my head.

  ‘Me too,’ he says, tapping his.

  Danny has never stopped hoping Mum will just get up one morning and make a full recovery, that we’ll be a normal, proper family again. Sure, who wouldn’t hope for that? I’ve been asked to destroy this possibility. But while Mum is ill, while she exists only in body, motionless in a bed, we’ll never be a normal family again.

  When I think of what Mum has asked me to do my torso buckles under the burden of responsibility. I see it all in a stream of haunting images; they launch sustained attacks on me, won’t let me be. Images filled with Mum’s lifeless figure, the peacefulness of her face, her unseeing eyes, the stillness of her stomach, her body submerged in a massive feathered pillow. I doubt these images will ever fuck the fuck off and allow me to be me again. That pillow is a load I know I’ll never be able to push away. I feel the weight of its thousand feathers pressing, pressing, pressing me down.

  Mum’s request alters me, like actually alters my appearance: I age inside and out. Bags appear under my eyes. My appetite wanes. School becomes irrelevant and insignificant.

  I start seeing things with more clarity than ever before. The mere thought of it knocks me sideways, consuming my every waking thought. And yet, it makes sense. Sense so perverse that it tramples down the dirt of everything in its wake. Mum’s had days, weeks and months to drool over it, to consider that whole pros-and-cons thing. She’s a dogged woman who understands her own mind better than anyone; she knows I am her only hope, that I am the only one who can free her. She’s lucid enough to know, for now, that I am the keyholder … the keyholder to everyone’s freedom.