by Sandy McKay
Two days later:
Francine has got worse. I don’t know the details but apparently her family are at her bedside, so it must be serious.
Poor things. It must be hard when there’s nothing you can do to help. When all you can do is stand and watch.
Like with Mum. God, I hated it. All those creepy corridors and the nurses making silly jokes and talking to her like she was some little kid. ‘How are we today, Mrs Morrison? We won’t get big and strong if we don’t eat our breakfast, will we now?’
The meals came on a trolley. Dry knobs of food plonked on thick white plates. How could she eat that muck? We’re not allowed meals on trolleys in this hospital because we have to eat in the dining room with knives and forks and nurses watching on like hawks. Not much fun for them either, I don’t suppose. (Watching Kara eat is excruciating. She cuts every piece of food into a zillion tiny mouthfuls, stacking it all into little piles.) The rest of us aren’t much better, chewing the meat until it turns to dust in our mouths. In this place you can’t leave the table until thirty minutes after you eat. That’s the rule.
At Mum’s hospital I pressed the wrong button in the lift once and we ended up on this floor that was like a museum with glass cases full of old surgical instruments and stuff. They looked more like tools for fixing cars to me. I used to have nightmares about those instruments.
Mum had electric shock treatment. Bzzzzz … Bzzzz …
I wasn’t supposed to know that but Aunty Kay let it slip one day when we were having a milkshake at the hospital café. Electric shocks
were going to make her better, she said. Electric shocks? How bizarre. I used to imagine the doctors forcing her fingers into the electric plug and her hair standing on end like in the cartoons.
When Mum came home from hospital she was a different person. She didn’t lie about in bed all day any more but she was like a robot. Dad said it was the drugs and just ‘give it a couple of months and she’ll be right as rain’. But she looked so vacant, like no one was home. Even her hair looked weird and when she smiled it was only her mouth because her eyes were blank holes. Blankety blank. Everything in slow motion. Hey, Mum. Knock, knock. Who’s there?
‘Go away and leave me alone.’
She didn’t get mad like she used to. She didn’t cover her ears or lose her temper or slouch off to the bedroom when Matt played with the pots any more. Nothing like that. The trouble was, she didn’t get anything. She just smiled this fake robot smile and cleaned the house. One day I watched her cleaning the bench. Wipe, wipe, wipe with the dishcloth on the same spot, over and over, gazing into nothingland. Where are you, Mum? I wanted to scream. Where the heck are you?!!!
Her pills were in a line on the windowsill above the sink. Dad used to say if they tipped her up she’d rattle. He tried to make a joke of it but it was hard to laugh.
The pills made her fat and her face went into a different shape – like a potato. They made her forget things, too. Important things. Like, one day she forgot to pick me up from school. In the junior school you’re not allowed to leave until someone collects you. And because Mum didn’t arrive I had to stay on the mat until the last kid left and then Mrs Clayton took me to the office and phoned home. She waited for ages, tapping her long nails on the desk and pursing her lips to let me know she had more important things to do – looking at her watch every two seconds. But there was no answer. So then she phoned Dad’s work and he came racing over – grumpy, but pretending not to be.
At home Mum was fast asleep on the couch with Matt crying his head off in his bedroom. Matt’s face was blotchy red like he’d been bawling for hours but Mum hadn’t heard a thing.
Dad was really mad at first but he soon calmed down. When Mum woke up she burst into tears. I had a sore tummy after that – every day my tummy felt like something bad was about to happen.
Dad tried to explain. He said that Mum still wasn’t well and that she felt sad most of the time, which I didn’t understand. Why was she sad? I had so many questions. Like why and how come and when was she going to get better?
Dad couldn’t answer most of them. He said it had something to do with having the baby, so I asked if she was sad after having me as well and Dad said yes, a little bit, and I said well, what did she go and have another baby for then?
And Dad just shrugged.
Some days were better than others. Some days Mum seemed fine and others were write-offs. She couldn’t cope with anything going wrong.
Like, for example, not long after Mum came home from hospital our fridge broke down. We got home from school and the ice cream was all melted and the frozen veg were soggy and there was blood dripping from the mince. So we took everything out, put it on the bench and waited for Dad to come home. Dad said there was no point mucking around because once a fridge broke down it was just as cheap to get a new one. So we all traipsed into town to choose a new fridge. The man said the new fridge would be delivered the next day and they’d take the old one away for nothing.
When I got home from school the next day I couldn’t wait to see our new fridge. I’d been thinking about it all day. But Mum was sitting at the table with her head in her hands like something bad had happened. And there were two fridges in the kitchen – the new one and the old one. Side by side. I asked her why they hadn’t taken the broken fridge away and she said they didn’t take it away because there turned out to be nothing wrong with it. A fuse had blown, that was all, which meant there was nothing wrong with the original fridge.
I still couldn’t work out why we now had two fridges. And I don’t think Mum could either. She just sat there with her head in her hands like the whole world was coming to an end.
When Dad got home he just laughed. I should have checked all that out, he said. Oh well, not to worry.
Dear Jo,
Breaking news – Ashley King has broken up with Ben Spooner. What a drama. Only two weeks to go and now she has no partner. I’m beginning to think a blind date is not such a bad idea after all. At least you can’t have an argument and stuff everything up. Well, not before the big night anyway.
Hey, and guess what my first assignment for the newspaper is? A full report on the formal. I’m allowed to take the school’s digital camera along to get some candid shots, which might be fun. And at least I’ll have something to do if it gets boring. My job is to take the pictures and there’s a Year Twelve guy called Tim who’s going to do the text. He’s quite cute really, in a slightly nerdy kind of way.
Oh, and my mystery man has finally been revealed. He’s called Mike Maxwell. I feel more nervous than ever knowing his name. Mike Maxwell? What do you think?!
We are going as a foursome with Kathy Symons and a guy called Rodney who is Mike Maxwell’s friend and Mum says I have to start looking forward to it and stop fretting about you not being there. (Which is all very well for her to say!)
I don’t know what Kathy Symons is like. All I know is that she’s number two on the tennis ladder and she’s got an older brother called Malcolm in Year Thirteen who plays in the school orchestra.
Oh, one good thing: she’s offered her place for pre-formal cocktails, which gives me an excuse to get Mum off my back. I know she’s been champing at the bit to do it but I’d rather keep my family on the sidelines, at arms length, and as far away from the action as possible.
Meredith is getting on my nerves and if I hear one more word about the great formal of 2000 I will run away and join a travelling science fair. You are so lucky to have a brother, Jo. Sisters are the pits, especially older ones who’ve done everything before you have and of course it was so much better when they did it. They both had proper dates to start with! (Not blind ones, like me.) Or, so they keep saying.
Anyway, they forget that I’ve actually seen their formal photos and the guys don’t look that shit hot to me. Kate’s wasn’t too bad but the guy Meredith went with looks like something out of the new King Kong movie.
Must go.
Take care, Jo.
>
Luv, Issy
P.S. Special treat! Mum bought me make-up the other day. It was kind of like shopping for my first bra! A mother/daughter bonding session – well, so Mum kept saying, and I suppose it was quite sweet. I have to say the cosmetics department was an eye-opening experience. Far out! Do you have any idea how complicated choosing make-up is? Mascara technology would blow you away for starters. I had to choose between – volume building, double extension, lash expansion, extreme curl and wide eye. And here’s me thinking it was all just black gook to make your lashes look longer. (Not that you’ll get to see much from behind the glasses anyway. Kate reckons I should get contact lenses but I think I’d be too squeamish to put them in.)
P.P.S. I can absolutely identify with Dot not liking her name. I feel the same about Isabelle. Like, if I hear one more joke about ‘is a bell necessary on your bike?’ I’ll scream. Isabelle sounds so old-fashioned and Isabella would have been much nicer. Then I could have been called Bella.
Dear Mr Morrison,
I am sorry to report that your daughter isn’t making the progress we’d hoped. Unfortunately, there has been no significant weight gain and we feel there is more to Johanna’s problems than we are currently aware. We understand that you are keen to visit but she refuses to see you. This must be difficult.
To make an appointment to discuss your daughter, please contact me at the phone number below.
Yours sincerely,
Neville Fraser (Dr)
Dear Jo,
This is new. It’s called chocolate filled red liquorice. It’s really yummy and cost a whole week’s pocket money so please don’t be sick after you eat it.
Love from,
Matt
P.S. I am doing a project on your thing at school and I got some stuff off the Internet about it. Did you know that some famous people like Mary-Kate Olsen have had anorexia nervosa? And there are loads of other movie stars and models and singers too.
The things you get are – losing weight quickly, knowing how many calories are in everything, exercising all the time and always talking about how fat you are. (I hope Mrs Jordan hasn’t got it because she’s always talking about how fat she is!!)
The things to help are – throwing out the scales, writing down ten things you like about yourself, going for a walk, seeing a movie, wearing clothes that are comfortable and accepting compliments.
Well, that’s what the magazine said. P.P.S. You are looking really nice today, Jo.
P.P.P.S. Oh, and this was in the magazine too.
Mary-Kate and Anorexia
While we, like many of you, are upset that we didn’t get the chance to see Mary-Kate and Ashley here in New Zealand this July, we’re very happy that Mary-Kate is now getting help and is on the road to recovery…
Ashley says, ‘I am very proud of my sister Mary-Kate for dealing with her problem. She is in a safe and nurturing environment and getting well. We have been incredibly touched by the tremendous outpouring of support and understanding from our friends, colleagues and fans around the world…
‘Mary-Kate did a very brave thing by admitting there was something wrong with her and she needed help. It can be very difficult to admit you need help, so we admire her for that. We hope other girls who might also be suffering from this illness will be inspired to take Mary-Kate’s lead and reach out for help.’
Dear Matt,
Thanks for all the information and also for the chocolate, which was totally delicious and I promise I wasn’t sick after it because you’re right, that would be a waste. Did you get that Martin Wainwright guy sorted out yet? I don’t think it’s fair that someone should have first dibs on the cheese and paper towels in your cooking (whoops, I mean food technology!) class. Does he have some secret deal going with the teacher?
How are the kittens doing? Do they have names yet and do they still look like rats? I miss Sushi a lot but I do have a spider in my room, which is nice. Her name is Charlotte. Not quite as much fun as Sushi but she’s interesting to watch.
Hope you are well.
Luv,
Jo
P.S. Why don’t you do a project on spiders? That’d be far more interesting. For example, did you know that spiders have lived on this earth for more than three hundred million years?
Dear Issy,
I feel like I’m stuck in some weird movie. Some days don’t feel real. Like, I’m trapped and I don’t know how to get out of my own way. When I feel like this it’s comforting to know that you are out there carrying on with your normal life – going to Science, getting fed up with Meredith, doing Pilates, eating sausage rolls and stuff. I know it sounds barmy but I would give anything to be normal again. I just don’t know where to start.
Untitled
Drunk on water,
high on air
reduce
refine
dissolve
maybe even disappear
like shadows
or whispers
or echoes in the night.
F.C.
D,
Post-natal depression. That’s what Mum had. That was her label. Post-natal depression? It sounded like something off the weather forecast to me.
It’s funny how your memory works. I mean, there must be a hundred million moments stored inside your head but you remember only a few. That’s the weird part – like, which bits do you remember and why? And how can two people from the same family have completely different memories of the same event? Like, Matt doesn’t remember any of the yucky things about Mum at all. Why is that? Maybe he’s just a nicer person than I am.
The question is: is it because you’re a happy person to start with that you only remember the happy things or is it because you focus on the happy things that you become happy? Huh??!!
I was five when Matt was born and nine when Mum left home, which means she must have been sick for about four years. But there were good times as well.
Like when we borrowed Mrs Jordan’s caravan and went camping, for example. It was during the Christmas holidays and Dad had time off work and the weather was brilliant – hot and sunny every day. We parked the caravan near a river and set up camp by these willow trees. Dad strung some rope between the trees to dry the clothes and we had this real dinky bath that he made using the chilly bin and a plastic bag. And it didn’t rain once during the whole week except for a tiny little bit at night. I only remember that because Dad kept skiting about it afterwards. There was no one else around, except for us and a couple of fishermen on the other side of the river, and I wanted that holiday to go on forever and ever.
Mum read magazines in her deckchair with sun cream on her nose while Matt slept in his cot in the awning. And Dad took me fishing with the rod I got for Christmas. He caught a rainbow trout one day, but it didn’t look that colourful to me. (There I go again – expecting too much as usual.) One day he took me down the river on our Lilo. We went for miles and miles just drifting along until we got to the bridge and then the current got too strong so we had to walk back. But it took ages walking and I lost my jandal and …
Anyway, when we got back Mum had all the washing done. She was proud of that – having all the washing done and the potatoes peeled.
We cooked all our food on the barbeque and Dad made these cute ring things to cook the eggs in by cutting the ends off a fish tin. I remember Mum saying she could live there full-time if she had to and Dad laughing and kissing the top of her head.
One night, after tea, Dad took me eeling. We waded through the long grass, over to the bridge. Then we found a good spot, dropped the bait in and watched. But the water was so dark and deep that I couldn’t wait to get back to the caravan. I held Dad’s hand tight and was glad we didn’t catch any eels. I really don’t think I could’ve swum there again if we had. In fact, I still shiver when I think about that water.
Dear Jo,
The senior formal is tomorrow night. Mum has just taken up the hem on my dress. This is what the finished product looks l
ike. Wish me luck,
Issy
Dear Issy,
Your posh frock looks stunning. You will look gorgeous and the formal will be utterly fabulously fantastic. Don’t forget I want ALL the gory details!!! Every single one.
Good luck.
Luv,
Jo
Dear Mum,
Do you remember that holiday we had in Mrs Jordan’s caravan?
D,
Do you know what it’s like to be nine years old? All you want is to be the same as everyone else. So, when you bring your friends home you don’t want your mum carked out, red-eyed, on the couch, do you? And you don’t want her arriving at the school cake stall with burnt muffins, either. Well, I didn’t.
Yesterday Leon and I were talking about mothers. He reckons I should be grateful that Mum even bothered to try because his Mum was always at work – too busy for anything. I felt bad after that. He’s right, you know. I really am an ungrateful cow.
D,
One day last year Aunty Kay came down again from Timaru with Uncle Brian and baby Zak. This time we all went to McDonald’s for lunch. Zak sat in his high chair chucking chips everywhere, which, for some reason, everyone thought was hilarious. I tried to ignore how happy they all were. I tried to ignore the way Dad looked at Aunty Kay too, like he was thinking about someone else. I tried to ignore everything and concentrate on food.