She was still there when I got back, still sitting there, grinning away. I walked towards her, trying to ignore her, trying to keep my temper under control. And if she’d said nothing, I don’t think I would have done anything, I really don’t – except maybe given her a filthy look.
If only she’d kept quiet.
But she didn’t. She watched me as I walked towards her, and then she said, in this horrible pretending-to-care voice, ‘Hey Liz, have you been crying?’
And that did it. Something came racing up inside me like a tidal wave. I lifted the plastic container of milk and I rammed it down onto her legs as hard as I could, and then I turned and ran. I bolted in our gate and up the path and around to the back of the house, right down to the bottom of the garden.
My heart was thumping really loudly, and my hands were shaking – I had to wrap them right around the milk to keep from dropping it. It was a cold morning, I could see my breath coming out in fast little puffs, but I didn’t dare go into the house. I was afraid Ruth Wallace’s parents would come banging at the door, looking for me.
After a while I had to move, I was so cold. I walked up the garden on legs I could hardly feel and opened the back door, sure that Mrs Wallace would be inside, waiting for me. But there was nobody there except Dad, wondering why I’d taken so long. No sign of the Wallaces at all.
All through breakfast, which I had to force myself to eat, I kept waiting to hear the doorbell. When it finally rang, I almost fell out of my chair, but it was just the boy who delivered our paper, looking for his money. While Dad was talking to him, I crept into the sitting room and peeped through the window.
Nobody in next door’s garden, no sign of anyone. No shouts of anger coming from the house. Nobody storming out and turning in our gate with a face like thunder. I couldn’t understand it.
And now it’s almost bedtime, and I haven’t dared to put my nose outside the door all day. Chloe came around after lunch and we watched a film with Colin Farrell in it, and I haven’t a clue what it was about, because all I could see was my arm lifting up the milk and bringing it down with a thump on Ruth Wallace’s useless legs.
I wish I could start today all over again. I wish I could rub it out and begin again.
I wish Mam was here now. I know I was mad at her for not coming home, but it’s only because I miss her so much. Sometimes it feels like a real pain, right in the middle of me, where I think my heart must be. Other times it’s like I’m empty, as if someone came along and held me upside down for a while and let everything fall out.
That’s how it feels when your mother leaves, Ruth Wallace.
I wish this was all a crazy kind of dream, and I could wake up and Mam would be there with my breakfast on a tray, like she used to do some weekend mornings, with a soft boiled egg and brown toast soldiers, or a bowl of lump-free porridge topped with a blob of blackcurrant jam. I wish I had magical powers like Harry Potter, and I could wave my wand and change everything back to how it used to be.
I wrote this text to Mam a while ago:
Hit Ruth Wallace on legs with milk. Please help.
– but then I got scared, and deleted it. I can’t tell Mam what I did. I can’t tell anyone.
I hope to God Ruth Wallace is OK.
Just before dinner, Tuesday, 4th January.
This is weird. It’s been four days since I attacked Ruth Wallace, and absolutely nothing has happened. What is going on? Why has nobody come around to demand an explanation?
And why haven’t I seen any sign of Ruth in the last four days? Where is she?
I can only think of two possible explanations. One is that she’s dead, or at least so badly injured that she can’t tell anyone who did it. I try not to think about that one.
The other is that she’s OK, and she just didn’t tell anyone what I did – but that doesn’t make sense. Surely Ruth Wallace would be delighted to have an excuse to get me into trouble – and surely I gave her the perfect excuse, didn’t I? I assaulted her. I attacked a helpless invalid with a full litre of milk.
Like I said, it’s weird.
Maybe she’s doing this on purpose – staying out of the way just to scare me. Well if she is, her plan is working brilliantly. I can’t sleep at night, thinking about what might be happening next door.
And I can hardly eat – well, just bits of things. Yesterday I had half a Weetabix, two mandarin oranges, three fish fingers, a few spoonfuls of Ben & Jerry’s and a bowl of popcorn. (Well, I was starving by bedtime, so I had to come up with something quick, and it was the popcorn you do in the microwave.)
Dad keeps asking me if I’m OK. Imagine what he’d say if I told him what I’d done.
Mam spent Christmas with Enda and George in a log cabin that George’s family owns in some mountains. She says it was raining most of the time, but they went walking a lot. She’s back at work now. So is Dad, so I have the house to myself every day until next Monday, when I go back to school.
Chloe is in Kerry till the weekend.
I haven’t seen Bumble since the lunch in Nosh. I wonder how his big romance is getting on. I wish we were still best friends, and I could tell him about Ruth. He’s probably the only person in the world who wouldn’t be shocked and horrified.
So what else is new? I’ve been sending a few texts, trying to get used to it, but I’m still really slow. I think you’re supposed to leave out most of the vowels, so I sent this one to Dad a few days ago:
Jst prctsng
And he texted me back with this:
Next time try English.
Yesterday I sent Mam this one:
Hpy Nw Yr frm Lz.
I suppose it did look a bit like Chinese, but Mam understood it. This was her answer:
Same 2 u xxx
It’s no use – I can’t think about anything else except Ruth Wallace. Hang on – Dad just called upstairs that I’m wanted on the phone. It can’t be Mam – it’s too early for her.
Later
You won’t believe who it was – Chris Thompson.
He wants to meet me. I’m in shock. He got my number from Bumble. Did you get that? He asked Bumble for my number.
My hands are shaking. I can hardly write. My heart is hammering. I hope my voice didn’t wobble when I was talking to him. I can hardly remember what we talked about.
We’re going to the cinema, on Friday night – God, that’s only three days away. He told me what’s on, but I can’t remember. I won’t be able to concentrate on a minute of it anyway, with him sitting beside me.
Oh my God – what if he puts his arm around me? What if anyone sees us? Am I supposed to slap his face if he tries anything, or what?
OK Liz, get a grip. It’s only a date.
Oh my God – a DATE. My first ever date – and with a really cute guy too. Did I mention his gorgeous dimple? And how amazing he was in Grease?
I feel faint. Maybe I’d better eat something.
Much later
I couldn’t eat more than two bites of Dad’s macaroni cheese. He felt my forehead and asked me if I was OK. I told him it was my time of month, which shut him right up.
Between Ruth Wallace and Chris Thompson, I’m probably going to fade away from starvation, or collapse from lack of sleep.
God, I’ve just thought of something else. Do I pay for myself at the cinema, or does he? Or do I sort of pretend to want to pay, and is he supposed to jump in and insist on doing it? How does anyone know what to do in these situations? Who makes up the rules, and where can I read them?
I want Mam. She phoned while Dad and I were washing up, but I couldn’t tell her – I just couldn’t say it on the phone. I wanted to sit beside her and look at her face, and ask her a million questions. And of course I couldn’t tell her about attacking Ruth Wallace either – another thing I had to keep from her.
And I can’t call Chloe to ask about Chris, because I don’t know the number in Kerry, and Chloe is the only other person in Ireland without a mobile phone. Bugger. Not that Chl
oe would be any help really though – she’s never had a date either – but at least I could talk to her about it.
Catherine Eggleston would be able to give me loads of tips, but I’d rather eat maggots on toast than ask her.
And oh God, what do I do if Chris tries to kiss me? I have no idea how to kiss anyone, apart from my parents and Granny Daly, and something tells me this is going to be very different. Now I really feel sick. Maybe I’ll ring him and tell him I have an infectious disease and I’ve been forbidden to go outside for at least three years.
But then I’d just have to go through all this again the next time somebody asked me out – that’s if anyone else ever does – so maybe I should just get it over with now.
I haven’t told Dad yet. Obviously he knows about Chris calling, because he answered the phone. Although he didn’t ask me who it was afterwards, which I thought was very nice of him – he was probably dying to know. Or maybe he just assumed it was Bumble.
I’ll tell him I’m meeting a school friend at the cinema, which is true, sort of. He might be going out himself on Friday night with Marjorie – oh God, what if they go to the cinema too? Imagine if we all met up in the foyer. I think I’d die.
It’s past midnight. I’d better go to bed, although I know I won’t sleep. My head is bursting with worry and excitement.
Can you believe I actually forgot about Ruth Wallace for a while there? I’ve just remembered her again now.
I don’t know what’s more terrifying, being arrested for murdering your neighbour or going on your first date.
Next morning.
She’s in hospital.
Ruth Wallace is in hospital, and I’m to blame.
Dad told me at breakfast, just a while ago. (Of course I was up in time to have breakfast with him before he went off to work – I didn’t fall asleep till around two, and I woke before seven.) I got such a shock when he said it, I almost choked on my Weetabix. He had to thump me on the back.
When I could talk again, I asked him what was wrong with Ruth, hoping he’d say a chest infection, or a fractured skull, or something, but he said, ‘She’s having some kind of operation on her legs, I think,’ and I had to drop my spoon on the floor so I could disappear under the table for a minute.
It’s definitely my fault. It has to be.
When I came back up, I asked Dad if he knew what hospital Ruth was in, and he said no, and then he gave me a funny look, so I stopped talking about Ruth and tried to finish my Weetabix, which tasted even more like straw than it usually does.
And now Dad’s gone to work, and I’m trying to find the courage to do what I have to do.
I have to find out which hospital she’s in. I have to ring the bell at the Wallaces’ house and ask whoever comes to the door which hospital Ruth is in.
And then I have to go and see her, and I have to tell her I’m sorry for attacking her with the milk. If I don’t, I’ll never sleep or eat again, and they’re two things I really enjoy doing.
Right, better get it over with. Wish me luck. If this diary stops suddenly, you’ll know it’s because I’m in prison.
Later
Thank goodness Ruth’s nice brother Damien answered the door. I was really hoping he would.
He smiled and said, ‘Hello Liz,’ when he saw me, and didn’t try to slam the door in my face, which I was half expecting. (So it does look like Ruth hasn’t told anyone what I did, which I still can’t understand, but which I’m not going to worry about right now.)
I told Damien that I’d heard Ruth was in hospital, and that I’d like to go and see her. I still felt a bit scared that he was going to tell me to get lost, since I was the one who’d put her there, but he didn’t. He said, ‘Hey, that’s really nice of you,’ which of course made me feel ten times guiltier, and then he told me which hospital she was in.
It wasn’t until I got back here that I realised I never asked him how she was.
I’ll go to see her tomorrow, which is Thursday, because this is one of those things that will only get harder the longer I put it off – and because I don’t want it hanging over me when I meet Chris on Friday.
The only good thing about being so worried about Ruth is that I haven’t time to worry about Chris.
I’ll take some apples with me – I’ll pick the least wrinkly ones out of the fruit bowl. I’ll tell her that I’m sorry.
Even writing it down makes me want to get sick. The thought of walking into her room, or ward, or wherever she is, makes my stomach do a flip-flop. But I have to.
What’ll she say? I have no idea. Maybe she’ll start shouting at me to go away and leave her alone, and a nurse will come running over to see what all the noise is about, and Ruth will tell her what I did, and the nurse will look at me as if I’m a criminal and make me leave the hospital, probably march me off with a hand on my arm, like the store detective in Boots, and everyone will be looking at me.
Or maybe Ruth will be too weak to say anything. Maybe she’ll just give me a filthy look with her dying eyes. I think that would probably be worse.
I wish I could talk to someone about this, but who? Not Dad, definitely. I absolutely can’t tell him – he’d hit the roof. And not Chloe – I’m not sure that she’d understand.
Bumble would understand, but he’d probably tell Catherine Eggleston, and she’s the last person I’d want to know.
I’d tell Mam, if she was here face to face. But not on the phone. I can’t say it on the phone, I can’t text it, I can’t email it. If only she was here.
Have I mentioned how much I miss her?
Ten to eight, next day.
Well, I did it – it’s over. It was probably the hardest thing I ever had to do in my life so far, but at least it’s over now.
Here’s what happened. I set off after lunch – I mean after the half banana that was all I could eat. (I wonder how much weight I’ve lost over the past week?)
It took me just under an hour to walk to the hospital. I could have got a bus, but it was quite a nice day – and I wasn’t exactly in a hurry to arrive.
It was a quarter to three by the time I got there. I hadn’t even thought about visiting hours, but there was a big notice just inside the main door saying they were between one thirty and three o’clock, so that was OK.
I figured a quarter of an hour would be more than enough. Two minutes would have been more than enough.
The hospital smelt like bleach and rashers. I tried to make myself look as old as possible, in case they had a rule about not allowing children in, but the woman behind the desk didn’t seem too bothered about my age, just told me where to go when I said I’d come to see Ruth Wallace.
I wondered if Ruth had a room to herself, but I was too nervous to ask.
I had to go up two flights of stairs. I could have taken the lift, but lifts make me want to throw up, and since I already felt a bit like that I thought I’d better stick to the stairs. There were loads of people walking about, some just in dressing gowns and slippers.
I didn’t see anyone in a wheelchair.
Halfway up the second flight of stairs, I suddenly remembered that I’d forgotten to bring the apples from the fruit bowl. I thought about going back down to the hospital shop and getting something there, but when I checked my pockets I only had sixty-seven cents, and I was pretty sure I wouldn’t get anything for that.
Anyway, maybe when you were visiting someone to apologise for assaulting them, you weren’t supposed to bring them a present. Maybe that was what Granny Daly would call ADDING INSULT TO INJURY.
When I got to the second floor I looked for room 23A. My tummy was flip-flopping like anything, and my legs felt pretty wobbly. I tried taking a few deep breaths, but that just made me feel like I was eating bleach-flavoured rashers.
The door of 23A was closed, so I gave a little knock and waited. I didn’t hear anything, even when I pressed my ear up to it, but there was a lot of noise in the corridor, trolleys wheeling and people talking and cups clinking.
In the end, I just opened the door a bit and peeped in.
First I thought I must have got the wrong room, because there was a girl I didn’t recognise in the bed. She was facing the door and she looked very pale, and when she saw me she closed her eyes. I was just about to say ‘sorry’ and back out when I saw the end of a second bed poking out from behind a curtain, and my heart began to thump all over again.
I walked over to the curtain and peeped around.
Ruth Wallace looked at me and I looked at her, and for what seemed like ages none of us said anything. I was too busy trying to find the right words, and she was probably too gobsmacked.
At least she didn’t look like she was dying. She was a bit pale, but not ghostly white. She did look small though, smaller than when she sat in her wheelchair, and not half as tough. I think it was the first time I had seen her without a hat on. I could see the pink of her head under her hair.
There was something big under the bedclothes around where her legs were, like a frame or something – probably to keep people like me from whacking them again.
At last I opened my mouth and ‘I came to see you’ was what fell out. Which I know was pretty idiotic, but it was all I could think of.
Ruth Wallace blinked once, and that was all she did. Her face was blank – she didn’t look cross, or sad, or anything. Just small and thin, with that big boxy shape around her legs.
There was a tube of something going into the back of one of her hands, and a white plastic-looking strip around the same wrist, like a skinny bracelet, with something written on it that I couldn’t read.
Then I said, ‘I’m sorry I hit you with the milk.’ Quietly, so the girl in the next bed wouldn’t hear me.
And all the time, my heart was pumping away in my chest, and my tummy was doing somersaults. And then, because Ruth was still just looking blankly at me, I said the next thing that popped into my head, which was ‘I forgot to bring you anything’.
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