I’ve got yet another headache. I shove down some painkillers and a pint of water and bump Rose’s buggy down the stairs. By the last flight, my arms are shaking really badly, and for a moment I am terrified I won’t be able to hold on to the buggy, but I make it into the sunshine which is too bright – I don’t care if it’s supposed to be summer or not. Even the tarmac is sweating.
I managed to get another loan from a different company last night, to pay off the first one and have some left over, but what started as a few quid has now spawned debt babies all over the place, a whole roomful of them. I queue at the benefits office for an hour to find out what’s going on with my claim, only to be told it’s still being processed.
‘What am I supposed to do about food?’ I say.
‘We could refer you to a food bank,’ the man behind the counter says.
He’s barely older than me, red in the face over a nasty tie that looks like he last wore it to school. There’s no sympathy in his eyes, only a glazed kind of boredom that whispers, ‘Get me out of here’ with an undercurrent of terror because he’s seen us lot in here, knows how bad it can get if he loses his job. Probably has targets to hit.
I could feel sorry for him. I choose not to.
I have to give all sorts of details, including Joanna’s, which makes me pause, but now I’ve started it seems too late to stop in case he reports me anyway.
If only Dad would respond to my texts. I could phone Mum, but I guess I’m too proud or whatever. Sue me.
I walk through town and watch the crowds stream past. I assess the sizes of the women. I don’t care about the men. No one looks at me twice. Now, with the buggy, I’m just another teenage mum, invisible to everyone except those who get a kick out of disapproving. Nobody sees me with Rose in tow, only her and what I represent: a lazy, hopeless scrounger who had a baby to get the benefits.
The food bank is up a maze of alleyways between houses set at a slant on a steep hill not a million miles away from the unit. The sun is hot on my back and I’m struggling to breathe when I get to the top. Dots gather at the edge of my vision. I fight them, but they’re getting stronger, and I have to lean over the buggy and hold on for several minutes until they pass. When I straighten up, my whole body shakes.
Inside, a woman in her thirties with a mass of laughter lines around her eyes welcomes me.
‘Hello, I’m Vi. You look like you could use a sit-down and a glass of water.’ She goes off and gets one, then sits next to me. ‘And who’s this?’
‘Rose,’ I say.
‘What a beautiful name. She’s lovely.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, even though I didn’t have anything to do with it. It seems the done thing, and Vi has a level of warmth – genuine warmth – you don’t see that much.
‘So, do you have a form?’
I hand it over.
‘Lovely. Well, we can certainly sort you out with a few things. We have some nappies and wipes too,’ she says. She begins to load my buggy up with bags of stuff: tins of economy beans and pasta and tomatoes, nappies, tea bags, some shower gel and toothpaste, formula.
‘I think we have a little chocolate too,’ Vi says.
It seems rude to refuse so I let her put it in. I don’t quite know whether to feel ashamed, relieved or sad. I settle for smiling gratefully.
‘Would you like a cup of tea before you go?’ Vi says.
I nod, suddenly close to tears.
She brings one and settles in a seat next to me. ‘I don’t mean to pry, and of course you don’t need to tell me anything, but occasionally it helps to share, if you have anything on your mind?’
‘Doesn’t everyone, if they’re in here?’ It comes out with more acid in it than I wanted. I can’t seem to help myself. I want to pull it back, to tell her I am grateful, but she doesn’t seem to care.
She smiles. ‘Yes, I suppose they do.’ She makes no move to ask me any more questions, but sits with me in silence while I drink the tea.
I asked her to put a sugar in it, for the way back, and as I sip the last sugary dregs, I hear Nia stir and sigh, like a coiled snake.
I want to talk to her, this nice woman who seems like she has some time for me, but I don’t know how. I form different sentences, but everything feels too complicated and they end up sliding away before I can get them out.
‘Thank you,’ I say in the end, and stand up.
‘Any time. You can come back to us again if you need to.’ She puts one hand on my arm and a brief frown passes over her face. ‘You remember to look after yourself too, as well as Rose.’ She really means it.
I turn away fast, before she can see the look on my face.
My phone goes off as I’m careering back down the hill, trying not to let the buggy go. I’m counting the steps like always, to forget about the food bank and money and Robin. I put the brakes on and sit on a wall to catch my breath, drink some water.
Maybe it’s Dad, finally.
But it isn’t. It’s Laurel. I emailed her my new number the other day.
‘Hey.’ Her voice is small and high, like a little girl.
‘Hey. How are you? You out of hospital?’
‘Yes,’ she whispers. ‘They kept me in a few nights then sent me home. I’m at the park in the Yewlings. Are you at home?’
‘On my way back now.’
‘I thought I’d check, before …’
She means before she climbs all those stairs, I realise. What sort of state is she in?
‘Are you OK?’ I say.
‘Yes. You must be busy. I’ll go.’
‘No, don’t. I’ll be half an hour. Stay put, all right?’
‘Yes.’
I hang up.
I’m not sure if she’s still going to be there or not, but when I reach the park, she’s huddled into one of the swings, a ball of oversized jumper, with nothing much inside.
I wave and she raises one hand, then drops it back to her lap. I listen to a squeak that’s developed on one of the buggy wheels as I go over, counting footsteps so I don’t need to really take her in until the last minute.
It is and isn’t a shock. She’s booked herself a ticket back to a unit, and it looks one way to me. I see Molly on the floor again, the nurse slamming her hand down hard on her chest.
I turn my head to one side, trying to dislodge the memory, and say, ‘How are you?’
‘Fine.’
Her voice is disappearing. And I have nothing to say to her. I scan my mind, sitting on the swing. I don’t try and swing this time, but keep my feet planted on the ground, arms ready to catch her if she goes off. Or let her fall, I don’t know which. I’m angry with her too.
‘Do you remember Molly’s jazz?’ Laurel says.
‘Yeah, course. Who could forget?’ I say, and smile a little because Molly’s playing was awesome. She was so talented. Grief lands like some creature on my chest and burrows in, spreading tentacles out through my body. It bloody hurts. I swallow hard, drink some water. Keep breathing.
Rose is looking around, bright-eyed. She likes being outside.
‘Can I hold her?’ Laurel says.
I hesitate, then say, ‘Come over here then.’
We go over to a bench and I sit Laurel down, then pop Rose into her wasted arms. She smiles, looking down on Rose’s face.
‘She’s so beautiful. I can’t believe you made her with your body.’
Neither can I.
‘Yeah, maybe it’s good for something after all,’ I say.
It’s meant to be light-hearted, but Laurel’s eyes are huge and sad. She’s put on make-up, but it only serves to accentuate bone. Perhaps it was on purpose, who knows? Or maybe she is actually trying to cover up, to be normal, but it’s far, far too late.
I take Rose back when I sense Laurel’s getting tired. She sighs and straightens herself up.
‘Are you getting the bus back?’ I say.
‘No. I’ll walk.’
I want to argue, to tell her to just get the damn
bus, but I know she won’t listen. She’s retreated back into Planet Anorexia before she’s even kissed Rose goodbye. I watch her sudden burst of energy as she gets into a rhythm and wonder if I’ll see her again. Part of me is still jealous. Laurel turns her head to catch a glimpse of her reflection in a clapped-out car she passes. I wonder why she asked me here to the park, where we can only talk about days that are gone and people who won’t come back. Where Rose has split us on to two planets and I don’t know any more which one is my home, which one I want to belong to, so I float in space, weightless, veering first towards one, then pulling back again to the other. Why does Laurel even care?
But then, I see. I see her. It’s not about me, or even Rose. Laurel glances into another car window as she passes, brings her elbows up to check the narrowness of her shoulders. The air around her seems to shimmer, like in The Matrix. One minute I get a flash of her: slim, balletic, white. Control in motion. The next she’s horrific, a walking skeleton. I don’t think either of us knows which one it is any more. But I do know now what she’s after. She wants me to watch.
Because what’s the point of disappearing if no one’s around to notice?
Chapter 27
‘What do you think would happen if you didn’t have your eating disorder? What would life look like?’ Felicity has the flip chart out again.
I try to focus on what she’s saying, but all I can do is stare out of the window to where a magpie is pecking at the ground under a tree. I look around, but can only see one. I salute it anyway.
‘What are you doing?’
I nod towards the window. ‘One for sorrow.’
‘Yes.’
I turn back to Felicity. ‘Yes, what?’
‘Emotions. You would have to feel emotions. You would have to grow up, to take responsibility for your life. And that’s scary.’
My jaw tightens up and I feel my back teeth grind against each other, so tight they might crumble away. I imagine my bones, soft like playdough, easy to break. ‘What do you think I’ve been doing with Rose? I am taking responsibility for her life.’
‘Mmm. And is that the same thing?’
‘Anyway, what’s so great about emotions?’ I’m aiming for flippant, but it’s not coming. I keep thinking about Robin.
Felicity holds my gaze and it’s me who looks away first, down at Rose on my lap. The scales weren’t good today. Or they were excellent, depending on your perspective.
‘There’s love,’ Felicity says.
‘I do love her. I never knew how much I could love anybody before. But …’
‘Mmm?’
‘Is love something you feel or is it something you do?’
‘I think it’s both,’ Felicity says.
When I emerge, it’s raining. I don’t have a coat or a rain cover for Rose’s buggy, so I take my jumper off and loop that over the top. I can see the double bones of my wrist and my knuckles that look oversized compared to the flesh around them, white and streaming with water on the buggy handles. I think about the tipping point, like Laurel the other day, where the anorexia takes over and you’re gone. I remember Molly telling me not to fly so high I can’t get back.
What if I’m already there?
I turn my head up into the rain, trying to clear it, but everything is opaque, like the world is going into monochrome. My chest hurts. My pelvis grinds. Walking sends hard stabs of pain up my shins. Shin splints, that’s what they call them. And it feels it too, sometimes, that there’s something splintered inside. I go towards the shopping centre, because being anonymous in a crowd is better than being alone at the flat, having to stop myself from knocking on Robin’s door. I don’t look at the cherub clock when I go past, but I can feel it anyway, the ticking feeling inside.
Inside, I get a Starbucks and sit on a bench, feel the caffeine race through my bloodstream. I manage half a flapjack and the sugar sprints alongside the coffee. There’s a free soft-play area in the shopping arcade and I sit with Rose on the edge of a seat, watching her watch the children screaming and jumping from plastic cars. I knock back the dregs of my coffee, feeling a bit clearer. It will all be OK. It’s under control. Everything is fine. If I say it enough, it might even come true, like in fairy tales.
A group of girls a lot younger than me is coming towards me and I realise it’s past school kicking-out time. I wonder what I’d say if I got in touch with Sal or Natalie now.
‘That’s so basic,’ one girl says.
I don’t even know what language to speak any more. Actually, I suppose I never have. I never learned. I imagine myself, Rose free, Nia free, wandering around a shopping centre, talking about films and music and clothes. Eating a Maccie D’s without worrying about it, moaning about school and boys I like, and I could keel over with grief at everything I’ve missed and will never get back.
I stare at the girl, who’s wearing all black, a heavy fringe and very bright lipstick, and I realise she’s staring right back at me.
Plus, she’s not any girl out with her friends. She’s Tammy.
‘Later,’ she says to the others and walks slowly over to me. She takes Rose out of my arms and gives her a big kiss, then hands her back.
‘Hi,’ I say.
‘All right?’ Tammy sits next to me.
I think desperately of something to say.
‘How are you?’ I come up with, eventually. Sometimes I seriously despise myself.
She sniffs and shrugs in one movement. ‘Fine.’
‘Uhh … School all right? Friends?’
She snorts at this, like my attempt to be a big sister has come about seventeen years too late. She has a point.
But because this is me and I don’t let things go when I should, I say, ‘How are Mum and Dad?’
Tammy looks at me properly then, through her fringe. How can she have changed so much in just a few weeks? But she’s fourteen now. I should say sorry for missing her birthday, but it seems too late to apologise. Yet another example of my general crappiness as a sister. Maybe this is what fourteen-year-olds look like, what they do. How would I know?
‘You don’t know,’ she says, and for a moment I think she’s developed some voodoo mind-reading trick and is echoing my thoughts right back at me.
Her expression is hard.
‘Know what?’
‘Dad left. He’s been having an affair for years, turns out. He moved out a couple of weeks ago.’ I hear the ice in her voice. God, she sounds like me.
‘What?’ I say.
She looks at me. ‘Don’t know why you’re so surprised. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’
‘What the hell are you talking about? No. It’s not.’
Tammy shrugs again and stands up. ‘Got to go.’ She gives Rose another kiss on the forehead. Rose blinks. Then Tammy’s face softens, gets younger as she looks down at me. ‘Maybe you could take her to see Mum? She’s a bit … you know.’
I don’t know, but decide I ought to look like I do.
Tammy starts to walk off.
‘Take care of yourself,’ I call after her, feeling stupid.
She holds one arm up, either in a ‘yeah, OK’ or a ‘stop’ or a ‘go screw yourself’ gesture, and keeps going.
Chapter 28
I stand outside Robin’s door, hand raised. I’ve been getting these sudden impulses to knock on his door more and more, even though I know I shouldn’t. Inside I can hear voices, Robin’s low tone and then Jade answering. They both laugh and I drop my hand, turn away to lug the buggy down the stairs yet again.
Rose and me are going on an outing with Lois and Ethan. I don’t know why I got in touch with her really, only that everything feels so empty and not in a good way, not any more. I keep thinking about control and how it used to be so simple. Before, I loved that blank space it gave me, but now it feels like it goes down forever, like those underwater lakes you get at the bottom of an ocean.
I nearly called the whole thing off, but I was surfing the net and reading all these things
on parenting boards and realised I’ve never taken Rose anywhere much, if you discount the woods and the weekly thrill-fest which is my sessions with Felicity. So when Lois texted to ask if I wanted to come, I said yes. It’s something to do that isn’t sitting in the flat and not knocking on Robin’s door. And maybe … well, I like Lois.
Lois is waiting at the bottom of the road in an Audi, of all cars, and I realise I’ve never found out what she does for a living. I’ve never asked her anything much. Maybe I should.
We pack Rose and all her stuff in and twenty minutes later we’re on the way out of town.
Lois puts on some music and sings along. After a moment, I join in.
Lois falls silent and when the song finishes she glances over at me. ‘You have a lovely voice,’ she says.
‘Really?’ I never knew that. I like singing though.
I open the window and let the warm air rush over my head.
‘It’ll be autumn before we know it. I love it when the leaves are turning,’ Lois says.
I give her a sideways look. ‘Why?’
‘I suppose it gives me a sense of things changing, dying and making way for something new,’ she says.
I sit back in my seat. I never thought of it like that. I only ever saw naked branches and dead leaves. Molly liked autumn too. Maybe that’s why I feel so comfortable with Lois; she reminds me of Molly.
‘I’m thinking of going back to work early,’ Lois says.
‘Oh yeah? What do you do?’
‘I’m an accountant.’
‘You’re not!’
She takes her eyes off the road to look at me for a second again. ‘I certainly am. And I can tell you one thing: making the numbers work is far easier than looking after a baby.’
On second thoughts, maybe I like Lois because she doesn’t pretend. She tells it how it is. Unlike some. I think again of Robin, holding Ellis, and of Molly too.
‘I was supposed to have a whole year off, but that’s still twelve weeks away. Or eighty-four days if you want to –’
‘You count too!’ I twist round in my seat to face her. It seems really important, somehow.
‘I suppose so. Doesn’t everyone?’ Lois says in a light voice.
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