By the Time You Read This

by Lola Jaye

  “Suck in!” encouraged Erin. I did as told.

  “Don’t forget to exhale!” said Greg, and as I did they both fell into hysterics. It wasn’t that funny. Neither was the way my throat burned, which led to a fit of coughs, quickly reminding me of my first ever puff of a cigarette. I took another “toke” to make them happy before lying back and allowing them both to get on with the laughter that now racked their bodies.

  Miscellaneous: Sex, drugs and rock and roll

  I’m not naive enough to think you’ll never come across some of life’s darker sections. Life isn’t all yellow daisies and rainbows, however much we wish it could be.

  So, whether they’re offered to you or they’re just something “new” and “exciting” you feel has to be tried for the sake of it, decisions regarding sex and drugs made in a split second can change your life forever. So take time to really think about what you are doing. Because, whatever you decide, there are definite consequences. Hopefully, your personal values, what you’ve read in this manual and your own beliefs, will be of some benefit in knowing how you should handle things like sex and drugs. But just remember:

  Stay focused on what you want out of your life.

  Drugs: users are losers!

  You may want to think about the pill.

  Blues, Motown and rock and roll all came before the noise that is pop.

  That night, while everyone slept, I sneaked into the kitchen and devoured half a portion of blueberry pie, left over from dinner.

  I hated blueberry pie.

  A week before my return flight, I learned the news of Princess Diana’s death. I’d been in America almost three months, and the moment Erin rushed into my room to tell me was the first time I’d felt this silent pull to go back to a place that had never really felt like home.

  “I can’t believe it!” said Erin as we assembled for our usual midnight feast.

  “Me neither!” I replied numbly. Although hardly a royal watcher, I knew Mom would be upset. Not to mention Carla, who once modeled her short haircut on Princess Diana’s. I called Carla that night and she confirmed the story was true. Apparently, the television and radio stations were showing nonstop coverage. Programmings were canceled, people were openly crying in the streets, strangers who’d never even met her. I couldn’t quite get to grips with what Carla was saying but could be sure of one thing—two young children were grieving the loss of a parent, and that I knew all about.

  “I can’t believe it!” I said on the phone to Mom.

  “No one can. When are you coming home?”

  “I thought I’d already given you the date?”

  “I have it. I just want you home. All this business, it makes you think…”

  “I know.”

  And I did. But I had a matter of days left of my contract and felt it was important to honor it. I finally got off the phone to mom (who had now convinced herself she was about to lose me to the “wilds” of America) and went to find Greg in the grounds. He was sweeping up dead leaves, an early sign that fall was looming.

  “Hey, Greg!” I said, momentarily startled at how American I now sounded.

  He dropped the rake. “Lois.”

  I enveloped myself into his arms and sniffed his aftershave. You see, I knew. I knew that soon I would never see this man again. The first man I had ever had sex with. Perhaps a man I could have really loved.

  “You okay?” he asked, as I came up for air.

  “Yes, Greg.” And I was. Because at that moment I had accepted our fate. They always leave you in the end. Corey had. So, moving on from Greg and the farm was something I had probably begun to do the moment I arrived. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

  “Even though I don’t agree with the royal family as a concept, I think it’s tragic what happened to Diana.”

  “I know. And it feels really strange around here. I mean, earlier, some of the kids and even the director offered their condolences to me. It’s all a bit odd,” I said aimlessly.

  “Have you spoken to Cody?”

  Realization. “You mean Corey. And no, why would I?” I replied, a little too defensively, perhaps.

  “He’s in Paris too, right?”

  “Right,” I sighed. Greg was deep, yes. In tune with my feelings, yes. But he was still a man with a slight jealous streak and at that moment I regretted being so open with him about Corey.

  I looked up at Greg and decided to lie. “I haven’t even thought about Corey since coming here. But hey, thanks for reminding me…!”

  The last week of my Jump America experience came all too quickly. Erin was first to leave, and as she left for the plane trip to Seattle I listened to her empty promises.

  “I’ll write! And do you have email?”

  “No, I don’t.” Email was confined to Sixth Form College and no one I knew even owned a computer.

  “Then we’ll write. Promise?” she asked, her beautiful face longing for a response.

  “Promise,” I said emptily. As we exchanged addresses, I so wanted to believe that we would speak again, but it was hard. In my life, people had a habit of saying one thing and doing another.

  A few days later, Greg followed. And as we kissed on the steps, a cab waiting to dispatch him to the airport, deep down I knew this was definitely and without doubt the end of Us.

  “I’ll write,” he said.

  “Me too.”

  “Love you,” he said awkwardly.

  A pause followed. I suppose this was my moment to say it back. Solidify the last three months of our bond. But the words did not even float around my tummy, failed to even bubble to the surface of my mouth. Instead, I decided to quote a scene from that lovely movie Ghost, which the three of us had watched on video the night before.

  “Ditto.”

  I felt this flurry of excitement as his taxi moved off into the distance, because soon it would be my turn. I was going back to England. My home. And I couldn’t wait. I couldn’t wait for everyone to glimpse the new me and, quite bizarrely, I wanted to clutch onto the collective feeling that currently gripped the nation in regards to Princess Diana’s death. I wanted to be a part of that, of something, however strange that sounded. And the first person I wanted to see was my mom.

  I felt pumped with a strange exhilaration as I stepped off the flight that afternoon. As always, the clouds were gray and a cold breeze gripped me immediately. But I was home. As I walked past WH Smith, many newspapers and magazines emblazoned with images of the princess caught my attention. The gloom was everywhere, in the atmosphere, the gray skies, and in the faces of everyone I saw. In keeping with the new, independent me, I was keen to make my own way home and hoped the last bit of money I had left was enough to use a minicab. I was shattered, wanted a bath and needed my mom.

  The motorway was surprisingly clear. Passing through Knightsbridge, in the window of Harrods, a huge picture of the princess and Dodi Fayed decorated with flowers, a sad reminder of the events of the past two weeks.

  “Did you hear the news over there?” asked the cabby. He hadn’t asked where I’d traveled from but I suppose that was irrelevant. Not being in England at such a time would always be seen as being “over there.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Terrible. So terrible,” he said, shaking his head.

  “I still can’t believe it.”

  “You see someone almost every day, on telly, the papers…and then they’re just taken away. Just like that…It’s like—” the cab turned a corner. “It’s like you think they’re gonna last forever. Know what I mean?”

  “More than you think.”

  We made it back into Charlton—home—and I hadn’t enough money left to tip him. And then I remembered this wasn’t America.

  Turning the key into the lock, I immediately dumped my bags in the hallway and followed the sounds from the kitchen. Mom and the Bingo Caller stopped mid-sentence as I opened the door.

  “Hello there, Lois! I could have picked you up!” said the Bingo Caller, to which
I nodded my head sincerely. Mom had her back toward me, her hair more curly than usual and, slowly, she turned to greet me.

  “Lois! Come over here and give me a big hug!” she enthused, with a big gap-toothed smile. At that point, surprise rushes of emotion made me want to squeeze my mom really tight and let her know just how much I’d missed her. So I moved forward, arms outstretched before I felt all my excitement hitch a ride straight back out of my body.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, pointing to my mother’s tummy.

  “Oh, that…” she replied with a straight smile.

  “Your mother’s seven months pregnant,” added the Bingo Caller.

  “Pregnant?”

  I wanted to vomit, scream and pull each hair out of my head.

  Pregnant?

  At her age?

  With the Bingo Caller’s child?

  I sat down to steady myself.

  My mother was pregnant. My mother was pregnant. My mother was pregnant.

  “You okay, love?” asked Mom.

  Pregnant. I kept repeating this to myself like some weird mantra, thinking if I said it enough the reality of it would disappear. I managed to push myself out of that kitchen and over to the phone, which, thankfully, remained in the same spot near the banisters, but not before muttering some excuse about jetlag.

  “Yes, your mom’s up the spout. Now tell me about New York! The blokes. Did you go to Saks? Did you get me some sneakers? Well, actually, I would have preferred make-up, but anything will do.”

  “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

  “About?”

  “The pregnancy?”

  “Your mom told me not to mention it. She was worried for a start—you know, what with being in her mid-forties.”

  “It’s disgusting.”

  “My mom thinks it’s sweet,” she said absently.

  My mind remained a mish-mash of nothingness as Carla prattled on.

  My mother was pregnant.

  “Are you listening to me?” she snapped.

  “Carla, the world doesn’t revolve around you, I’ve just found out my mom is pregnant!”

  “And I’ve just found out my mom and dad are getting a divorce.”

  “What?”

  “You heard.”

  I lay back on my bed, mouth freeze-framed to “open,” unable to recognize the world I’d stepped back into. Princess Diana was dead, Mom was pregnant, and Carla’s parents were getting a divorce. I’d never even known anyone to get a divorce before. This world called England felt too alien to me and I suddenly longed for the simplicity of the farm and Greg’s fingers on my chest.

  That night, even The Manual failed to offer me the comfort I craved.

  believe in yourself

  Kevin Trivia: Your mom originally fancied Charlie when we first met, two days after my twenty-first. Said I was too much of a “show off.” Me?

  Miscellaneous: Siblings

  Your mom always wanted a large, large family and I was up for it too. Producing a soccer team of my very own (male and female)—the Waltons of South London, if you like. What I’m getting at is this: your mom might decide to have another child. Or two. I don’t know how old you’ll be if and when this happens, but I really hope, Lowey, that you’ll be mature enough to deal with it and not a) dunk its head in the toilet on a regular basis; b) dye his/her hair green just for laughs. (Charlie did that to me once. Not a good look.) I want you to remember that although she or he may not be a part of me, she’ll still be a part of YOU. By all means there’s nothing wrong with allowing them to do a few chores around the house and then claiming the credit, but it’s also up to you to look out for them, listen to their fears and be the big sister I know you can be. And if you become as close as Philomena and me, then you’re sorted. But don’t worry if you’re not. Ina and I were never close. Even now with the diagnosis and that, I have yet to see her, and on the phone things still feel a bit strained between us…but that’s another story. Having a brother or sister is great because being an only child can be lonely and I don’t want that for you.

  But I was happy being “lonely.”

  Had been most of my life, anyway (apart from having Dad’s Manual of course). I wasn’t about to allow this child’s imminent arrival to change anything. His or her impact on my life would be that of a feather dropped in an ocean. Never mind the constant banging as the Bingo Caller fixed up a cot in the spare room, or produced two rows of shelving over the old chest of drawers. I repeat, Mom’s kid would be making absolutely no impact on my life whatsoever.

  That was until she arrived one morning in full screaming glory, wrapped in a pink and white blanket and plonked into my arms, uninvited.

  We were at the hospital.

  “Isn’t she beautiful?” gushed the Bingo Caller as I gazed down at my so-called “sister,” looking a bit alien-like with her tiny head snuggled against my tummy, the blanket making my skin itch.

  My arm began to ache. “Yes…she’s, erm…lovely.”

  Amid gushes of pride and Mom informing anyone who’d listen just how painful the twenty-hour labor had been (and surprisingly more eventful than my thirty-hour one), my desire to escape grew stronger by the minute. But I was trapped. Forced to hold the pink and white blanket, inhale that disgusting hospital smell, while the world and his dog (minus Corey) popped in to have a look at a kid who, on closer inspection, resembled some sort of nocturnal garden creature—all wrinkly skin and oblong-shaped head. What can I say? The Sprog was nothing special, but for some reason Mom, the Bingo Caller, everyone, thought otherwise.

  “She is just like you!” gushed my best friend, as the male nurse did his party trick of fluffing Mom’s pillow at the same time as staring adoringly toward Carla. Even with the Sprog in her arms, she was beautiful. Her once short cropped hair now running down her shoulders, shrouding large red lips and eyelashes as thick as falsies. She’d also grown a few inches thanks to the skyscraper-type heels she now insisted on wearing. Although she’d always been beautiful, she was now “supermodel wife of a rock star” beautiful. Cow.

  “You think so?” gushed Mom.

  “No, I’d go for her dad. His eyes for a start! Just like Corey and his—” said Carla’s mom as the room switched to mute, except for the sound of the male nurse still fluffing Mom’s pillow, his eyes now resting on Carla’s mom’s bosoms. The choice of two sexy women, way too much for him, clearly. A picture of Greg and Corey flashed in my mind and I smiled with the knowledge that at least two men on this earth had found me sexy.

  “It’s all right if you mention Dad, Mom!” said Carla. She’d taken the split very badly and in part blamed her mom, which surprised me. Carla’s mom had been very clear about things: the marriage had run its course, the kids were grown and it was time to live again—something like that anyway.

  As everyone chatted names and diapers, I planned my breakout.

  “Mom, would you like me to get you anything from the house?” I asked, buttoning up my coat as the child stirred slightly in Carla’s arms. “Mom?”

  With her lips cracked and smelling of stale sweat, I had never seen my mother look happier. “No, love. I have everything I need right here.” She smiled at the Bingo Caller, who in return planted a kiss onto the thick clump of hair caked to her forehead.

  “See you, everyone,” I sang. But I was answered by silence, as all eyes remained transfixed onto this little bundle that stirred in the arms of my best friend.

  I slipped away, angry for feeling the way I did. I wasn’t a kid any more, I was pushing twenty-one, and yet…and yet…Mom, the Bingo Caller—and now their offspring—still had the power to encourage general feelings of shittiness to materialize. I returned home, located The Manual and reread the section on siblings.

  It didn’t help.

  The Sprog cried constantly. Two a.m., six a.m., with Mom as she breastfed in the kitchen, me wondering if it would ever be possible to drag myself out of bed in a few hours for one of the five job interviews I had lined up.
The first was for a PR firm as an office manager, which I had absolutely no chance of getting, what with being under-qualified, under-experienced and five years under the age limit.

  Apply for a couple of jobs you have absolutely no chance of getting.

  Why?

  You might actually get one of them.

  Plus it’s always wise to get in as much experience with interviews as you can. And if you don’t get the job, write to the company and ask them if they’d be kind enough to post you reasons as to why you didn’t get the job. It could be you were under- or over-qualified (yes, I’ve heard that one), didn’t answer certain questions the way they would have liked, anything. It’s always good to know, so you can prepare for the next one…

  The interviews went well and, slowly, my confidence grew. Of course, I began to apply for somewhat realistic posts, using (and exaggerating) my office experience in America and my brief stint as a supervisor at the shoe shop. Meanwhile, the new addition to our household may have taken up most of Mom’s time, but she was still able to snatch moments in which to whine about my lack of attention to the Sprog.

  “You know I’ve been busy with the interviews. Don’t you want me to find a job?”

  “I’m just saying, you could give her a hold once in a while,” she ventured, ambushing me between the wall and her entire bodyweight, complete with babe in arms. “She doesn’t bite!”

  “I know that!” But as I looked down at her, nothing really stirred within me. She was some kid who just happened to be related to me slightly. She didn’t particularly look like anyone familiar and, lucky for her, the Bingo Caller needn’t be mistaken for her real dad any time soon.

  “There you go!” said Mom in triumphant tones, as I placed my arms around the little body, which had really grown since our last encounter. She still felt so fragile, so soft, reminding me of the Tiny Tears doll I’d begged Mom to buy me, but which had somehow ended up in Carla’s Christmas stocking instead. The Sprog smiled, and Mom took this as confirmation that we were the best of friends.