by Emma Healey
‘Have you been out today?’ Jen asked.
She’d gone back to staring at the TV and didn’t answer.
‘Have you heard from school?’
She said nothing.
Jen began to let herself feel annoyed. There was a lighter colour on the edge of the settee cushions where feet had been drawn over the nap again and again until it had worn down. That’s what came of curling up in such a ridiculous way, she thought, you ruined your mother’s furniture.
The room was chilly because of the wide-open windows, and Jen closed them, and the curtains, too, shutting out the sharp evening air and the distant noise of traffic.
‘How was work?’ Meg asked, hovering by the door, her face becoming clearer as the green light vanished.
Jen shrugged, putting her bag down.
‘When’s Dad getting back?’
She shrugged again.
‘Great. Well, this has been fun. What a special family, full of brilliant conversationalists.’
‘Sorry,’ Jen said. Lana’s attitude to questions was evidently infectious. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea.’
They went into the kitchen.
‘Has she been like that all day?’ Jen asked under cover of the boiling kettle.
‘Yep. She either ignored me or screamed at me. Especially when I had the audacity to ask her anything, even what she wanted for lunch. She was lying in the garden most of the time. Said she was looking at the clouds.’
Jen fished an emergency chocolate bar out of the back of the tea-towel drawer and ate half of it straightaway.
‘What’s going on? It’s been a week since you got home. Dad said he thought she was better.’
‘He’s an optimist.’
‘I suppose someone’s got to be.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Don’t take offence,’ Meg said, pinching at her forearm through the sleeve of her cardigan. ‘That was about me, not you.’
‘You’re not optimistic?’
‘Well, it’s not likely she would go from problem child to saint overnight, is it?’
Jen crumpled the empty chocolate wrapper in her fist. ‘She’s not a problem child.’
‘No, you’re right,’ Meg said, with an unpleasant smile. ‘She’s a joy.’
All the air in Jen’s lungs escaped and left her feeling like a heavy, fleshy lump. She dropped on to a chair. ‘I’m sorry you had to stay with her today,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t take any more time off work, and I couldn’t leave her alone.’
There was a pause while Meg dug her nails through the wool of her sleeve. ‘I don’t care about that,’ she said. ‘The gallery can do without me for a day. What I care about is you.’
‘Me?’
‘The way she manipulates you, Mum.’
‘She isn’t manipulating me,’ Jen said. ‘What are you doing to your arm?’
Meg stilled. ‘Nothing.’
‘You’re scratching, aren’t you? Show me.’
‘Mum, can we get back to the point?’
‘Show me your arm.’
Meg grabbed her sleeve and whipped it up and then down again so that Jen only got a flash of red. The flash was enough. Raw and crêpey, the skin was marked by fingernails.
‘That’s eczema,’ Jen said. ‘I got eczema when I was pregnant. Have you told the doctor?’
‘I’ve got some cream.’
‘Well, it’s not working.’
‘We were talking about Lana,’ Meg said, ‘about the way she affects your mood, the way she has you tiptoeing around her, the way she uses you as a walking frame.’
‘She gets tired.’
‘She says she gets tired.’
‘Lethargy is a symptom of depression.’
‘It’s a symptom of something.’
‘She’s ill, Meg. She isn’t doing it on purpose.’
Jen sighed. It was true that Lana’s lethargy often compelled her to ask for her arm when they were out, when Jen could persuade her to go out. And it was true that Jen sometimes thought it was like being with her elderly mother, except that Lily walked about unaided. Meg had brought this up before, and seemed to think Lana was trying to claim their mother exclusively for herself. It had been mentioned in one of their therapy sessions.
Safe space
DR GREENBAUM (leaning back in a black, armless leather chair, the skin around his eyes crinkling kindly):
Explain to me how that makes you feel, Margaret – er, Meg – tell me so Lana can hear it. We want you to be honest.
MEG (straightening the lapels of her jacket):
She’s my mother, too, sometimes I don’t think Lana realizes that.
LANA (suddenly uncrossing her legs and leaning forward):
I do realize that. I also realize that Meg only says she’s gay to get attention.
MEG (crushing the lapels in her hands):
That’s a totally mad thing to say and, if anyone is after attention, it’s Lana. Jesus. People are supposed to have mother issues, not sister issues.
DR GREENBAUM (turning to Jen and still, unaccountably, smiling):
And does Mum have anything to share?
The woman with no name
When had she become ‘Mum’? Jen often wondered.
She didn’t mind being ‘Mum’ to her children, of course; that was normal. But from other people – health professionals, especially – it felt wrong, weird, paralysing.
‘Shall we ask Mum in now?’ Dr Greenbaum would say as he opened the door. ‘What about Mum, what does she think?’ he always asked when they discussed some new plan. And at the end of every session: ‘Is there anything you want to say to Mum?’
Jen smiled in the way she thought ‘Mum’ would smile (closed mouth, lifted shoulders) and pretended not to find it irritating. Perhaps it was less confusing for Lana, though she suspected that her daughter wouldn’t be entirely bewildered if someone called her mother Jen instead. Really, she felt it was a punishment. This is what happened if you were such a bad mother that your child wanted to die; one of the things you automatically lost was your identity, your right to an identity. She remembered once telling a practice nurse that she was interested in painting and the way the nurse frowned and asked what Lana thought of that, whether it was something she could include her daughter in. Hugh was still allowed his weekly piano lessons, but the implication for Jen was clear: if this is just a hobby for you, then it’s selfish and you don’t deserve to enjoy it.
Pramface
Lana seemed determined not to enjoy anything. She’d slept or watched TV with stern concentration since they’d got home ten days ago, as if it were painful to be in the real, waking world. Hardly moving or eating or talking, she still said she couldn’t remember what had happened, that she didn’t know how she’d got her wounds, that she wasn’t sure where she’d been.
Jen had wondered how to get her out of the house, how to engage her, how to help her participate in family life. She’d offered (normally forbidden) fast-food lunches, suggested visiting an animal adoption centre, tried (and failed) to find a film at the cinema that they’d all enjoy. What she would never have guessed would work was a trip to John Lewis. And this was possibly the strangest family outing they’d ever had. Jen felt a little like she’d stepped through the looking glass as she watched Meg and Lana and Hugh wheel various prams around the polished walkways of the department store. She held on to the handle of her chosen pram and attempted to think of something useful to say.
‘This one turns very easily.’
‘But are the wheels too wide?’
‘Well…’ Considering she’d several times got stuck against a clothing rail, she thought perhaps they were.
Lana ran along the Baby Swimwear aisle and Hugh narrowly avoided colliding with her as he swung his pram out from Primary School Uniforms. They hallooed and went on. The shop assistant leaned against the car-seat display and gave them a tight smile.
Meg had turned up on the doorstep that morning, askin
g for help. Meg, who never asked for help. She had bitten her lip and bounced on her toes and wondered aloud if they were free, and Jen had had the impression that Meg was a little urchin asking if another urchin could come out to play. She’d half expected Meg to wipe her nose on her sleeve.
‘I need to buy a pram,’ she’d said, and there was a confessional quality to her words, as if this were something shameful. ‘Or…they call it a “travel system” now. I need to buy a travel system. I don’t want to go alone.’
Which was how they’d ended up scooting about the baby-and-child department, each pushing a different ‘travel system’, waving to each other as they went. Eventually, they all arrived at the centre of a sort of crossroads and stopped, looking at each other’s prams, peering into them as if there were babies inside, waiting to be admired.
‘What d’you think, then?’ Meg said.
‘What were we meant to be looking for again?’
‘How does it feel? Is it light enough? Is it too light? Is it smooth? Does it handle well? Everything, anything.’
‘This one judders slightly,’ Hugh said.
‘That’s more of an off-road model.’ The shop assistant shifted, began to push herself up from the shelf she was leaning on then changed her mind.
‘Off road? An off-road pram?’
‘For if you live in the country, or do a lot of walking.’
Hugh looked disbelieving.
‘Mine is great,’ Lana said. ‘Really easy to run with.’
‘Not sure how much running I’ll be doing,’ Meg said.
‘What about from muggers?’ Lana suggested. ‘Or paedophiles?’
Meg shot her an irritated look.
‘Do you think it’s a bit garish, with all the chrome?’
‘You mean that the shininess might attract muggers and paedophiles?’ Lana said. ‘That is a worry. I’ve heard they’re like magpies.’
‘Would you shut up?’
Lana smiled, seemingly satisfied at the reaction she’d got.
‘You can get it with black trim rather than chrome,’ the shop assistant said.
‘Okay, let me try it one more time.’ Meg took the handle from Lana and wheeled away from them.
‘Weird to think I’m going to have a niece,’ Lana said. ‘Do you think she’ll let me look after the baby when it’s here?’
‘Not if you keep talking about having to run away from paedophiles,’ Hugh told her.
‘Better than running towards them.’
‘Lana, mothers are anxious enough without people adding their own ideas.’
‘Meg? Anxious?’
‘Yes, Meg. Yes, anxious.’
Lana stared after her sister, and Jen stared, too, at the still-narrow back, at her still-lithe movements. It was easy to remember Meg at eleven years old, pushing baby Lana in her pram. She’d briefly had a mania for walking Lana around the park and the shopping centre and, thinking that this meant she had finally accepted the new addition to the family, Jen had let her go on with the pram, let her walk twenty or so paces ahead.
A friend had asked if it was safe, but Jen never let her out of her sight, and Meg was very careful, very attentive. She would reach into the pram to adjust the blanket, to mop up dribble, perhaps just to rub Lana’s cheek, and she’d jiggle the handle of the pram to soothe her sister. It had been lovely to watch. She’d even managed to get the sun visor to stay up (it had tended to sag when Jen attempted it).
‘Made for motherhood,’ Carolyn had said when Hugh told his mother. Jen had gritted her teeth.
People would pass and look into the pram and look at Meg. Jen could see their lips move, their eyebrows rise, but was too far away to hear their words, and she often wished she were a bit closer, so she could hear the exchanges, greedy for compliments. Meg was vague when she asked. ‘Oh, just What a lovely baby,’ she said. ‘That sort of thing.’
It was only after several months of this that Jen discovered the truth. Meg had sat down on a bench across a small square and, though Jen hadn’t taken her eyes off her daughters, she was still surprised by the sudden shouting.
‘Next time,’ Meg was calling out, directing her words at a fast-retreating woman, ‘next time, you should think twice before jumping to conclusions. Do you hear me? You shouldn’t judge people so quickly. You only end up making a fool of yourself.’
By the time Jen had joined Meg, the woman was out of sight, but Meg’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes shining, a triumphant grin on her face.
It turned out she’d been relishing the mistaken disapproval of passers-by. The tutting and shaking of heads, the frowns directed at her and the pram, the muttered comments about teenage-pregnancy rates – they’d been what she’d wanted. She had enjoyed being mistaken for a child-mother, had enjoyed disabusing the disapproving masses.
‘Are you admiring my baby sister?’ she had asked with a saccharine smile, as an old man paused in his shuffling journey along the pavement. ‘My mother is over there, and she’s thirty-seven. Is that too young to be a mother, do you think?’
Jen hadn’t been thrilled to find that her age had been revealed to so many strangers.
‘But I’m teaching them a valuable lesson,’ Meg told Jen on the way home.
Remembering this, Jen found she was clenching her fists. She wondered, as Meg came back through Christening Gifts, if she would be subjected to strangers’ comments in the future. Not a teen mum, but a single mum, a gay mum. The thought made her anxious, agitated.
Meg looked agitated, too.
‘I’m sure you won’t actually have to run away from any paedophiles,’ Lana said, stepping around Hugh to put a hand on Meg’s. ‘And whichever pram you choose, it’ll be the right one, sis.’
Meg wriggled her hand away. ‘Er, okay.’
Lana, perhaps realizing that this didn’t make up for her earlier comments, glanced at Hugh. ‘And if you’re worried about the price, maybe Mum and Dad should buy the pram for you.’
‘Oh. That’s sweet of you to offer…’
‘Yes, very sweet of you, Lana,’ Hugh said, looking at the price tag.
‘…but I’ve already budgeted for this.’
Of course she had. Hugh was obviously relieved, but Jen suddenly wished they could buy the pram for her, wished they could shop for a new pram every day.
Getting it wrong
Cognitive ability
‘Do you want to look at the clothes while we’re here?’ Jen asked, drifting towards the escalator while Meg went to order her chosen travel system.
‘No. And would you watch out?’ Lana said. ‘You’re always walking into people. Get some spatial awareness.’
Technology
‘Oh, Lana, I came across an article I thought you’d find funny. Wait a minute. I bookmarked the page on your dad’s iPad.’
‘You know you don’t have to use your whole arm to swipe, don’t you, Mum? You look ridiculous.’
Pronunciation
‘I thought we might look and see if there’s a film we could all watch on Netflex.’
‘It’s Netflix. Netflix. Oh my fucking God. It’s only talked about every single day.’
Food
‘Why don’t you take a photo of this for Instagram? The colours are so vibrant.’
‘No one is interested in a pissing scone, Mum. That’s not the point. Strawberry jam is lame.’
Giving up
‘Fine, I’ll just sit quietly and try not to annoy you by suggesting anything nice.’
‘Great. Can you not breathe like that, though? It’s super-distracting.’
Feminism
‘I wouldn’t put up with that,’ Meg said one day, after she overheard Lana berating Jen for falling asleep on the sofa. ‘She’s so bossy.’
‘Bossy‘s a sexist label,’ Jen answered, automatically. ‘You’d never call a boy bossy.’
‘Fine. My bad. But I’m saying you need to discipline her.’
‘And how do you suggest I do that?’
‘G
rounding is traditional.’
‘Meg, if I ground her, she’ll see me as the enemy, and I need her to be able to confide in me. Besides, she hardly goes out as it is. You think keeping her in, encouraging her to be more isolated, would be a sensible punishment?’
‘Well, you could at least tell her off. You just put up with her being vile to you. Get angry, stop martyring yourself.’
‘I’m not a martyr. I do get angry. And I’ve told her off in the past, but you know that ends badly.’
Jen’s fury, when it escaped, tended to send Lana into despair. The last time Jen had lost her temper they’d been in a crowded Christmas market and Lana had suddenly disappeared, weaving her way through the masses of people and making Jen push past in a panicked search, jostling and apologizing to a long series of angry shoppers.
Another time, Lana had been ignoring Jen all day, in favour of talking to her friends on the phone. She’d wandered about the house discussing a teacher’s Facebook profile, the new season of an American reality-TV show and a project they were doing at school on the suffragettes. She kept mentioning ‘Emily’ Pankhurst. Finally, Jen had had enough. She’d demanded Lana acknowledge her, asked if her friends were this rude to their parents, threatened to stop paying her phone bill. Before she knew it they were screaming at each other.
‘And it’s Emmeline Pankhurst,’ Jen had said. ‘Not Emily.’
This know-it-all remark was met with a frightening calm, and Lana had left the room. It wasn’t until a cold draught made her shiver nearly a minute later that Jen realized Lana had left the house, leaving the front door wide open.
Not long after that, they’d been arguing on a train and Lana had jumped off when it pulled into a station. The doors had closed and the train had moved on before Jen could react. She’d had an agonizing journey back, not knowing if Lana would still be there, imagining her throwing herself in front of a non-stopping express. And Jen had suddenly remembered that bit of film, often played in museums, of Emily Davison and the king’s horse. The halting black-and-white clip. The moment when the small body detached itself from the crowd and then disappeared under the hooves, seemed literally to dissolve on impact.