Hope

by Rhian Ivory

  ‘We’ll be in the church this week. We’re going to sing by candlelight, like we will on the night of the concert. Just you wait, Hope, there’s nothing like the Singing Medicine choir.’ Pryia smiles.

  Singing to Kofi feels different. It isn’t like singing passionate lyrics about the French Revolution when I joined Shropshire Youth Theatre and we did Les Mis, or the heightened drama when I sang in Carmen with the junior operatic society. Or singing about how much Bill Sykes needs me when I was Nancy in Oliver! This is intimate and authentic and I want to do it more. It helped; I could see it helped him and his mum. I want to sit by his bedside and sing all day long, as high and as low as I can go and distract him and his mum all I can. I want to go back in, but Pryia keeps on walking away from the hospital. I think if she could she’d break into a run right now.

  ‘Pryia, stupid question, but are you alright?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I’ve never seen a lumbar puncture before. I know it’s to do with infection, obviously, but I wonder what they’re testing for.’ She sounds so unsure.

  ‘Maybe his mum will tell us?’ I try to reassure her, before changing topic. ‘So, I went to see a doctor. I took your advice,’ I confide, slightly embarrassed because it feels like I’m taking the attention away from Kofi, but I need to talk to her. I need to talk to her and no one else about this. She’ll understand that I did this, I made this choice.

  Pryia waits for more, twisting the cap off a bottle of water.

  ‘And after a lot of questions and a lot of talking she’s prescribed me some tablets.’ There’s something wrong enough with me that I need to take something to correct it, to change the natural me. But I’m going to take these tablets. If I want to be able to function in the real world, then this is what I need to do. ‘And I told Callie, I told her everything,’ I add.

  ‘That must be such a relief, to not have to hide it from her anymore?’

  ‘Sort of. We’re not talking right now, well, she won’t talk to me anyway, so it’s not like we’re going to be having big heart to hearts about it,’ I tell her.

  ‘You’ll work it out,’ she says breezily, which annoys me.

  ‘I’ve tried everything. She won’t even open the front door when I call round.’

  ‘Try harder. She’s worth it, isn’t she? So, you telling your mum next, yes?’ she pushes.

  ‘Ha! No chance. Mum’s not talking to me either.’

  She rolls her eyes as if this is all my fault. Maybe it is.

  ‘So, what tablets are you on?’ she asks, switching back to me. She looks more comfortable talking about periods and PMDD than she does talking about lumbar punctures and Kofi. I guess because she’s way ahead of me. She’s on familiar ground.

  ‘Flu something,’ I tell her, trying to remember the name, ‘I’ve got to go back in a month and have another appointment. She said they might not work for me, that I might have to try a different kind of tablet. She gave me loads of leaflets – the two of you would get on very well – and a list of some books that might help.’

  ‘My doctor asked me what I’d do if my laptop broke. I told her I’d get it repaired. She told me I’m just being repaired. And so are you, Hope. You are repairing yourself and that’s the bravest thing you can do,’ she says, and it makes me feel like I don’t have to justify myself. I think I could tell her all the things I’ve done, all the unforgivable words I’ve said, the thoughts I’ve had and the relationships I’ve wrecked. I think I could tell her and she wouldn’t be frightened of me, wouldn’t look at me like I’ve got PMDD written in permanent marker on my forehead. That I’m something bad or battered and bruised.

  ‘Just remember these three words, they’re the best bit of advice my doctor gave me about life, “Things get better,”’ she tells me and hugs me. ‘Things get better!’ she repeats.

  ‘Thanks for your help. I don’t think I’d have gone without you,’ I mumble into her shoulder.

  ‘Yeah, you would, just might have taken a while longer, but you’d have got there,’ she tells me and it makes my shoulders drop.

  I feel like me

  Like the me I want to be.

  ‘I’m leaving. I will join my choir in the hotel tonight,’ Nonno announces, placing an espresso in front of me. He’s only just got back from Cardiff. He left straight after the scene the other night.

  ‘No! Is it because of me?’ I ask, ready with an appeal to make him stay, an apology, anything to keep it as the three of us and not the two of us. I can’t be the one who pushes him away.

  I don’t want him to leave me.

  I want him to be here always.

  I carefully move the espresso away from me, that’s the last thing I need.

  ‘Of course not, piccolina. It is better that I stay with the rest of my choir and after the Opera House in Manchester it will simply be time for me to go home,’ he says, and the last word stabs at me because he still has a home, even without Nonna. He still sees his house, their house, as a home. If he goes, this house won’t feel like home. It’ll just go back to being somewhere I live, somewhere I sleep and eat and wash and go through the motions. I know it and Mum knows it. But neither of us can say it because it is too sad to say out loud.

  ‘But what about the Singing Medicine concert, can’t you stay for that?’ I try to keep the whine out of my voice but from the look on his face I fail.

  ‘You and your mother need your space, you need to find your way back to one another,’ he replies.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You push her away, she hides her troubles from you, you both dance the quickstep around each other trying not to cause pain, but it isn’t working, is it?’ He looks tired. I’ve made him tired. ‘And now it is time to talk, because you cannot wander down separate paths anymore. What if you never find the right path back to each other?’ he asks. ‘She is all you have. You must treasure her.’

  I want to deny it but before I can say anything Mum marches into the kitchen. Her hair is back up in a boring business-like bun. She gives me her ‘We don’t have time to sit and chat over a leisurely breakfast’ face and I nod, keen to avoid another argument in front of Nonno.

  ‘Good morning, Gianni.’ She plants a kiss on his cheek as she whisks his espresso away and pours it down the sink. I wait for him to argue with her, but he doesn’t say anything. She pours him a fresh orange juice. I watch them together, they’ve known each other for longer than I’ve been alive. I wonder what he thought of her when Dad first brought her home to Italy. Did he like her? Did he approve?

  I sigh. I don’t want him to go. This feels like my fault. If I’d been better behaved or less awkward, or just normal, then he wouldn’t be talking about hotels.

  ‘It is not your fault, piccolina,’ he whispers into my ear as I kiss him goodbye, but I shake my head. It is my fault and we both know it.

  I manage to convince Nonno to stay for a meal before leaving for the hotel, determined to make up for ruining his champagne moment and for swearing at Mum. I offer to cook. I am a flukey cook: sometimes it works and tastes amazing, other times not so much. I don’t know which it will be tonight.

  ‘This smells good,’ Mum tells me with a hint of surprise as she sits down. She doesn’t say my name. She holds that back when she’s cross with me and for some reason it hurts. But I don’t say anything, I don’t make a fuss. Tonight’s mission is simple: to show Nonno I can behave, cook a meal like a grown-up and not argue with anyone, not even Mum.

  ‘Buon appetito!’ Nonno adds as he tastes my chicken. I’ve gone for a roast, it feels safe.

  Dad and I cooked most Sundays while Mum sang in church with the choir. We’d prep vegetables, parboil the potatoes, then roast them with parsnips, honey and oil. He always made his own stuffing which Mum used to say he could have sold in the shops. We haven’t had a roast in a very long time.

  ‘Is this Dad’s stuffing?’ Mum asks as she loads up a forkful. This is her version of a peace offering, or heading in that direction. />
  ‘Yep, is it any good?’ I want her approval. She nods, her mouth full.

  ‘So are you going to tell us what you’re going to put in that extraordinary box, piccolina?’ Nonno asks before tasting a parsnip. ‘Is it a present for Callie?’ When he says her name my stomach twists.

  ‘Yeah, but I don’t know if there’s much point in making it now.’

  Mum’s face tells me to drop the self-pity act quickly, so I do. I guess she’s on Callie’s side.

  ‘Some stuff from Guides, I think; posters we made for our gang in Year 8; friendship bands; a few snow globes; and some letters we sent each other when we tried to invent that language…’ I stop as the memory makes me cringe.

  ‘Oh, that dreadful gobbledegook you tried to talk to each other in, and you thought Dad and I couldn’t understand it!’ Mum groans, making Nonno smile. We all think about laughing, but before any of us have really committed to it, there’s a noise in the background. It sounds like the timer on the oven, but then I tune in properly and recognise it.

  My phone is buzzing. A text. For a moment I hope it’s Callie but there’s no way she’d be texting me, not yet – I’ve got a lot more making up to do first. My phone’s next to the sink, directly behind Mum. She picks it up and reaches over to pass it to me but the screen lights up. I haven’t locked it. I’ve been obsessively checking it the whole time I was cooking, texting Callie, sending her funny photos and gifs to no response. Mum glances at the message, then she swipes it open. I sit there speechless for a second, before I find my voice.

  ‘Mum! Are you reading my texts? Give me my phone!’

  ‘Who’s Riley?’

  Nonno looks from Mum to me and clears his throat. The food sits on our plates, the steam still rising. I want to pick up my plate and throw it at her. I’ve worked so hard on this meal. I wanted tonight to be about peace. I wanted to show Nonno that he could stay here, that he could cancel his hotel reservation, and now it’s all ruined because of my stupid phone, Mum’s nosiness and Riley.

  ‘Oh my God! Give me my phone, Mum! Please?’

  She scrolls through more texts. I jump up; my chair topples over. She holds the phone away, out of reach, and looks at me. She’s furious, even more angry than when I swore at her the other night.

  ‘Who the hell is Riley?’

  I hear Nonno sigh gently as he pushes his chair back. He leaves the room, but she doesn’t even notice. She won’t take her eyes off me.

  I pick my chair up off the floor and talk myself out of throwing it across the room. I need to try and focus, to find out exactly what she’s read.

  Then it sinks in – he must have texted me! Riley has texted me! I can’t keep the delight off my face.

  ‘Don’t you bloody laugh! How dare you? This is not a laughing matter, young lady. Sit down there right now and explain yourself!’ She points to the chair.

  ‘I’m not laughing at you, I promise. What do you want me to say?’ I ask. Who knows what Riley might have put in a text? The smile comes off pretty quick, the happy feeling in my stomach turns to water. I am desperate to get my hands on my phone and find out what he’s just texted.

  She throws it at me but I can’t catch it in time. It lands with a smash on the floor, echoed by another crash from upstairs.

  ‘Mum!’ I shout as she stalks out of the room. I can hear her marching up the stairs, probably going to see what the crash was.

  I pick up my phone. There’s a crack across the screen but I can just about make out what she must have seen before she threw it on the floor. But it doesn’t matter because she’s screaming, calling out my name from upstairs.

  ‘Hope! Hope? Call an ambulance! Call an ambulance, now!’

  When I walk onto his ward, he’s sitting up in bed in someone else’s pyjamas. When I look closer I see they have a stamp on them ‘Property of Shrewsbury Hospital’. He’d never wear checks. There are other men in beds. They all look like someone’s grandfather. I can’t make eye contact with any of them, desperate not to see them all vulnerable and weak. I just keep looking at Nonno. He’s smiling but it hurts him, I can see it. I bend over to kiss him, trying hard only to touch his cheek. He’s hot and he doesn’t smell like Nonno; he smells of hospitals.

  ‘Piccolina,’ he says and I hear it all in his voice. He’s tired of this. He wants to go home. I can’t keep him here, not now. I feel toxic. Mum sits on the chair over on the other side of his bed, like I’m contagious.

  ‘Nonno, I’m so sorry,’ I start, but he lifts his papery hand, tea-stained and tender. His skin has changed colour already. He’s only been in here a day. Is that all it takes to strip yourself away from you, to institutionalise you? He’s a patient now, there are notes on him somewhere, a nurse will have taken his temperature and blood. I feel like I should break him out of here, release him back into the sunshine where he belongs. But he looks tired. And so does Mum.

  ‘Now, tell me you’ve brought me some decent food? Sì?’ he tries a joke and I fake a smile before passing him the food bag I put together at home.

  ‘What did the doctor say, Gianni?’ Mum asks, ignoring me and my food.

  ‘Another day or two of observations and then freedom!’ He winks at me.

  ‘But what did she say?’ Mum presses.

  ‘Is my heart, but we knew this, no?’

  The news floors me. It sinks its teeth and talons into my skin, grinding my bones into the cold hospital floor. I’ve heard of broken hearts, but that felt like a fairy tale. Looking at Nonno, I can see this is real. Is his heart broken, like Dad’s, like Nonna’s?

  ‘Can’t they fix it?’ I ask him.

  ‘Yes, I change everything and that will fix it, or slow it down,’ he nods reassuringly.

  ‘And you knew?’ I ask Mum. I try to keep the tone out of my voice. ‘You knew all this time and didn’t tell me?’ My hand creeps into Nonno’s. His nails are too long and his whiskers need attention.

  ‘Yes, but it isn’t as bad as you think. Gianni will stop smoking that vile pipe, cut out the espressos and stop eating such a cholesterol-rich diet,’ Mum explains. ‘It isn’t the same as your dad, or Nonna.’ But I can’t trust her now. She’s kept this from me.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘You have had enough to worry about, piccolina,’ Nonno says. ‘I told your mamma not to tell you. I wanted to tell you myself but there hasn’t been the right time.’ Mum nods. And I know why there hasn’t been the right time. Because I’ve taken up all his time.

  I say to Mum, ‘Half the time you’re telling me to grow up and act like an adult and the other half of the time you’re treating me like a child who should be kept in the dark?’

  She doesn’t try to justify it or apologise.

  ‘So what happens now?’ I ask.

  ‘We carry on,’ Nonno says, as if it’s simple. Who knows, maybe it is. ‘We beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.’

  ‘What?’ I am lost but Mum’s smiling, as if this makes sense to her.

  Everyone in my family has a broken heart and I don’t know how to fix any of them.

  Nonno’s asleep but I can’t leave. The nurse has finally left us on our own, after giving me a mini-lecture on cholesterol and heart disease and yet another stupid leaflet. I want to ban hospitals leaflets. I want to gather them all up in a heap and set them on fire. I want to go home, get his clothes and give the hospital theirs back. I want to clip his whiskers, brush his hair and make him look like Nonno again.

  When Mum goes to get a coffee, I check he’s still breathing. I sneak my hand underneath his nose – the hairs on the back of my hand tickle. He’s fine, for now.

  I get my phone out and read Riley’s text again. What a stupid thing to send, no wonder Mum freaked out. It sounds so dodgy, so him.

  Let’s do it.

  I want to do it with you!

  Name the time and place.

  As if nothing has happened. As if he hasn’t been MIA for weeks now. I haven�
��t got anything to do while I sit here and wait for Mum to come back, so I text back.

  Fuck off

  She’s alive! The one with the foul mouth.

  Fuck right off!

  Ah, now don’t be angry. There’s been heavy family shite going on here. I would have texted you sooner.

  Tell someone who gives a shit.

  Fair play, I’m a gobshite but a very sorry one. I did try and phone you, remember? Now, do you still want to meet up?

  Tell me about this heavy family stuff that meant you were unable to text me for weeks.

  It wasn’t weeks now, was it? In case no one’s mentioned this before you can be a real drama queen.

  Start talking.

  My sister left to go to uni without saying goodbye to my da. He didn’t even want her to go. She took the coward’s way out and left Da a note, on the kitchen table of all places. The state of her! Da turned into a lunatic & made me farm manager. Good craic had by all!

  And…

  And that’s why I’ve been ignoring you, alright? I was embarrassed. Going on about all me travels and 80 days round the world and all that. Never going to happen now.

  Sounds like a right mess.

  Yeah. And I’m shamed. You must think I’m a right loser. I want to be a million miles from here but I’m stuck. I’m starting to hate him.

  We all hate our parents at some point.

  C’mon now there’s you go-getting and doing all the shite you said you would and I’m knee deep in cow shit. Back to arses, hey? Nothing changes.

  I’m not doing anything other than making a mess of everything.

  What do you mean?

  Long story. I can’t see my screen properly cos it’s a bit smashed (part of the long story mess) so I’m going to phone you. Alright?

  Are you sure? Like, now?

  Yeah, why not? Let’s act like normal human beings. I’m done with hiding all the time.

  Fair play to you. I should warn you I’m hardly a riot at the moment. Serious now, I might have even run out of jokes.

  I’m in hospital, not working, not a riot either.