Tubing

by K. A. McKeagney

  It wasn’t long before all that negative emotion turned into self-loathing and weight started to drop off her. She’d never been a fat child, she was as average as they came, but the more pounds she lost, the more food and hunger consumed her, blocking out any thoughts of what her mother had written. She’d found a coping mechanism and managed to get some degree of control over her mind again and, in the process, was making herself disappear. Soon she became totally numb.

  Her dad put her behaviour down to typical teenage tantrums. But to Polly it felt as if even he didn’t care what was happening to her. It wasn’t until she was sixteen and her weight had plummeted to below five and a half stone that he noticed. She’d been in her room with the door ajar. She was doing her homework on her bed. The oversized woolly jumper she was wearing had been scratching all day. She sat up and started to pull it up over her head, and it caught with her T-shirt and rode up to reveal her protruding ribcage. Her dad had just got in from work and was popping up to her room to say hello. She looked up to see him standing in the doorway, then tears started streaming down his face. No doubt her mother had noticed long ago, but hadn’t said anything. Polly was marched down to the doctor, who took one look at her and got her admitted to the local hospital. From there she went to a psychiatric unit, then to a clinic that specialised in eating disorders. She had the feeding peg inserted into her stomach after she’d pulled the feeding tube out of her nose for the third time.

  The clinic was fifty miles from home. Her mother didn’t visit, she said it was too far for her to travel being so ill, but her dad came every day. He did everything he could to aid her recovery, although their conversations about why she’d been starving herself never amounted to much. Polly couldn’t bring herself to tell him; she just couldn’t say the words out loud.

  She let herself in using the front door key still on her key ring. As she slipped it in the lock, she wondered if she’d ever use it again after this visit.

  She went straight into the kitchen. It smelt of clean washing and baking. Nothing had changed since she was a child. The cupboards had the same shiny orange fronts, the drawers white, the worktop mottled faux marble stained with tea cup rings and burns; even the totally impractical hot and cold taps remained. Her dad had been the home-maker. He had done all the cooking, cleaning, washing and other household chores. She turned to look at the kitchen door. His Kiss the chef apron was hung on the back of the door where he always left it. She could almost see the imprint of his huge belly in it. Tears immediately started splashing down her cheeks.

  ‘Oh, you’re here.’

  Polly turned to see her mother at the door. She was in her wheelchair, a scowl on her face. She looked painfully thin. When she put her arms down on to the wheels to move forward, Polly could see skin hanging loosely around the bone.

  ‘I didn’t hear you come in,’ she continued as she wheeled herself round to the sink. She put the brake on, then hoisted herself up using the worktop.

  Polly stood watching her, suppressing the urge to scream. Why was she still pretending? There was no one here any more to see.

  ‘Glad you finally made it,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Would have been nice if you could have come when he was still here – better late than never, I suppose.’

  Her mother turned to face her, using the worktop for support. She looked totally out of place. Polly had very few memories of her being in this room. It was usually just Polly and her dad eating dinner together in here. Her mother mostly took her meals in her bed, unless she’d stopped eating altogether. It seemed odd her being in the kitchen now, even though it was her house and Polly hadn’t lived there for years.

  ‘You got nothing to say?’ her mother said bitterly.

  Polly remained silent.

  ‘Are those tears? Why have you been crying, Polly?’

  Polly hated her. She was evil, pure evil.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d be bothered, you never were when he was alive.’

  That was it. Polly jumped towards her, knocking the kitchen table as she went. She didn’t know what she was going to do, whether she’d slap her or spit in her face. But her mother stopped her dead by grabbing her wrist.

  ‘Careful, Polly, you’re standing right where your father took his final breath.’

  Polly jumped back immediately.

  ‘Don’t worry, he’ll understand. You walked all over him in life; why would he mind you doing it now he’s dead?’

  Polly turned and ran out of the room. She went straight along the corridor into her old bedroom, slammed the door shut, then threw herself on the bed and sobbed.

  She woke up an hour later. At first she couldn’t work out where she was. Then she rolled over and saw the poster on the back wall. It was of a white fluffy kitten hanging from a tree by only one paw. The caption below read, Hang on in there, baby. Her dad had bought it and put it up for her for when she’d got back from the clinic. She had loved it the instant she saw it. Her dad had stood at her bedroom door, watching her.

  ‘What do you think?’ he’d asked.

  She had smiled sheepishly.

  Then her mother had appeared in the doorway and looked at the poster over his shoulder. ‘Pathetic,’ she’d said.

  Suddenly Polly was crying again, reliving the memory. She tried to picture her father standing in the doorway smiling at her, but the harder she tried, the more tenuous and blurry the image became, until it felt as if she’d never seen him in the first place.

  Twenty-two

  The funeral was scheduled for a week later. Polly stayed at her parents’ house until then.

  She saw very little of her mother. She spent most of her time in her room, leaving Polly to organise the funeral. They had plenty of visitors; her dad had been popular in the village. She recognised only a few faces, but they all knew who she was. ‘He talked about you all the time, he was so proud of his little girl.’ The words cut right through her. Her mother made herself scarce whenever there was a knock at the door. There were lots of gentle nods and pursed lips in sympathy for the terrible grief her mother must be suffering. Polly nodded along, out of respect for him, not her.

  On the fifth day at her parents’ house Polly received a text message. It was for a meeting that night. Her heart sank when she read it – it was from him. She considered sneaking out and jumping on a train to London. She was desperate to disappear into tubing again, pretend all this wasn’t happening. But it was a logistical nightmare. The train station was a ten-minute car ride from her parents’ house – she had no car. To walk it would probably take over an hour along overgrown, narrow country lanes. Even if she could make it to London, she wouldn’t be able to get a train back again after the meeting at that time of night. Then there was her mother to contend with. Despite hardly seeing her, she appeared to know Polly’s movements like she had her on radar.

  But mostly she didn’t go out of respect for her dad. It was as if, now he was dead, he’d know everything. She imagined him looking down on her from a cloud in the sky, shaking his head in disappointment. She knew it was a childish thing to think – he was at the funeral director’s, in one of their fridges – but she couldn’t shake the notion.

  Her next dilemma was how to reply to the message. She agonised over it for hours. She knew the rules: no personal details, so she could hardly say what had happened. As the meeting loomed closer she paced anxiously in her bedroom. She decided the best thing to do was to just be honest, but light with it, reply with something like, Not in town, but I’ll be back next week, let’s hook up then.

  She’d just started composing the message when there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Polly. Door,’ her mother shouted.

  Polly ignored her and carried on with her text.

  ‘Polly!’ her mother shouted louder.

  She knew she didn’t have a choice. She threw her phone down on the bed and ran to answer it.

  It was the priest. He’d come round to discuss the funeral service for Friday.
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  Polly and her mother disagreed on everything, from the running order of the service to the hymns he’d have wanted. The priest sat patiently waiting for them to come to some kind of agreement. In the end, her mother won out with the line, ‘You’ve hardly seen him lately; you have no idea what his wishes were.’ It wasn’t her mother’s words that persuaded her to drop it, it was the sudden realisation that he was dead now anyway. He wasn’t going to be at the funeral, not in a living sense. It didn’t really matter.

  Oliver came down on the morning of the funeral. Her mother instantly perked up when she saw him. He looked different, the way people did when they were put into well-worn, but unfamiliar settings. The bungalow seemed too small for him and sullied his expensive clothes and shoes. Polly didn’t want him there. Not just because of what had been going on in London, but because she’d spent most of their relationship trying to hide all this – the white plastic cladding, the seventies wallpaper, the unkempt garden … her mother.

  Polly cried from the moment she saw the coffin until they laid it in the ground. She couldn’t grieve silently, didn’t understand those who could. She felt as if she was being crushed from the inside – she had to let it out somehow. She let Oliver comfort her. They were awkward in one another’s arms. Her mother glared at her over the coffin – she wouldn’t even let her alone in her grief.

  Everyone went back to the house afterwards. Neither Polly nor her mother had considered this eventuality. There was no food in the cupboards, so they could only offer tea. Oliver, being ever resourceful, drove to the local supermarket and picked up a selection of biscuits and cakes and the spread wasn’t bad in the end. He played host for the afternoon. The ladies were charmed by his public school accent and manners. When they discovered he was a surgeon, a hush of admiration rippled round the room. Polly spent most of her time in the kitchen making tea. She found a bottle of brandy in one of the cupboards. She took a quick sip every time she had to put on another brew.

  They’d been back at the house for about an hour when Polly noticed her mother had disappeared.

  She barged straight into her bedroom without knocking.

  Her mother was by the window, staring into space.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Polly.

  Her mother turned, mouth agape, a look of disbelief on her face. ‘What the hell do you think I’m doing?’

  Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe Polly had reached her limits. ‘I’ve no idea. Looks to me like you’re doing what you’ve always done: hiding in your bedroom so you don’t actually have to face the world.’

  ‘How dare you?’ she said, turning to her. ‘I’ve just lost my husband.’

  ‘Your nursemaid, you mean.’

  ‘What?’

  From the look on her face, Polly knew she’d gone too far. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘No, say it again.’

  She’d been trying to pick a fight with her ever since she arrived. ‘Fine. I said, “You’ve lost your nursemaid.”’

  Her mother slowly started shaking her head. ‘Who the fuck do you think you are, Polly? You never bothered with him; I can’t even remember the last time you saw him.’

  ‘I saw him a couple of weeks ago, actually. He came to London to visit me.’

  Her mother’s face dropped. She had no idea he’d been going to London to see her.

  ‘Yeah, he came quite often. Did he not mention it?’ Smug satisfaction poured out of Polly’s drunken mouth.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why did he come to visit you?’ she asked suspiciously.

  ‘Why do you think? I’m his daughter, he wanted to see … ’ Polly paused, realising what her mother’s sick head was getting at. ‘You’re perverse, you know that.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You and your paranoid delusions. I’ve read your stupid books,’ said Polly, suddenly feeling brave enough to say the words she’d believed unspeakable all these years.

  ‘What books?’

  ‘The ones hidden in the back of your wardrobe,’ Polly answered, striding across the room towards it.

  Her mother immediately started wheeling herself forward to block her. ‘Don’t you dare touch my things,’ she hissed.

  ‘It should have been you, not him,’ Polly blurted out.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ replied her mother, as if she were some kind of innocent in all this.

  ‘You – you ruined my life, you ruined his life … ’

  ‘I ruined his life?’ she said incredulously. ‘I sacrificed everything for that man.’

  ‘What are you talking about? What sacrifice have you ever made?’

  ‘You. I gave him you.’

  Polly just stared at her.

  ‘I never wanted you, Polly. I never wanted any children. But he did, and I did it for him.’

  Polly couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. This wasn’t news to her, she’d already read how her mother felt, but to hear her say the words out loud … It was against nature, her existence undermined.

  ‘And I’ve suffered as a result of that decision since the day you were born,’ her mother continued.

  Polly started to tremble. She hated her; she’d never thought it was possible to hate someone as much.

  ‘Well, you’re fucked now, aren’t you?’ she shouted.

  ‘What? What are you talking about?’ she asked, confused.

  ‘He’s gone, and there’s no one to look after you any more, not that you’ve ever really needed anyone.’

  ‘How dare you? You have no idea what I’ve been through.’

  ‘It’s all bullshit! There’s nothing wrong with you, never has been. I can prove it.’ Polly marched over to her. ‘Get up,’ she shouted.

  ‘What?’ Her mother looked genuinely scared.

  ‘You’re gonna have to get up. I’m not going to stay and look after you.’ Polly grabbed hold of the handles on the back of her wheelchair and started tipping it forward. ‘Get up, I said!’

  ‘Don’t. Get off!’ her mother said, turning, trying to bat her away as she started sliding out of the chair. As Polly had anticipated, her mother put her feet on the floor and started to step to the side.

  ‘You lying bitch, you can stand … ’ she started.

  But the bedroom door suddenly banged open. ‘Polly, what’s going on? Everyone can hear you in the … ’ Oliver trailed off, his eyes growing wide with shock as he took in what was happening. He raced across the room. ‘Let go of her,’ he shouted at Polly, then grabbed hold of her hands and pulled them off the handles of the wheelchair and held on to them tightly. The chair thumped back down. Her mother fell awkwardly back into the seat.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ He didn’t look at Polly’s mother, he just stared at Polly in utter dismay.

  Polly stared back. Why was he looking at her like that? Hadn’t he seen her mother standing? Then it dawned on her. She looked at her mother: she had her hand on her forehead, trembling, breathing deeply. The victim back in her chair, Polly the evil, crazed daughter bearing down on her. She’d played it out just the way she did each time for her husband. Oliver had seen what she wanted him to see.

  Polly felt as if she was going to explode. ‘Aarrgh,’ she shouted, then wriggled free. She ran out of the room and straight to the front door. She didn’t stop until she reached the park at the end of the road. Once there, she collapsed on to her knees, taking in huge lungfuls of air. Her entire body was shaking violently; she’d never felt such anger in her life. But not just with her mother, with her dad for putting up with it, with Oliver for being here, with him for sending the text two nights ago, with herself for not replying.

  Twenty-three

  Polly loitered in the park until she saw the last of the mourners leave the house. She didn’t have any shoes on. She carefully walked back up the pavement, avoiding any big stones and gravelly areas.

  The front door was still open. She went straight to her room and threw all her
things in her bag.

  Once she had finished packing, she went to the kitchen, where Oliver was clearing up, and ushered him out of the front door by the elbow. He protested and insisted they say goodbye to her mother first. Polly told him he could do what he liked; she’d be in the car.

  Once on the road, she pulled her mobile out of her bag to check it. No messages. She swore under her breath.

  ‘What?’ asked Oliver looking over at her from the driver’s seat.

  ‘Nothing.’

  She wished he’d put the radio on; the silence was painful. She reached forward to switch it on. He grabbed her hand as soon as she moved towards the console.

  ‘We should talk,’ he said, his tone soft and warm.

  Polly stared out through the windscreen.

  ‘Polly, I just want to say that I’m here for you.’ He pursed his lips together, pleased with his opening. ‘It’s going to be hard for you now your dad’s gone, but there’s someone else who’s going to be struggling more than you, and she doesn’t have anyone now.’

  ‘Who?’ Polly asked, turning towards him, genuinely at a loss as to who he was talking about.

  ‘Well … your mother,’ Oliver replied, looking at her as if she was mad.

  She wanted to wrench the handbrake up as hard as she could, to make the car crash and explode into a million pieces.

  ‘We had a chat and — ’

  ‘When did you have a chat?’ Polly jumped in.

  ‘When you disappeared this afternoon.’

  Polly exhaled loudly through her nose.

  ‘So, we had a chat,’ Oliver continued. ‘She’s lost a lot. She’s worried she won’t be able to cope on her own.’

  He paused, waiting for Polly to say something. She didn’t. There was no point. She’d already filled his head with lies.