by Yvette Clark
Imogen and I walk down the hill together, not hand in hand, but very close. I turn to my sister and see plump tears rolling slowly down her face.
“Imo,” I say, and we put our arms around each other. For the first time that day, I cry, heaving great sobs into my sister’s shoulder. I cry as if I might never stop.
“I know, I know,” she says.
And she does. When Mum was dying, everyone was having their own private experience of losing a daughter or wife or friend, but Imogen and I were going through exactly the same thing at exactly the same time. My big sister was like a mirror for my sadness. She shared my pain and doubled my strength to get through each day. Dad and Gran stand on either side of us, waiting, not wanting to reach into the bubble of grief but wanting to be right there when it bursts. When we pull apart, I look at Dad, and he’s half smiling, half crying.
“Mum would be so proud of you both. Seeing the two of you together was always her greatest joy.” His voice cracks. “She used to say, ‘They’ll always have each other, Rob. Long after you and I are gone, the girls will always have each other.’”
My little broken family walks home together. I still can’t feel my mum, but I can feel them. That will have to be enough.
Nobody’s in the mood to watch a film when we get home, and nobody has any interest in pizza. Gran makes us each a bowl of soup, which we sit around the table stirring with our spoons until it’s an acceptable time to go to bed, and we say good night with relief.
Lying in my room, the Herculean task of making it through the day complete, I think about my smaller memories of Mum. The smaller they are, the more precious they seem, so I always write them down when I remember something new. I worry I’ll forget a detail and I might be the only person who knows it. Then it will be gone forever. Who else knows about the time that little sparrow flew into the kitchen window and bounced back onto the terrace, stunned? He lay there, his eyes wide open, shivering. Mum ran inside and grabbed a shoebox, which she lined with an old cardigan, and placed him gently inside. We named him Clunk. When we checked on Clunk for the third time, he’d gone. Mum told me she saw him the next day, reunited with his family and singing cheerily. Thinking about Clunk recovering in his shoebox makes me smile for the first time that day.
I look for more piles of grief glitter that hide smiles—the way Mum used to rub her feet together when she was lying next to me. Or the way she would do funny accents when she read me a story and make me cry with laughter. Or how she used to lie next to me in bed when I was ill, not caring if I coughed and sneezed all over her. She’d hold me close and stroke my hair until I fell asleep.
I sleep.
Chapter Thirty
Accident and Emergency
“I just don’t get why they’re coming to London,” I complain for the fifteenth time.
“Probably because it is one of the greatest cities in the world,” Dad says.
Jen and Dash are visiting London on a mini tour of Europe. So far they’ve been to Paris and Rome. We’re meeting them for lunch on their third day here. Dad says since Jen did such a lot to make us feel welcome in New York, we have to return the favor.
They’re staying in a posh hotel in Knightsbridge, and we arrange to meet them at a restaurant near Kensington Gardens for lunch. When they walk in, I’m transported back to our brunch in New York City all those months ago. This time we’re the ones sitting down waiting while Jen and Dash weave their way through the tables to reach us. Well, Jen weaves, and Dash bumps his way.
“Hi, guys!” says Jen. “It’s so great to see you, isn’t it, Dash?” Her American accent sounds jarring. Jen is looking her usual polished self. Dash is wearing a T-shirt with a Union Jack and the words “Cool Britannia” on it.
“So, so, so great,” Dash lisps, taking hold of my hand. He’s like a cat who can tell who has allergies and gets right onto their lap.
Dash proceeds to describe his adventures in Europe. He went up the Eiffel Tower, saw a frowning-lady picture (I presume he means the Mona Lisa), and his mum ate a slug—Jen clarifies it was a snail.
“What are you looking forward to seeing in London?” asks Dad. “Buckingham Palace? Big Ben? The Tower of London?”
“We went to the palace yesterday, and my mom said the queen was at home because the flag was flying. Like this one.” He points to his T-shirt. “I waved for ages, but I couldn’t see her.” His face falls. “Do you know the queen, Kitty?” Dash asks, brightening up at the prospect. The kid would actually believe me if I said I do.
“Sorry, Dash, I don’t know the queen.”
“I saw your boyfriend at school before vacation, Kitty. He looked sad,” Dash says, and I feel my heart give a little flutter.
“I don’t have a boyfriend, remember?”
“Yes, you do. Your friend with green hair from the duck game. I like him,” Dash says. “His hair is pink now. Why does it keep changing all the time?”
“He means Henry,” says Imogen unhelpfully. “So Dash, did Henry look very sad? Missing Kitty?”
“I told him I miss Kitty too,” says Dash.
Oh my God! No doubt Dash yelled it across the playground. I can feel the tips of my ears turning pink at the thought of it.
“Henry sent Kitty a Valentine’s card,” Imogen tells Jen and Dash.
“I got twenty-two Valentine’s cards,” pipes up Dash. “One from every kid in my grade apart from Sienna. She’s not allowed to bring in Valentine’s cards because her mom says it’s a stupid holiday made up by people who want to sell flowers and chocolates. Zac was supposed to give us each a piece of chocolate, but he ate all of them in the bathroom before class and got sick. His mom had to come and get him from the nurse’s office.”
“Gosh, what an eventful day for the junior kindergarten class,” says Dad and happily changes the subject.
Dash eats his kids’ size shepherd’s pie, colors in the picture that the waitress gives him, and plays rock, paper, scissors with Dad before announcing he’s bored. Jen should just let him play on her phone like every other parent in the restaurant is doing. Imogen is chatting with Jen about the clothes shops in London compared to New York, and I’m tired of listening to them, so I offer to take Dash to the nearby playground.
“Are you sure you don’t mind, Kitty?” says Jen. “That would be awesome.”
“Yay!” says Dash, pulling at my hand.
“Make sure you listen to Kitty. She’s in charge.”
Dash spends a happy ten minutes with me pushing him on the swings and him shouting at me to make him go higher. It’s starting to make me feel a bit nervous, so I suggest we go and look at some of the other things to do. There’s a climbing wall, and he makes a beeline for it.
“Can I go up it, Kitty?” he asks.
I look at the other kids climbing. Some of them look about Dash’s age, so I suppose it’s okay.
“Sure,” I say, heading to a nearby bench. “I’ll watch you from here. Be careful.”
Dash skips off and starts climbing up the structure like a mini Spider-Man.
“Not so high, Dash,” I say, suddenly feeling nervous as I notice he’s managed to get about three feet off the ground in a matter of seconds.
“Kitty!” He lets go of the wall with one hand and waves wildly. “Look at me.”
Everything goes into slow motion, and I watch in horror as Dash falls from the wall and hits the ground below with a dull thud. There is a collective intake of breath from the parents and nannies in the playground, and I jump to my feet and run toward him. By the time I reach him, a lady’s bending down next to him asking him where it hurts and telling him not to move. Dash’s usually flushed cheeks are ashen and one of his legs is unnaturally twisted beneath the other. I reach out to move him into a more comfortable position, but the lady grabs my arm.
“I’m a doctor. We shouldn’t move him. John”—she turns to a man standing next to her—“call an ambulance.” She swivels back to face me. “Is this your brother? Where are your p
arents?”
“Kitty, you’re here,” Dash says, giving me a small smile before closing his eyes.
“He’s not my brother.” I feel my bottom lip trembling. “I was supposed to be looking after him. His mum’s in that café.” I point to the nearby restaurant, and stare in silence at Dash. I feel nauseous. After a few minutes, his eyelashes flicker, and he opens his big brown eyes again.
“Where’s Mommy?”
Despite what the doctor said about not touching him, I lay my hand very softly on Dash’s dark curls, and he closes his eyes again.
“Can I go and get his mum?” I ask the woman.
“Yes, run and get her.”
I hear the woman telling Dash that his mummy is on her way and I race across the playground. I fly into the restaurant, heads turning as I clatter into a chair.
“Jen, Dad! Dash fell off the climbing wall. Come quickly!”
Jen leaps to her feet and starts firing questions at me—“What happened, is he okay, who’s looking after him?”
When we reach the playground, the ambulance has already arrived. Jen rushes to Dash’s side and drops heavily to her knees. It crosses my mind that she will have bruises on her legs later.
“Oh, my baby,” she says to Dash, who is now wearing a neck brace. “Is he going to be okay? What happened?” Jen is looking at the medics, but it’s Dash who replies.
“Hi, Mommy. I was climbing that wall, and I fell. My leg hurts a lot. This lady’s a doctor.”
Jen looks at the woman, gratefully.
“We’re going to take him to get checked out,” one of the paramedics says to Jen. “Looks like a broken leg. He seems fine apart from that, but let’s get him to the hospital so they can do some X-rays. You can ride in the ambulance with us, love.”
Dash looks so small on the adult-sized stretcher as he’s loaded into the back of the ambulance, and I feel the tears welling up in my eyes again.
“Which hospital?” Dad asks the paramedic.
“Chelsea and Westminster.”
“We’ll be right behind you in a taxi,” Dad calls to Jen.
The second the ambulance pulls away, I burst into tears. Imogen appears looking flustered.
“Dad, you left without paying!” she says.
Dad passes Imogen a wad of notes and instructs her to pay and then head home while we go to the hospital.
“It’s okay, love,” says Dad. “Come on, let’s get a taxi, and you can tell me what happened on the way to the hospital.”
Four hours and a gazillion tests later, Dash is given the all-clear to go home. He has a broken leg, an egg-sized bump on his head, and is very pleased with his neon-green cast. He got to choose the color himself.
Despite both Dad and Jen assuring me that it wasn’t my fault, that accidents happen, and that Dash is absolutely fine and will have an exciting London story to tell when he gets back to school, I feel awful. Jen is being kind, but I’m sure she must hate me. I would.
We take Jen and Dash back to their hotel and get them settled. Jen orders room service for the two of them and sets Dash up on the big bed with his iPad and says that he can watch Dora until their food arrives.
“Anything we can do?” Dad asks.
“No, I don’t think so, Rob.”
“Well, call me if you need anything. Maybe you should come and hang out at our place tomorrow. Better than staying at the hotel all day, and Dash could probably do with a day off sightseeing.”
I’m pretty sure the last place Jen will want to be is at our house, but she smiles and says that would be great.
“I’ll just say goodbye to Dash,” I say and walk over to the bed. The iPad has fallen onto his chest, and his eyes are closed. I bend and give him a gentle kiss on the cheek.
“I’m so sorry, Dash,” I whisper. He really is quite sweet when he’s asleep.
He opens his eyes and smiles at me.
“Don’t be sad, Kitty,” he says before closing them again.
The next morning at breakfast, I’m moping around the kitchen. Imogen says my self-flagellation—a word I need to go and look up—is getting really tedious, and given Jen doesn’t blame me, why am I still talking about it? Soon after Jen and Dash arrive at our house, Mrs. Allison appears with Sir Lancelot and a batch of her fantastic blueberry and lemon muffins. Dash immediately lies down on the floor next to Sir Lancelot and presses his button nose into Sir Lancelot’s fur.
“I love you,” I hear him whispering.
“Oh, and he loves you too, poppet,” says Mrs. Allison. “Now, are you feeling well enough to do some baking with me later?”
“Yes!” says Dash. “What are we going to make?”
“Dog treats for Sir Lancelot,” Mrs. Allison says, grinning broadly. “We’ll shape them like little bones.”
“What do they taste like?”
“You know, I’ve never tried one. Sir Lancelot loves them. I have to remember not to bake them for too long, as he’s not very good at crunching things anymore. He likes them on the softer side.”
“How do we make them?”
“Peanut butter, eggs, pumpkin puree, and whole-wheat flour.”
“Yummy! Can I try one?” Dash asks.
“I don’t see why not,” says Mrs. Allison. “If it’s okay with your mummy.”
“Why not?” says Jen weakly.
I’m sure she didn’t imagine her son having a broken leg or eating dog treats on his trip to Europe.
“How about we go out for lunch?” asks Dad.
“I don’t want to,” Dash says. “I want to watch TV. Peppa Pig’s my new favorite show. Her voice sounds like yours, Kitty.”
Imogen snorts with laughter.
“You sound like Daddy Pig, Imogen,” Dash says delightedly. It’s my turn to snort.
“Dash can stay here with me if you and Jen want to go out,” says Imogen. “I’ve got homework to do, and I’ll make sure Kitty doesn’t break his other leg.”
“Very funny, Imogen,” Dad says. “Well, what do you think, Jen? There’s a lovely Greek restaurant just around the corner, so we wouldn’t be far.” Jen looks doubtful. I knew she hadn’t forgiven me!
“I’m happy to stay with him as well,” says Mrs. Allison. “Sir Lancelot and I are free this afternoon.”
“Yay!” says Dash. “Sir Lancelot can watch Peppa Pig with me.”
“Well, that would be lovely, if you’re sure you don’t mind,” Jen says to Imogen and Mrs. Allison. Clearly, my services as a babysitter are no longer required. I scowl. I’m still upset about what happened with Dash yesterday, and now Dad and Jen are going out for lunch alone.
Dash settles down happily in front of Peppa Pig with a blueberry muffin, a cup of milk, and Sir Lancelot, who Mrs. Allison heaved onto the sofa—“just this once, mind,” she said. “A special treat because of your leg.”
“Imogen,” I hiss. “Why on earth did you suggest Dad and Jen go out for lunch?”
“Why not? It’s Jen’s last day in London. No point in us all sitting around here, is there?”
“It just seems weird, the two of them going out on their own like that.”
“Oh my God, Kitty. You don’t still think they’re going to start dating, do you? They live on opposite sides of the Atlantic.”
“Hmmm,” I say, still suspicious. “Well, I don’t like it, plus if any of the neighbors see Dad with a strange woman, they’ll think he’s got a girlfriend.”
“You need to stop worrying about what a bunch of random, nosy neighbors might think. Now be quiet and fetch me a muffin. I want to watch Peppa Pig.”
“Get your own muffin.”
Gran arrives just as the third episode of Peppa is ending.
“Was that your father and Jennifer I just saw in the Greek restaurant?” she asks.
I’ve noticed before that Gran calls Dad “your father” when she’s annoyed with him.
“Yup,” Imogen says. “Dad’s taken her out for lunch as it’s her last day.”
“Hmmm,” says Gr
an. “Seems strange.”
“Exactly what I said,” I say.
Gran and I exchange loaded glances. It’s a good thing Jen and Dash are flying back to New York tomorrow. I feel guilty every time I look at Dash’s neon cast, and I really don’t want my dad and Jen going out for any more lunches. Luckily there’s an ocean between them, and nothing can remove the Atlantic. You know what they say, out of sight, out of mind.
Chapter Thirty-One
Home Is Where the Heart Is
“Girls, there’s something I want to discuss with you,” Dad says a month later. He sounds excited.
Oh great, here we go. What now? It is almost certainly going to be something that I’m not going to like one bit. He looks at us to make sure that we’re both paying attention. We are.
“How do you feel about moving back to New York—for a couple of years this time? My boss is keen that I go back to oversee the project I started there. It’s fully funded now, so it would be great, sort of like running my own small business.”
“Fine by me,” says Imogen, sounding as relaxed as if Dad had just suggested going to the movies that evening. “I’m so over London. At least in New York, I won’t have to see Josh and Scarlett slobbering all over each other outside Starbucks. It’s gross. Plus, I can’t stand having to wear a school uniform. Can Lily come and stay?”
I look at Dad to see if he thinks that avoiding seeing your ex-boyfriend kissing Scarlett Wilson is a good reason to move to the other side of the world, but he’s just smiling at Imogen—a bemused look on his face. Imogen continues to blather on about how Josh sucks, and how Lily heard from another girl that Scarlett is going to dump Josh soon anyway and that he’d better not expect Imogen to offer him a shoulder to cry on. I gaze out of the window at the familiar garden, the feel of the worn wooden kitchen table warm under my hands. I know every groove of its surface. There isn’t a single thing that I know every groove of in New York. There I was like a fish out of water. Home is where the heart is, and my heart’s in London with Gran, Kate, Jess, Mrs. Allison, and Cleo. There was something about being in New York, though, something that I didn’t even know I needed—I could walk down any street and into any room without seeing a Mum-shaped gap.