by Betty Balaba
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I will be back tomorrow, Mum.”
“When?” she said quickly.
“I’ll call in the morning to see how you are and then come straight after work. I’ll leave a bit early and get here as soon as I can.”
It was 2:45 a.m. when the cab came to collect me. I was beyond tired, as if I had worked two days straight without stopping. The only thing that was keeping me going was the adrenalin. At home, I was greeted by my mother’s half-eaten dinner plate. She had only been staying with me for a few days while her flat was being painted. My eyes welled up. We had only managed a few bites of dinner before she started to feel unwell. Now, scraping our cold food into the bin I realised that I was feeling hungry after the long and stressful evening. There was no way I would normally eat at this time. But soon I was throwing open the cupboards one after another, looking for something I could quickly munch on. Anything. The fridge was standing there accusingly but I wasn’t going to start grilling bits of chicken for a salad now. My eyes finally fell on a packet of crisps and a packet of promotional M&Ms that had been given to me at the Tube station the day before.
I ripped open the crisp packet and devoured them. I could hear my mother’s voice: “But why don’t you sit down and eat something, Becca?” I couldn’t help smiling. Even though she would be tutting at me right now, I longed for her to be back on her feet correcting my manners. I had always joked that as long as I knew the rules, it didn’t matter if I broke them. But that didn’t cut it with my mother: she believed you lived by those rules too. Worse, like all mothers, she worried it would reflect badly on her. “People will think I didn’t care enough about you to teach you proper manners!” It had been a constant tug-of-war between us. If I’m honest, I enjoyed her telling me off. It tickled me that she could be so affronted. I’d tease her by asking if they hadn’t swapped me at the hospital, and her real perfectly mannered daughter was being raised by aliens somewhere else. She would always roll her eyes at this. “Becca, stop being such a drama queen!” Then I would collapse in giggles. But I knew she would beam with pride if someone told her that her daughter had beautiful manners so I always tried my best in front of strangers.
I wiped away my tears, knowing I needed sleep. I scrunched up the crisp packet and threw it in the bin. But they hadn’t really hit the sides. It was time for the M&Ms! That was a first; I didn’t know it at the time – but that was the beginning.
Chapter 2
New Brogues and Near Misses
I didn’t get to bed until 3:45 a.m. that night. Needless to say, I still didn’t sleep well. The thought that I might not be up again in time kept me tossing and turning. I hate being stunned into wakefulness by my alarm, and usually wake up naturally before it goes off. That morning I woke three hours after I’d gone to bed, my eyes stinging, convinced that I hadn’t slept at all.
A hot shower and a call to the hospital made me feel a bit better. They didn’t let me speak to my mum, as she was having breakfast, but said she was settled and asked when I would be there. I relaxed a little in the knowledge that she was okay before new thoughts began to nag. What does ‘settled’ mean? Pain that is being managed? Or ‘settled’ in the ward? It wasn’t a straight answer at all! I consoled myself that at least her having breakfast sounded promising.
My bedroom was a concoction of cream carpet, curtains and walls; with mirrored side-tables, drawers and wardrobe. It was my nod to glam and I felt at peace there, in spite of my own life being far from glam. Bouncing back at me from the full-length mirror were collarbones that seemed even more prominent today due to the V-neck of my pencil dress. I had a toned hourglass figure. My best friend from school repeatedly joked that she would kill for my bone structure. “Who would you kill?” I’d jest back. “Well, certainly not the cake tin,” she’d say, and we’d both crack up like leading lights at the Comedy Store.
I put on my new-heeled brogues that morning, hoping a little sophistication would help with the tiredness. Already the clock told me I was behind; the hospital call had put me back and it seemed my punctual nature was already taking a hit. I grabbed my coat and rushed to the door – without breakfast. Yet I still hit the office at 8:59, with a relieved smile. Thank goodness for the Tube.
Our receptionist Sophie was a cheerful woman with Rapunzel like hair which fell down to her waist. To this day I don’t know if they were extensions or not. “Nice heels!” she said brightly. “Cutting it fine though!”
I turned around and threw her a grin.
“As long as I am not late…” We both laughed. Her cheerfulness was always infectious. We had immediately warmed to each other on first meeting, managing to turn the mundane into something funny. Dashing in and out with two seconds to spare, we’d congratulate each other on our timekeeping. This was one of many hilarities: Sophie’s heels coming off on the Tube escalator and her ending up in odd shoes, finding a hair in her salad and eating around it because she was hungry, and many more in-jokes about her baking prowess. She could bake so well but had never made a Bake-well tart. Like I said, we laughed at everything.
At the desk, the thought of having missed breakfast caught up with me fast. I answered important emails until the rumbling couldn’t be ignored. I grabbed my purse and made a dash for the lift. There was a cafe right next door. The aroma of baked goods hit me as soon I stepped though the entrance. Whatever I thought I was or wasn’t going to buy, that smell took over. A hot croissant wasn’t a patch in health terms on the thick porridge I usually made for breakfast – almond butter and blueberries on top, thank you very much – but this morning it would have to do. Paying for the croissant, I was struck with the thought of my colleagues. In our office, we always brought each other snacks. I was convinced people also used us as guinea pigs for their new baking efforts – before trying them on anyone actually important. I bought some more croissants and some muffins before heading back to the office.
Returning to work, I was greeted like someone with a winning lottery ticket.
“Becca bearing gifts. What’s not to like!” Greg could always spot food like some kind of heat seeking missile.
“Thanks Greg,” I said, stoically. Jenny sidled over to my side and delicately pinched up a sticky-toffee muffin.
“If you are what you eat,” she quipped, “then I am one sweet mama!”
Of course, at the exact moment that I took a huge swipe of my croissant, my boss Emma appeared hovering over my desk. She stifled a laugh as I bolted down another mouthful.
“Thanks for the croissant,” she said. “I’ll need your marketing plan by two o’clock though. Departmental meeting tomorrow!”
I nodded, trying not to choke as I finished my final mouthful. Since when had the deadline been today? Everything here seemed to be done by the seat of your pants. I was definitely ‘rolling with it’ as Sophie would say, although it seemed I was making up for someone else’s lack of preparation again. I thought about telling Emma about my mother’s admission to hospital, then realised it would sound like I was making excuses in advance. So I put my head down and worked through lunch. Of course I wasn’t that hungry: I’d wolfed down another butter croissant half way through the morning.
The marketing plan hit Emma’s desk at 1:30 p.m. sharp, and I slipped out for some air. Outside on the pavement, I called my mother’s mobile. She didn’t answer. I called the ward and it was answered on the fourth ring.
“It’s Becca,” I said. “Mrs Johnson’s daughter. I just wanted to check how my mother was doing?” I felt apprehensive. Was she okay? Had they found out the problem?
“Hi,” I heard. “My name is Sarah. I’m the nurse looking after her today. She is doing okay this morning but we’re waiting for the test results.” Again the ambiguity: what does ‘okay’ mean? Okay compared to what?
“Could I speak to one of her doctors?” I asked.
“I am afraid you’ve missed them. They came around in the morning.” Sensing my disappointment, she added. “If you c
ould get here by 4:30 p.m., you may be able to see a consultant…”
“Thanks,” I said, flooded with relief. “I’ll do that.”
I never thought I would be so grateful to be at work. The routine took the edge off the worry. It was one thing for her to be ill – but another for the doctors to not even know what was wrong with her. I was trying not to panic before I knew anything. And I couldn’t panic because I had to be strong for both of us now. Soon it was almost time to leave to go back to the hospital. I went over to Emma’s desk. She looked up and smiled.
“Emma, I am sorry but I will have to leave shortly. My mother is in the hospital.”
“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry to hear that. Yes of course, you must. Let me know how she is.” As I was about to turn, she stopped me. “Thanks for the plan. They were very impressed. I will go through some finer points with you when you are back.”
“Great,” I said, relieved the conversation had gone smoothly and I had some credit in the bank. The last thing I needed now was a strained situation at work. As I shut down my computer and packed up my desk, Sophie shouted after me. “Working part-time now, are we?” I strained a smile back as the lift doors closed. She hadn’t meant it badly, and it wasn’t the best time to tell her what was going on.
Speed walking to the station, my feet started to hurt, even though they’d been okay all day. My walk turned into a jog as I heard a train coming in. Rush hour hadn’t started but there were still lots of people at the station, sauntering along as if they had all the time in the world. I tried to weave through them quickly but the train doors clipped neatly shut just as I reached the platform. Damn! And the indicator said not another train for twelve minutes. Twelve minutes! I might as well have strolled here and saved my toes. The only other person on the platform had parked herself down in the middle of a mountain of shopping and seemed in no hurry. Meanwhile my train was moving dismissively off, disappearing into the tunnel with the last of my patience. Now the other passengers – the very ones who had sauntered along so easily as I ran past – were arriving on the platform. I felt like a car which had sped past others only to be caught at the next red light.
After the longest twelve minutes of my life, the next train arrived. Somehow each minute on the Tube platform, slowly watching the digital numbers go down, feels like double of what it shows. Once above ground again, I found myself running in a panic. Of course my new brogues caught on an uneven paving stone. I put my hand out to try break the fall but hit the pavement hard, with gravel chips embedding themselves in my left palm. My pencil dress remained in place, just. I picked myself up with what dignity I could muster, more embarrassed than hurt. At least nothing was broken. And the heels had stayed on my new shoes – a small mercy. My feet had been hurting before, but now they were killing me. It felt like they were a size too small. A lady ran up to help me as I smoothed my clothes back into shape, and asked if I was okay. I assured her I was, trying to hold it together as an audience formed.
“Thanks,” I said to the newly assembled crowd, feeling their pitying eyes as I walked on.
I hobbled my way up to my mother’s ward, knowing that I had missed the consultant. But hope springs eternal: I still wanted to check.
“I am afraid you have missed him,” said the nurse. “But he was here earlier.” She looked at the little watch face pinned to her chest. “It is 5:15 now and he left half an hour ago. Try to come by 4:00 next time?”
“Thanks,” I said through gritted teeth. “I’ll do my best.” I tried to hide my disappointment. I felt winded.
“Can you tell me, how is my mother doing?” I tried.
“Better. She was put on blood thinners that should help with the clots in her lungs. Unfortunately, we were still not able to scan her calf as she found it too painful.”
Too painful for a scan? That didn’t sound good. But at least one thing was being treated. When I first heard she had blood clots in her lungs, I had felt terrified. Clots always made me think of the worst. I would need to speak to my mother about making sure she had the leg scan, even if it hurt. Otherwise the doctors wouldn’t even know how to treat her.
Leaning in for a hug when I got to her bed, I asked: “How are you feeling?”
“My leg really hurts, even after the painkillers,” she said flatly. “And they still don’t know what’s wrong with it.”
“I spoke to the nurse,” I said. “She said they can’t scan your leg because…” I didn’t want to mention the pain. “You’ve got to let them try.”
She nodded, seeming to get the hint. At least she looked well rested. She squinted at me quizzically.
“What happened to you? Your palm is bleeding and your hair is a mess!” I smiled – here was the mother I knew!
“I fell on my way here.”
“You look tired,” she said. I shrugged, brushing it off. I was exhausted, of course; I’d never felt tiredness like it. But I didn’t want her to feel bad. And hopefully I would get a good night’s sleep tonight. I went to the small sink in the ward and cleaned the dirt from my palms. As I held a paper towel to the graze, a male nursing assistant walked past. He was a cuddly man with an easy smile.
“You must be the daughter?” he said, radiating warmth. “I love your shoes – but they look lethal.”
I smiled as I looked down at my shoes. He wasn’t wrong there!
“In more ways than one!” I joked back, holding up my bleeding hand.
“I have just the thing for that,” he said. “Give me a minute…”
He returned swiftly, still beaming. He was holding a plaster and a cellophane covered packet that he handed to me. I stuck the plaster over the offending cut and looked at the packet puzzled.
“Open your present,” he said. “They are disposable slippers. To save your feet!”
I laughed and thanked him. It was the sweetest gesture. I glanced at his nametag, Nick Brown.
Sitting at my mother’s bedside, I threw off the offending shoes. Slipping my feet into the cheap and comfortable slippers, the blood started to flow again and the burning sensation eased. It dawned on me that if I had to keep coming to the hospital after work, I would have to retire my high heels for the time being. Either that or I’d be on crutches before the weekend! I tidied the wheeled tray table by my mother’s bed to prepare for mealtime. It was sticky with something – I didn’t want to think what – but it disappeared after a wipe with one of the Dettol wipes I always carry in my bag. Trust me to take antiseptic wipes to a hospital! Soon I was furiously cleaning the table and cupboard with more of the same. I was onto the call bell and bed railings when Nick Brown walked past. I wondered what he thought of my frantic cleaning; hopefully he was just amused. Embarrassed, I switched tasks to getting my mother hydrated.
“It’s warm,” she said morosely, sipping on her water.
“Not to worry…” I said. “I’ll go down to the shop and buy some bottled.”
“That would be nice,” said my mother. “Thank you.”
When I got back, the dinner trolley had already appeared. Who apart from children eat at six p.m.? My mother had ordered beef stew, with mashed potatoes and a vegetable side. It smelled alright but the stew was runny with more onions and potatoes than actual beef. Eating in hospitals in the presence of the chemical smells and medical procedures seemed like a horrible prospect to me. The contents of my stomach would be on the floor in a flash. I drank my bottled water quietly as my mother picked at her dinner.
“You don’t like it?” I asked.
“Not much flavour,” she said.
“Do you want me to get you something else?”
“No, it’s okay. I don’t have much of an appetite anyway.”
“A tiny bit more?” I tried. She took three more mouthfuls, looking more vexed at each bite. I knew she was just doing it to keep me happy.
“What will you eat?” She asked suddenly.
“I’ll have something when I get home,” I said.
I settled by her b
ed to read the Evening Standard, but soon Nick the nursing assistant was wheeling around a trolley of rhubarb crumble and custard. One of my favourites! The smell was divine. I had always had a sweet tooth, and a child’s taste in desserts. The heartier the better! Crumbles… fruit pies… sponges… treacle tarts. No dainty delicate cakes or de-constructed desserts for me. And I was never satisfied with just a taste. My main meals were normally healthy, but puddings had their own rules. The calories had to be really worth it so I always chose well.
“Mrs Johnson, would you like some crumble?” asked Nick.
“No, thanks,” said my mother, still unimpressed with her main course.
He looked at her as if she was missing out. I burst out laughing and he smiled at me.
“The dessert is the best part of dinner, you know.” He caught my eye and turned to me. “Have you eaten?” Ah, the inevitable question.
“Oh,” I said nervously. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll eat when I get home.”
“Not even for your mother?” He said, nudging the pudding towards me.
I laughed again. “Not this time. Thanks.”
Nick admitted defeat and carried on. My mother half-smiled at me. She knew I would rather go hungry then eat in a hospital. She was a slow eater at the best of times but she was even slower in the hospital. The other patients’ empty dishes had already been collected. Picking up her tray with the dirty dishes, I went to find someone who could take them away. I found someone collecting dishes in the next ward, and lingered near the door for her to come out.
There were two teenage boys near a bed by the door, laughing loudly. It didn’t take me long to find out what was so funny: the lady collecting the dirty dishes was on the larger side. The two boys were giggling like little girls, gesturing at over at her.
“The only place I want to see a thigh that big is in a bucket covered in breadcrumbs!” My eyes narrowed. “Her bum is a bit like a shelf.”