Fleetwood Mac is playing in the kitchen. That’s a bad sign. Mum’s a Christmas traditionalist, a lover of carols, festive schmaltz, on the harp, the ukulele, whatever. This is not the season for Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours. This does not augur well.
I’m lying in my bedroom at Mum and Dad’s, the one Dad converted from the dining room when I was about ten. It’s downstairs, so there’s no need for a lift, and I’m within earshot of the daily comings and goings, which is nice for them as they can keep an eye on me, and nice for me as it means I am not really alone. This is not a big house and the walls are thin, so I don’t miss much, even in here.
The bed I’m in has a specially designed mattress which helps keep my circulation going, and it raises and lowers, just like the ones you get in hospitals. Mum has done her best to try to hide the medical nature of the bed, mind you. Some years ago she made a headboard out of MDF, tie-dye material and some staples, and stuck it at the top end. It’s fraying seriously now and it’s not really convincing anyone, but I love that she tried.
Most of the room is dark (I’m supposed to be having my afternoon nap) but Mum has left my Christmas tree lit. It’s small and made from green plastic, and it’s ancient. I think it was Eliza’s first. A string of coloured lanterns, stylish circa-1970, are draped around it. They look like sweets that have been left out too long in the sun, sticky and losing their definition around the edges. The tree is topped with a star made from tinsel, probably something Eliza brought back from Brownies. It’s set at a jaunty angle and I long to straighten it.
The door is half-open into the hallway and I can just make out Mum shuffling about the kitchen, her slippers scrubbing the heavily marked lino underfoot. She’s making mince pies, I think, but so far she just seems to be succeeding in making noise. I watch as she reaches into cupboards and slaps baking trays, jars, canisters and spoons onto the laminate surfaces, slamming the yellow oak doors closed in turn, like a percussion section tuning up. Every so often she pauses and checks her phone, and mutters.
Dad is supposed to be here by now. That’s what Mum told me in her stilted monologue during the drive home yesterday. She said he was due on the afternoon of the twenty-third of December, a later flight than she’d expected. But there would still be time, she promised, for our family outing to see the lights, for hot chocolate. These two things have become family traditions – crucially, they were things I could actually take part in – although the chocolate has to be partially cooled these days and artificially thickened. But sometimes Mum adds rum to it and I like the taste.
I’m off to respite care tomorrow. Just for the night; I’ll be back here in time for lunch on Christmas Day. It gives Mum and Dad a break while they get everything ready. They’ve done it this way for years, ever since they had a stand-up row with my grandparents over the turkey and trimmings, Mum’s mum and dad sitting aghast at one end of the table, Eliza covering most of her face with a napkin at the other. To be honest, I don’t mind going there, not one bit. Trust me, when you’ve witnessed your parents at each other’s throats for decades over, say, what sort of socks you should wear today, it’s nice to have a breather.
Mum’s frantic baking activity is linked to her plans for this afternoon. Frank and Julie, our neighbours, are due any moment. They come around every Christmas. They haven’t got their own family and they’re now retired, so I think they find the chaos of our home a welcome change. Or perhaps something like aversion therapy? This house would put anyone off having kids. For a start, I’m still lying here, like Miss Havisham’s mouldering wedding cake, at least ten years after I should have left.
Frank was an architect and Julie was the practice nurse at the local doctor’s surgery. They’re a nice couple, very approachable. They usually make an effort to get down to my level to say hello, which not everybody does. Julie sometimes even does my hair for me; she used to run a mobile hairdressing business on the side. I could do with a bit of colour now, I think, judging by how I looked last time I got to look in a mirror. I have a tendency for frizz, and I can see a few grey hairs starting. At least my hair is blonde; those greys will be hard to spot for a while.
There’s the doorbell. Mum’s just slammed the oven door shut, so there’ll be fresh mince pies for our guests, at the very least. She takes her apron off in one swift movement, dislodging one of her special festive earrings, a flashing Christmas tree. It’s probably fallen down her top. Wonder how long it’ll take the neighbours to spot it?
She’s raced to the door. I can hear her exchanging pleasantries with Julie and Frank. ‘Happy Christmas, both! No, he’s not here yet, delayed I think. But hopefully soon. How’s Alfie?’ Alfie is their dog. He’s an Alsatian and I like him. He looks at me like he knows I can understand. Maybe he can, too? They’re clever, Alsatians.
They’re moving in the direction of the lounge, and they pass my door. Mum looks in and sees that I’m awake. ‘Ah, Patience, you’re back with us,’ she says, brightly. ‘I’ll just take Frank and Julie through and I’ll come to get you.’
Getting me out of bed is a palaver. I need rolling and hoisting. Mum had to apply for a grant to buy the hoist system in my room. If you imagine a Brio railway track, it’s like that, only stuck on the ceiling. It cost thousands, but it does at least mean that she can manage me with just one helper, so I can still live here most of the time. I like it, mostly; Mum’s cooking is delicious, the TV always has Take That on, and it smells of home, of Tess the dog and of dust. It’s a little lonely, though. I rather like the madness of the respite care home. There’s always something going on and they take us out – to the shops, to the theatre, to church. They treat us like adults.
While Mum’s embroiled in the complicated process of transferring me from my bed to my chair, she hears keys in the front door lock.
‘Pete? Is that you?’ A few seconds later, Dad appears at my door.
‘Hi, Lou,’ he says, coldly, not really looking at her. ‘And hi, Patience!’ he adds, transferring his gaze to me, his tone transformed. ‘My lovely girl. How are you?’
I’m pleased to see him, of course I am. It’s been a month – and although I love Mum, it’s a little dull when he’s away. I smile.
‘Why didn’t I hear from you?’ she demands. ‘Why are you so late?’
He’s not looking at her, he’s still looking at me.
‘Sorry. I had a lot on at work and it was all a bit last minute.’
He leans in to kiss me on the cheek.
‘Too last minute to reply to my texts and let me know when you’d be here?’
There is an ugly pause.
‘Yep.’
‘Pete, don’t be like this.’
‘Like what?’
‘Cold. We’ve barely spoken in the last month. But come on, you’re home and it’s Christmas, Patience is here, Eliza and Ed are coming over for Christmas day – there’s so much we need to discuss about the wedding – come on, let’s get things back on track. And I need to talk to you about asking Eliza…’
‘Back on track? Like, you know, before you decided to sign Patience up for something that could kill her?’
What? Oh My God, this is news to me… and… and… I am having my period and I feel paranoid every month at this time anyway. What? This is going to tip me over the edge.
‘Be quiet, Pete!’ Mum rasps at Dad. ‘Frank and Julie are just down the hall. And it’s not going to kill her, don’t be ridiculous.’
‘They’re here, are they? Lovely,’ he says in a forced voice, before adding in a quieter tone, a sort of harsh whisper: ‘I am not going to pretend, Lou, that things are better. You have made it perfectly clear that you don’t give a shit what I think, but hey, I’m going to keep telling you, anyway. This is an experimental trial. Who knows what it’s going to do to her?’
Yes, what the bloody hell is it going to do, Mum? Mum?!
‘I’ve told you, they wouldn’t allow them to do this to humans if it was that risky,’ Mum replies, ripping the Velcro from my waist with a little too much force. ‘And it could be amazing. It could help her walk, or talk, or you know, use her hands again.’
‘Those are pipe dreams, Lou. Absolute fiction. I’m surprised at you, with all your medical training, believing shit like this. They’re playing mind games with you, promising you the world. It’s snake oil. And I’m not prepared to let them play Russian roulette with our daughter’s life. I’m just not going to let it happen. I won’t sign that bloody document – and I’ll be telling them exactly that at the Best Interests meeting.’
‘For Christ’s sake, stop it, Pete! Look, you’re upsetting Patience. She thinks you’re angry with her.’
I hadn’t realised I was showing it. Dad looks over at me and I can see that he feels guilty.
‘We can talk about this tomorrow. When our guests have gone.’ Mum pauses, looking at him, pleadingly. ‘Not now?’
Dad sighs, and his face softens a bit.
‘Fine. OK. Tomorrow. I’ll just take my stuff upstairs and get changed.’
Dad doesn’t wait for a response. I hear him take a deep breath as he hoists his bag up and mounts the stairs, taking each step heavily. And when he reaches the top, he turns right, not left. He’s heading for the spare room.