The house feels totally different and not really like our house at all. Dad keeps saying that she’s only on the other side of town and we can visit her every day after school if we want to – but even he can’t pretend that it’s the same.
We’ve come to see her today. Dad has been before but it’s the first time Isaac and I have been here, and as soon as Dad stops the car I know that it’s going to be awful. I hang back, pretending I’ve lost something down the back of the car seat and hoping that Dad will just take Isaac in without me.
No such luck.
‘Come on, Liv,’ he says, a bit impatiently.
I am totally not in the mood for him to have a go at me right now so I stay where I am.
‘Liv,’ he says again, with a warning in his voice. He’s been a total grouch the last few days and majorly bossy. I can tell he’s not going to let me stay behind so I drag myself out of the car, as slowly as I dare – I want him to know that this is not OK with me but I don’t really want to start an argument.
‘What’s the big rush anyway?’ I grumble. ‘It’s not like she’s going anywhere.’ I can hear my voice sounding even grumpier than Dad’s. I’m actually not in a bad mood but I am feeling a bit scared.
‘Mum’s been waiting for us, Liv – she wants to hear all about your day,’ says Dad as he locks the door and puts a hand on my shoulder, propelling me along the path after Isaac.
And straight away I feel horrid and guilty. I raise my eyes and take a proper look at the building in front of us. It looks like the sort of house that a really posh family would live in – I can imagine it at Christmas, all lit up with lamps in every window and a couple of expensive cars on the driveway. I bet there’s a massive hallway where they’d put a gigantic Christmas tree, covered in candles and silver tinsel – totally the opposite of our Christmas tree that is usually leaning over to one side and dripping with multicoloured fairy lights and about a million tacky decorations, made by me and Isaac when we were little. Mum is utterly incapable of throwing anything like that away, so every year our poor tree spends the Christmas holidays smothered with cardboard angels and sheep made out of empty loo-roll tubes. Dad always says it looks like a car crash of a Christmas tree, but Mum just laughs and tells him not to be such a Scrooge.
I look around as we walk up the path. Everything is very neat and tidy. It doesn’t look like any children ever play in this garden, which is a shame, cos I can see an excellent tree for climbing and a little stream and a huge weeping willow with branches that reach right down to the ground – I bet there’s room for a little secret den inside there. It’s the sort of place where I could take hundreds of photographs, but I haven’t felt like using my camera since my birthday. Nothing seems important enough any more for me to record it. I used to think that the whole world was full of amazing things that could leap out at me and take me by surprise – wonderful moments that I’d want to remember forever. Now I hate surprises and instead of wondering ‘why’ when I stop to take a photo, I just wonder ‘why bother?’ It’s not as if you can take a photograph with you when you go.
‘Liv?’ says Dad, and I realize that he’s been talking to me. ‘Come on, let’s go and find Mum’s room. I know she’s desperate to see you.’
We walk up the steps and in through the open front door. The massive hall is just as I imagined it. But there’s no Christmas tree, and even though I knew that there wouldn’t be – it’s only April, for goodness’ sake – I can’t help feeling a little disappointed.
Dad leads us up the stairs. He’s been to visit Mum every day so he knows where we need to go, and I’m glad that he seems confident because I’m feeling really nervous.
I’ve missed Mum so much since we found out that she was ill. It’s weird, but I started missing her when she was still in the house – it felt like she wasn’t really there the way that she used to be. And then, last week, everything went downhill. Mum couldn’t really get out of bed, and when I went in to say ‘hello’ to her after school each afternoon she was either asleep or lying very still, and wouldn’t say very much. She didn’t smell right either – not like Mum. I was too scared to ask her why. I thought she might not have noticed and I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Sometimes she wanted me to lie down next to her and have a hug, but I didn’t really want to cos she didn’t feel like Mum and the odd smell thing totally bothered me – I don’t know why. It just felt like cuddling a stranger.
Dad took the week off work and spent the whole time racing around – trying to get Mum to eat, carrying her to the bathroom or talking on the phone to the doctors at the hospital. Leah was in charge of looking after me and Isaac, which meant that I spent the whole week trying to avoid Isaac meltdowns. It was hard work cos even though he loves Leah, he didn’t like the fact that everything was different, and Dad was too busy with Mum to help Isaac understand what was going on. I did my best but I didn’t really know what to tell him either, so we just kind of muddled through.
Last Thursday I woke up in the middle of the night and thought I’d check on Mum after I’d been to the loo. But before I could open her bedroom door I heard the sound of crying. And it wasn’t Mum doing the crying. I don’t think I’ve ever heard my dad cry before and I hope I never, ever hear that again. I wanted to run back to bed and pretend that I hadn’t heard, but for some reason my feet wouldn’t move so I had to stay, with my head resting on the door, listening. I think I cried a bit too, but I’m not sure if I was crying for me, Mum or Dad.
On Friday morning Dad told us that he was taking Mum to stay here, in St Mary’s Hospice. He said they could make her more comfortable than he could at home. I’ve heard that word a lot this week and it always makes me want to laugh. Slippers are comfortable; our old sofa is comfortable, but I could never describe my mum as ‘comfortable’. She’s always too busy and energetic and exciting to be a word like that. She’d be pretty narked off if she thought someone was calling her ‘comfortable’ – she hates lame words like ‘nice’ and ‘lovely’ and ‘pretty’, and I know for a fact that she’d say ‘comfortable’ is definitely a lame word.
We’re standing outside a closed door now and I know that this must be Mum’s room. My heart starts beating faster and I can feel my armpits starting to prickle with sweat. What if she doesn’t look like Mum any more? Just how ill is she right now? Or even worse, is she going to be in pain? The idea of my mum hurting is more than I can begin to deal with and I take a step backwards – they can’t actually make me go in, can they? I’m thinking that the little secret den under the weeping willow tree would be a pretty good place to hide, and I picture myself curled up on the ground watching the sunlight coming through gaps in the leaves, and the damp, fresh smell of the earth, and nobody in the world knowing where I am or asking me to do something that I cannot possibly do.
But then Dad is opening the door.
‘Just act normally, Liv,’ he says, then disappears inside, and I have no choice but to dumbly follow him and Isaac – all the time wishing that I was a stronger person, with enough strength to turn round and run away.
I’m surprised when I step inside the room. It’s bigger than I expected and the late afternoon sun is streaming through a huge window that overlooks the front drive and the car park. There are two beds and there, sitting in front of the window on a chair, is Mum. I realize she must have been watching out for us and I hope she couldn’t tell that I didn’t want to get out of the car.
Dad has rushed over to Mum and is hugging her and whispering in her ear. I can’t hear what he says but a big smile spreads across her face. Isaac has been hanging back, looking worried, but when Dad pulls away, Isaac walks carefully across the room and gives Mum a gentle pat on the arm. She stretches her arm round him and rubs the small of his back and Isaac relaxes a bit, sitting down on the edge of Mum’s bed and turning his iPod on. He’s in his own world now, where he doesn’t have to think about what we’re doing here.
Mum looks across at me. I can’t take my eyes off her. She looks like Mum but I’m still not sure whether it’s really OK to act as if everything’s normal. I mean, this is totally not normal. It’s nothing like normal. I really want her to cuddle me – in fact, I want it more than anything else in the world right now, but I’m so scared of getting it wrong and I just don’t know what to do.
I stand there, by the door, for a few seconds that feel like a few hours, and then Mum opens her arms and nods her head at me, smiling. And just like that, I know it’s OK because she’s told me that it is. I run across the room and throw myself on to her lap. I haven’t sat on her knee for years now and I don’t want to hurt her, but I really need this; I want to feel like I used to when I was a little girl – when I thought my mum would always be there for me and would always protect me and never leave me, no matter what. Her arms tighten round me, and I rest my head on her shoulder and breathe in deeply – and even if she doesn’t smell the way she always has, she smells like my mum smells now and that’s fine with me.
We sit like this for a while and I’m not sure if I’m holding on to Mum or she’s holding on to me, and it doesn’t really matter because while we’re cuddled up together I can remember all the really good stuff.
I think of the way she tucks me into bed at night, even though I’m probably a bit old for that now. I think about how she taught me to swim, standing for hours in the freezing-cold kids’ pool and not complaining every time I kicked water in her face. I remember the times we’ve sat round our kitchen table playing card games, she and Dad getting really competitive and laughing like crazy, and me and Isaac knowing that if we kept quiet then they’d forget it was supposed to be bedtime half an hour ago. I think how she always tells me the truth, even if it’s really hard to hear. I think about how she always loves me, even when I’m in a grotty, horrible mood. She knows everything about me – all the good stuff and all the bad stuff – and she never, ever stops loving me, and I know this is what I am most scared of losing. I wonder if anyone will ever love me again the way that my mum loves me, and I know that nobody ever can – it would be impossible. And that is so awful a thought that I have to stop thinking before I get sucked down into a place that I can’t come back from.
After a while, I feel Mum shifting beneath me and I realize I’m too heavy for her. I get up and sit next to Isaac on her bed.
‘So how was school today?’ asks Mum.
‘Fine,’ I say. I look over at Dad in amazement – are we really going to talk about boring stuff like school, as if nothing big is happening here? Dad smiles encouragingly at me and I remember that Mum has been sitting in this room waiting for us all day. I try to make a bit more of an effort.
‘I got a detention for not doing my history homework and I came last in the cross-country run in PE.’
Dad frowns at me but Mum laughs. ‘Oh well, you can’t be brilliant at everything! Get Dad to help you with your history – he’s quite a mine of information when you get him started.’
‘How was your day, Rachel?’ asks Dad, reaching out to take hold of one of Mum’s hands.
‘Oh – you know, same old, same old!’ jokes Mum, smiling a big smile that doesn’t look quite real. I feel I should be doing better at this and cast my eyes around the room, looking for something to start a conversation about.
‘Your room’s nice?’ I offer, hoping it’s OK to talk about where we are.
‘Yes, I’m really lucky, aren’t I?’ says Mum, looking pleased. ‘The nurses tell me it’s one of the sunnier rooms.’
‘You’ve got loads of space. It’s much bigger than your room at home,’ I tell her, feeling a bit braver. I can do this – I can sit here and just chat about nothing.
Mum smiles. ‘I’ve put the photo that you sent me on the noticeboard over there – can you see it?’
‘Oh!’ I go a bit red. ‘It’s rubbish! I’ll find a better one when I get home, I promise.’ I’m feeling really embarrassed and mean. Dad wanted me to choose a photograph of us all for him to bring in for Mum the other day, but I spent ages talking on the phone to Alice and then I wanted to watch TV, so I just grabbed the first one I could find and it wasn’t a good choice. It was taken at some wildlife park – Isaac isn’t looking at the camera, Mum looks seriously fed up and half of Dad is obscured by someone who was walking past. I look pretty good – but that’s only because I quite liked the boy that Dad asked to take our photo and I was doing my best smile. It wasn’t even a particularly good day out. It poured with rain and we got lost on the way there, which meant Mum and Dad moaned at each other for about an hour and then promised (yet again) to buy each other a satnav for their next wedding anniversary. Dad didn’t say a word when I gave that photo to him, though, so I thought I’d got away with it – and to be honest, I couldn’t really be bothered. Now I’m wishing I’d tried harder and found Mum a photo that reminds her how happy we used to be.
‘That picture’s fine, Liv – I love it,’ says Mum.
Isaac is still listening to his music and Dad is skimming through a leaflet on counselling services. I’m keen to get off this conversation and on to a subject that’s easier to talk about – something that doesn’t make me feel bad.
‘It’s good that you’ve got a room all to yourself,’ I say, ‘although I suppose it might be quite nice to share too. You could have midnight feasts – like a sleepover for adults!’
‘I suppose you could,’ Mum says.
‘So how come there’s nobody in that other bed?’ I say, pointing to the spare bed opposite. ‘I thought Dad said there was another lady in your room?’
This is something I’d been really worried about before we came to visit Mum. Dad had said she’d made friends with a lady who was already in the room that Mum was put in – and that she was being kind to Mum and telling her all about St Mary’s, showing her photos of her kids and asking Mum all about us. Dad said that it was good for Mum to have someone else to talk to. I didn’t want to see someone else who was ill, though – ill people always make me feel a bit funny (not funny ha-ha but funny weird), and I was scared that Mum would make me talk to her new friend and I might say the wrong thing or do something stupid. So I’m really glad that the other bed in Mum’s room is stripped bare with just a plain pillow at the top and a stack of sheets and blankets folded neatly at the bottom.
I look at Mum. ‘Has she gone somewhere else?’ I ask.
Mum opens her mouth to speak but doesn’t actually say anything. She looks at Dad and I can see she’s worried. She’s not smiling any more and the room suddenly feels different. I can tell that something isn’t right and I’m desperate to keep Mum talking – last week at home she barely said a word. I want her to smile again so I try to make her laugh.
‘Did she get fed up with you snoring in your sleep and ask to be moved?’ I say, grinning and waiting for Mum to tell me not to be so cheeky, but she still doesn’t say a word.
‘Mum?’ I ask.
‘Liv,’ starts Dad, but I interrupt him. I don’t like the way it feels as if things are going a bit weird.
‘Where’s the lady that Dad says is your friend? Did you fall out with her?’ I can hear myself asking stupid questions and feel panic rising in my chest. I want to stop talking but I can’t. I don’t want to give Dad a chance to say something that I really, really do not want to hear. ‘Was she not very nice after all? She wasn’t mean to you, was she?’
‘It’s nothing like that, Liv,’ says Mum very quietly. ‘Her name was Joanna and she was an amazing lady. We had lots of great chats about our children and she said some things that have helped me very much.’
‘So where is she now?’ I ask, then instantly regret asking such a terrible question. Now I can’t stop them telling me. I’m so stupid. I’m wishing I’d never started this conversation – it’s all gone wrong.
‘Liv,’ says Dad again. I look at him and he is sitting really stiffly in his chair, looking uneasy, which seems funny in a place that goes on and on about making people comfortable. Looking at him makes me want to laugh even though I’ve never felt less amused in my whole life, and there are giggles building up in my throat. But it doesn’t feel very nice and I swallow hard, thinking I’d better not start laughing cos it seems like I might not be able to stop. It feels as if I could actually laugh myself to death right now.
‘Joanna has moved on,’ he says.
‘Yes, that’s what I’m asking. Where has she moved on to?’ I say, hoping that he’ll shut up if I’m deliberately difficult.
There is a long pause. I look again at the empty bed – Joanna’s bed – and I can’t keep pretending. I can feel my tummy start to shrivel and shrink as all my muscles knot up tightly. I suddenly don’t feel like laughing any more.
No. No, no, no. I look at Mum, hoping that I’ve put two and two together and made eighteen. Hoping that I’m actually completely wrong. ‘What – she’s actually –’ I can’t say the word. I am so thick and this conversation is not happening. In my mind I am under the weeping willow tree, with my fingers rammed firmly in my ears and humming loudly to drown out all the terrible thoughts that are flying round my head right now.
Mum takes a deep breath and sits up a bit straighter. ‘Yes, love. It’s very sad but Joanna –’
‘Stop!’ I shout. I can’t say that word and I don’t want to hear anyone else say it either.
‘Liv – I know it’s hard but she was incredibly brave. I really admired her.’
‘But she had kids,’ I whisper, feeling utterly horrified.
‘Yes, three children. The older two are around your age and the youngest is eight.’
‘That’s horrible,’ I mutter, unable to look at Mum or Dad.
I feel stupid and angry with myself. How could I be so dense? How could I let this conversation happen? Let’s be honest – I know exactly what this place is. It’s not about head massages or three different choices of breakfast. It’s not about sunny rooms or large gardens or chatting to new friends. It’s the place where people go to die. My mum is here, waiting in line for her turn – and some time soon her bed will be empty, the book she’s reading and her hairbrush will have gone from the bedside table and my rubbish photo will have been taken down from the noticeboard, as if it was never there. There might even be another person in her bed – maybe another mum who will tell her family all about this wonderful woman that she had the privilege of meeting.
‘Rachel Ellis,’ she’ll say. ‘That was her name. So young but so courageous.’ And her kids will silently be willing her to keep quiet, not wanting to be part of a world where someone’s mum can be taken away from her children when they need her.
And I realize that I don’t want Mum to be brave. I want her to rant and shout. I want her to scream about the unfairness of it all and jump up and down and yell at doctors and fight. Most of all I want her to fight. Because deep down I’m sure that my powerful, bossy, controlling mum could beat this if only she would try a little bit harder. Being here feels like she’s given up – that she’s quietly shuffling forward in a pair of comfortable slippers to a place where we can’t go.
I stare furiously out of the window, determined not to let the tears that I can feel behind my eyes spill down my face. If she’s not going to cry then neither am I. Perhaps we haven’t given her enough to fight for – maybe we have to show her it’s worth giving it everything she’s got to stay here with us.
Mum and Dad are having a quiet conversation now and I zone out, envying Isaac with his iPod. After a while Dad says that we have to leave if we’re to be home in time for tea – Isaac finds it really hard if mealtimes are later than normal.
I’m feeling really mad at Mum and I don’t want to stay here any longer so I head straight to the door. Isaac follows me while Dad gives her a hug, and then we all step into the corridor and Dad closes her door. Suddenly I feel guilty for leaving – it’s so confusing, I just can’t figure out how I’m feeling from one second to the next at the moment.
‘Go on ahead, Dad – I’ll catch you up,’ I tell him and watch for a moment as he and Isaac head down the corridor. Then I turn back and open the door again. Mum is slumped in her chair, eyes closed and looking totally exhausted. Her face is drained and pale and her body looks as if nothing is holding it up – she reminds me of a puppet I used to play with after its strings tangled, that ended up flopped in the corner of my toy box, limp and useless.
‘Bye, Mum,’ I whisper, but she doesn’t even open her eyes to look at me.
I close the door as quietly as I can and start walking back towards the stairs. By the time I’ve caught up with Dad and Isaac outside I am feeling more tired than I can ever remember being. I don’t even have the energy to argue with Isaac about who sits in the front of the car, and sink on to the back seat, glad of the peace and quiet.
As we drive through town I think about Mum, all on her own, knowing what is going to happen to her but not knowing what it’ll feel like or even when it’ll happen. I wonder if she might feel a bit like I did on Transition Day to high school. That weird feeling of not really belonging anywhere. I’d been at Compton Heath Primary for seven years and I thought that the hardest part would be when we left, but actually it wasn’t. The most difficult time was after Transition Day when we’d visited high school but had to go back to Compton Heath for a few weeks. It just felt wrong – like my time there was done and I was an impostor. Everything was so familiar but really strange at the same time. The chairs were too small and the rooms felt shabby and the teachers suddenly seemed different. It felt like losing something that belonged to me – and then realizing it was never really mine in the first place.
Then I think that this is a stupid comparison to make cos I had a visit to high school and got to see the changing rooms in the PE department, and the canteen and the science labs – but Mum only gets to visit where she is going once, and then she has to stay there. No Transition Day for her, no chance to get ready or to learn about all the new rules.
Maybe that’s the whole point of St Mary’s Hospice, I think – to prepare her for what’s going to happen. Although I don’t really see how anyone can do that when nobody can agree on exactly what happens when you die.
We’ve reached home now and Dad pulls up on our driveway. He turns the engine off and we all sit in silence for a minute, listening to that ticking sound the engine makes as it cools down. I look at our house. It’s not dark outside yet, but it looks dark inside. The windows seem to stare emptily on to the street, and I know that even when we’re inside with every light turned on, and the radio blaring in the kitchen, or when Leah comes over after work to check that we’re OK it’ll still feel bleak and lonely.
I wonder if I’ve missed the real reason why Mum is staying at St Mary’s instead of wanting to spend every waking moment with us. Maybe it isn’t to prepare her for when she’s not here – maybe it’s to help us get ready? Maybe she thinks we need to get used to a home without her in it. Perhaps she reckons that Dad needs time to work out how to use the washing machine – if that’s the case, then her plan is failing miserably cos I haven’t had any clean socks for days now.
It wouldn’t surprise me if, even now, my mum is trying to do the right thing for the rest of us. The thing is – she’s got it horribly wrong this time. This can’t possibly be the best thing for our family. Sure, I thought it was difficult when she was really ill at home last week, but I was stupid and I didn’t know it’d be even harder when she wasn’t here with us. And that place – it’s just letting her give up. If she was at home we could show her, all the time, that she’s tougher than this thing – that she can fight and duck and dive and beat it, for us.
And there, on the back seat of our car, I make a decision. ‘I’m not going to visit Mum again,’ I whisper. I know this is the right thing to do – but my throat suddenly feels dry and my voice comes out all croaky.
‘What?’ says Dad, half turning in the driver’s seat to take a better look at me.
‘I’m not going back to that place,’ I say again, sounding a bit more confident this time.
‘Oh, Liv.’ Dad sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. He needs a haircut – I can’t believe Mum didn’t have a go at him about it today. She’d never normally let him leave it this long – he looks a state. ‘I know it’s hard seeing her there but –’
‘No! I’m not going. If she wants to see me so much then she can come home. To our house. Where we all live.’
‘It’s just not that simple, Liv.’
‘It is. It should be, anyway.’
‘But there’re things she needs – things we – I – can’t give her at home.’ Dad has turned away, his back to me now, and is staring out of the front window.
I can’t believe he’s being as passive as Mum – both allowing all of our lives to be ruined. What’s wrong with them? Why won’t they actually do something?
‘Do you want her to stay there?’ I yell at him. I don’t mean to shout at him but it isn’t fair – it just isn’t.
‘No!’ Dad whips his head round to look at me again and he sounds shocked. ‘I want her home, just like you do!’
‘So whose idea was it to send her away?’ I ask. Dad doesn’t say anything and I feel bad pushing him like this, but I really need his help to get Mum to see sense and come home. By now Isaac has taken his earphones out and I can hear tinny music coming from his abandoned iPod. He’s looking interested so I decide to enlist his help.
‘Dad? Did you send Mum to that place?’
‘No, Liv, I didn’t.’ Dad is looking at me carefully and I can see dark rings round his eyes. ‘I wanted Mum to stay at home but she thought it’d be better – easier – for everyone if she went to St Mary’s.’
‘Well, she was wrong,’ I say, turning to Isaac. ‘Do you want Mum at home?’
Isaac looks from me to Dad and thinks about what I’ve asked him. For a moment the only sounds in the car come from his earphones and my breathing – I sound like I’ve just run up a hill. I try to calm down and wait for Isaac, crossing my fingers behind my back and willing him to say the right thing for once.
‘It would be good if Mum was at home,’ he begins and I feel my fingers start to unfurl. ‘Mum should be here, where she belongs. Dad forgot to dry out my trainers after my games lesson yesterday and I think I might have contracted trench foot.’
Dad snorts back a laugh and rubs Isaac’s arm as the tension in the car disappears. Then he catches my eye and smiles at me. I’ve said enough for now – I need to give Operation Bring Mum Home time to develop, but I’m confident that I’ve planted the seeds in Dad’s mind and I know I can trust him to work on Mum. I mean it, though, I think to myself as I get out of the car – I have vowed never to set foot in St Mary’s Hospice again, as long as I may live.