Mum was sick, really sick.
I was awakened by a crash. My eyes opened. The darkness was complete except for a narrow slit in the curtains.
From behind my door I heard a soft groan. I stayed as still as possible and listened. And listened. Another groan.
I pushed my duvet to one side; I knew that voice, my mother’s.
It was just as dark in the hallway, but now that my eyes had adjusted, outlined objects became clear. My mum lay sprawled across the floor. A bottle, the neck smashed, rested just out of reach of her hand. A pool of sadness circled both my mother and the bottle; its stale tang attacked the back of my throat.
“Mum,” I whispered.
The body groaned again.
I crouched, carefully avoiding the vomit.
“Mum,” I whispered again, closer this time.
She turned her head and peered up at me through her waterfall of hair, matted with muck. She pushed herself up to her knees. I put my arms under her armpits—no avoiding the sick now—and heaved her into a sitting position against the wall.
She mumbled wordlessly, then breathed out, “Water.”
I fetched her water. I made her drink. After she’d sat awhile, I led her into the bathroom. I gently undressed her and washed her down, then led her to her bed.
She spoke once more before sleep overcame her.
“My Kaia,” she said, “it’s just me and you now.”
I stood above her, looking down at the wreck that had been my mum. I stood a long time in the dark.
At last I spoke. “It’s just me, Mum, not me and you. You’re not here. You’re even more frozen than I am.”
I don’t know where it all came from, probably the same place where I’d buried my pain, somewhere between my heart and my stomach, but it kept on coming.
“Things have got to change, Mum. We’ve got to change and grow and … and … live.”
I turned. I left my snoring mum. I cleaned up her mess.
When I finally clambered into my bed, I found that tears covered my face and I knew that I had to say those words to my mum again, next time when she was awake.
I awoke to the smell of pancakes and my mother’s guilt wafting under the door. I followed that smell. I love pancakes.
“Morning, darling,” my mum said, her eyes still bleary but a smile hiding her shame.
I didn’t smile back.
“I’ve made pancakes,” my mum continued.
I still didn’t smile.
She stopped smiling and sat down next to me.
“I’m sorry, Kai.”
I rolled my eyes back and glanced at the short stack of pancakes. I love pancakes.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
I picked at the tablecloth. I flicked a few bread crumbs onto the floor.
“Come on, darling, talk to me.”
I looked at my mum.
I didn’t speak.
Timing is everything. Spring buds appear, new growth, ready for the approaching summer sun. Chicks are born, high in their lofty homes, and squirrels leave their winter beds once the last frost has departed.
Timing is everything. The day before, Mr. Wills had handed out a really special letter. The first people to reply would do bike training: a whole week out of class, cycling.
Timing is everything, and I had a chance this day.
I spoke.
“OK, Mum,” I said with the slightest hint of a smile.
“OK?”
“OK.”
“Pancakes?”
“Pancakes,” I replied with a nod. “Mum, I’ve got a letter needs signing.”
“Of course, of course,” she said, piling warm pancakes onto my plate, then glugging syrup all over them.
I love pancakes.