The terrible part of me wants it to be that she has split up with the Neat Freak. The thing about love is that it makes you just a little bit mad, and Mum should know. Love has condemned her to a life of bleach, but there are worse things I suppose. I keep all those bad feelings to myself.
“No—I haven’t split up with Gary.”
Why can she always mind-read me with such total rightness?!
“No. It’s about my head. You see, Millie, your head is like mine, and I know what’s going on with it.”
Parents are very worrying when they say things like this, because they almost certainly have no idea how you are feeling and how your brain is working.
Mum can sense my doubts. “No, really, I can. We’ve got the same brain. And the brilliant thing about our brains is that they’re clever and they make good decisions. That seems boring now, but I promise it won’t be boring when you’re thirty-eight.”
Even I don’t care about being thirty-eight, but I go with it.
“But I want to tell you about the trees and me.”
I am seriously worried.
“The thing is,” Mum continues, “when I was little, there was this thing that was killing loads of trees. It was called Dutch elm disease. And I totally got it into my head that Dutch elm disease could spread to humans.”
I don’t want to sound insensitive. “Mum, where is this going?”
“Listen!” she says, sounding very irritated. “I got myself into a total state. And all these trees were dying, and there was no Internet. You couldn’t just google things. You had to go to the library and grown-ups told you NOTHING. So I thought I was dying. With the trees.”
I’m confused.
“So you’re saying you were green and environmentally friendly before most other people.”
“No, Millie. I’m saying that I was worried about things and GOT ANXIETY like you get. I HAD IT. We didn’t call it anxiety then. It was called … just being pathetic. BUT IT WASN’T. And your brain, I CAN SEE, has the same thing. A lot of people have it. Usually very clever people who are connected and level-headed and…”
“Preach, Mum, preach,” I say—a bit sarcastically, I have to admit.
“No, I need you to really listen, Millie.”
And I can see that Mum is tearing up a bit, so I shut up. That is sensible.
“When you’ve got a brain like that, you have to learn to look after it and train it. And you don’t have to pretend to be strong when you aren’t feeling strong. It’s fine to say, ‘I don’t know what to do.’ It’s fine to say, ‘I can’t cope.’ It’s fine to say, ‘I’ve started this brilliant vlog,’ and, Millie, it is great, by the way, but actually it’s fine to say, ‘I don’t know the answer to every question and right now I just need to keep MY head together.’”
“Is that what you did?” This is a major revelation.
“No.” Mum looks down. “And I paid for it. I ended up being very poorly. In my head. I was in the hospital. With this…”
Mum taps her head.
It’s so odd! I have never ever thought my mum could be the sort of person that would ever be mentally ill. In a silly way, I thought she was a bit barking for going out with Gary the Neat Freak, but that’s it. Not THIS.
“Mum, I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You’re clever and sensible, Millie, but you don’t give children more than they can actually cope with. It’s not fair. When your dad and I split up, we were very sure that both of us were going to make it as easy for you as possible. So you never saw the time when I threw an entire packet of premium pork-cider-and-apple sausages at him.”
Mum laughs. “It’s funny now.” She giggles. “It wasn’t funny then.”
Why do adults always throw groceries at each other? Wet sponges would be a wiser, better option.
“You’re a beautiful, clever, brilliant girl. It’s lovely that you want to help people and just give people some of YOU, because YOU are wonderful. I’m not saying stop doing it—what I am saying is that you don’t have to fix people. It’s YOUR job to take care of your head and not bring anyone else down. That’s all. Anything else is a bonus.”
After all this, there is one question that is mainly in the front of my head.
“Can you get Dutch elm disease?”
“No.” Mum shakes her head. “But you can get splinters from trying to cuddle trees and make them better. And yes, I did. And yes, I recycle. And that’s why my car is electric. You find your little ways to make things … better. Because I still watch the news and think … well … There’s always been what you would call ‘twonks,’ Millie—twonks in your life and twonks on the news, and you—”
“I get it, Mum.” I look at her. This has been a major lecture session, but … it has helped a bit.
“Mum, if you ever want to talk about what happened—”
Mum interrupts and goes all hard-faced. “Millie, I don’t. It happened. I got through it. And look at me now. A lovely daughter”—she gets hold of me and hugs me—“and a great job and a man that DOES THE HOOVERING.”
I shake my head. Mum knows what I am thinking. “Believe you me, Millie, I know Gary seems like a pain, but a man that enjoys the feel of a dustpan and brush, and sends you flowers all the time, makes you laugh, and is kind, is a pretty good man. But that’s a chat for another time. Men are wonderful, but they are not the solution. Or women. You may be a lesbian. Which is fine, by the way.”
By this stage, it’s beginning to feel like I’m listening to a really uncomfortable speech that Mum has planned for years and years, but anyway.
She gives me a hug. I’m proud. And then she pinches my arm. “All I am saying is, just don’t forget the people who are around you. I’m not saying the people on there”—her finger slams on the glass screen of my phone a little too hard for my liking—“I’m not saying the people on there aren’t lovely, but can they do this?”
And Mum gets me in this incredible boa-constrictor-squeeze-hold cuddle, which is both lovely and slightly scary at the same time.
While she is holding me tight, I squeak, “Mum. Can I come home? I’ll try to keep things tidy for Gary.”
Mum pulls me closer and says, “Whenever you want, Millie. In my eyes, you NEVER left. And I think it will be better this time. You can have the Wi-Fi on till ten o’clock. And I’ve already had a proper chat with Gary about McWhirter. It’s your home, too, and he has to get used to your crumbs. And from now on, I’ll try to make Thursday night Mum-and-Millie night.”
We have a little cry until Mum wiggles her head from side to side, does a big sniff, and says, “Now, Millie Porter—hashtag helper or whatever you call yourself! I need to go and have dinner with my boyfriend, who is taking me to the cinema tonight in GOLD class! I’ll get wine and food, too. My days of popcorn and half a vat of Diet Coke are gone. Tell you what, Millie—if you want to work out what a good man is, then find a man who really thinks about YOU rather than what they would like to do. Good-bye. I love you. And remember that I’m here”—and she thumps my hand against her heart—“ANYTIME you want me.”
I give my mum another HUGE cuddle and thank her, but I don’t ask what I really want to ask.
I want to ask Mum about men, but I don’t. In a way, I don’t want to because just thinking about men is largely very confusing indeed.
I know Bradley likes me. In fact, I think I now have two boys who like me. But how do you tell one of them that you actually want to be with someone else? I don’t want to leave the heart of either one lightly smashed. Won’t I end up feeling dreadful? Won’t he feel rejected?
But I have to do something. Lauren was right. I have been a bit awful about it all.
I’ve been not exactly great about a lot of things. And now I’ve got to tell everyone in this house that I want to move back in with Mum.
I’m sure Dave knows already. She’s glued herself to my ankle. She’s made herself into a furry shoe.