We call it sleeping, but in reality it’s flitting in and out of consciousness. She can show lucidity and is able to hold a conversation, but chatting like before drains energy and is probably painful. The raconteur in her has all but vanished, only fleeting signs here and there.
Danny’s stroking Mum’s head. I’m at the bottom of the bed, fighting the demons in mine. Thinking about Lou’s visit, of how the conversation went from my massive revelation, to him offering to assist me. By assisting, does he mean doing it for me? Re-enacting exactly what he’d done with his own mother? Or watching over as I play executioner? Holding me tight after it’s over? It’s all beyond thinking. The stress and pressure is completely locked inside my mind, eclipsing everything else. I can’t construct poems. My sleep is shit. I rarely smile. I eat crap, if at all. It scrapes at me like an archaeologist’s trowel.
Danny and me don’t speak. Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine belt out a song called ‘Falling on a Bruise’. Actually, it’s not too bad. I’ll definitely continue to keep her taste alive afterwards.
Mum’s breathing is short and steady. There’s truly a wonderful peace in the air. I think she can even sense it. I know she can.
‘Her hair feels less jaggy,’ Danny whispers.
‘It’s grown,’ I say.
‘Feels like fur, like a tiny kitten or a guinea pig.’
‘I’ll be sure to tell her that, mate, she’ll be delighted.’
‘It’s much better than her skinhead.’
‘You’re not wrong.’
‘She looked like a woman who likes other women,’ Danny says, smiling knowingly. ‘You know, Bobby, like one of those –’
‘Yeah, I get it, Dan. I get it.’
‘Is Bel one of those?’
‘No, Danny, Bel isn’t one of those. And can we stop saying “those” to describe human beings?’
Danny gently rests his cheek on the top of Mum’s head, closes his eyes. Smells her hair. Kisses her. He’s so content, so serene. Mum was the one who could always calm him right enough.
The song changes. Another Nineties lager-swirling classic pours from the speakers. I look at Mum and visualise the cardigan-clad Anne Seed spinning on one foot, ceiling gazing, skilfully not spilling any of her cider and black. She’s a beaming, bacchanalian beauty. Who wouldn’t have wanted to inhabit her world? To be loved by her? It’s us who are the privileged. And now here she is with her youngest son, both dented in different ways, yet utterly connected. The true tragedy is that she’s now unable to shelter him. I want to burst into tears.
‘You can kiss her cheek, mate,’ I say.
‘Don’t want to wake her.’
‘She won’t wake up, Dan. It’s fine.’
‘Will I then?’
‘Yeah, you can kiss her lips if you want.’
Danny puts his lips on Mum’s.
‘Very dry,’ he says.
‘Yeah, I need to get some balm on them.’
He then kisses her cheek, mouth lingering on her skin. It seems like an intrusion on my part; I’m half thinking of leaving them alone.
‘They’re going to take her, aren’t they, Bobby?’
‘Who are?’
‘The nurses and doctors. They’re going to take her to the hospital.’
My head sinks, mouth tightens.
‘She’s not going to get better, Danny. You know that. I’ve told you.’
‘I know, but she’s our mum.’
‘She’ll always be our mum.’
‘So she should be here with us. With you and me. You can’t just go about splitting up families like that.’
‘We can’t give her the care and medicine she needs now, Dan.’
‘But why is she going to go to the hospital if she’s not going to get better? What’s the point of that?’
‘She’s going there to be more comfortable.’
Danny nudges her pillow, fixes her blanket.
‘Look at her,’ he says. ‘She’s comfortable here.’
We take a moment to see the truth in Danny’s statement.
‘You’re right, she does look comfortable,’ I say.
‘So she should stay here.’
‘You think Mum would want that, Dan?’
‘She’d always want to be with us.’
‘Even if we can’t give her the care she needs?’
‘She’d not want to be away from us, Bobby.’
‘You’d prefer to see her in constant pain?’
‘No. Would you?’
‘I just want to see her in peace. I want her to have what she needs.’
‘Me too.’
I feel myself about to vault over the line, drag Danny in the same direction as me. I hear myself saying the words and his reaction to them. The tears. The snot. The punches. If anyone’s going to carry out Mum’s wish it’s her sons, not Lou. Not anyone else.
‘Danny.’
‘What?’
‘What if we could make the disease go away?’ I say.
‘What do you mean, make it go away?’
‘We could get rid of it for good. You and me.’
Danny looks bewildered. He wants to speak, to say something, question me. He’s having a torrid time formulating what I’ve just said. I’m having the same difficulties. Guilt pangs start to crawl over me. Even though Mum wanted me to involve him, I can’t help thinking that I’ve betrayed her; that I’m infiltrating and corrupting my brother.
‘If you had the power to stop Mum’s pain, would you do it, Dan?’
‘Totally.’
‘Remember that game you were playing the other day and your guy was injured?’
‘Yeah, so?’
‘So you didn’t go back for him and take his pain away.’
‘Cos then I’d have got killed.’
‘You just left him there to die an agonising and slower death.’
‘It’s just a game, Bobby. It’s not real.’
‘But if it was real life, would you have gone back?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know. Can you stop talking about that stupid game?’
‘All I’m saying is that if it was real and it was someone you knew, someone close to you, would you help them if it meant making their suffering go away?’
Danny’s cells are spinning. He pauses, holds me in his glare.
‘You mean Mum, don’t you?’
‘Yeah, mate. That’s who I mean.’
He looks down and puts his hand on Mum’s growing hair. I notice her eyelids stutter a bit.
‘I’d always help her, Bobby. Always.’
‘And what if I told you there was a chance?’
‘Of what?’
‘Of taking her suffering away.’
‘Bobby, I wish you would speak like normal people sometimes,’ he spouts.
Mum’s stuttering eyelids blink open. Danny doesn’t see them at first. She coughs. Parts her lips. Tries to speak.
‘Tell him, Bobby,’ she rasps. ‘Tell him what I want.’
‘Mum!’ I say.
‘Tell him, Bobby. Tell your brother.’
‘Tell me what?’ Danny says. ‘Tell me what?’
I look at Mum for support, which isn’t forthcoming. My expression pleads with her to change the subject. My mouth tastes of sour saliva. I want to spit. Mum offers nothing, Danny’s like a dog on its hind legs. I rest my hand on his shoulder.
‘Everything’s going to be OK soon, mate.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Seriously.’
I’m too scared to look at Mum. I can practically smell her disappointment.