My birthday isn’t until December. My eighteenth. The biggie. The one where I go to sleep a boy and wake a man. Mum wants us to celebrate it NOW. September! This isn’t the effect of the pills toying with her senses.
‘I’m not talking about limos and rap music, Bobby. I’m suggesting the three of us spending some time out of this house.’
‘A holiday?’ I ask.
‘Tried. Unfortunately the world is fully booked.’
‘That limits your options.’
‘I’m talking about going out for food or something.’
‘Like dinner?’
‘Wow! You sure you’re turning eighteen?’
‘Yes, Mum, but not until December.’
‘You say December but that day they left you on our doorstep I do recall frost. I just put two and two together and plucked out December.’
‘You should really be writing these down, you know.’
‘Actually, you could be a February baby, but, really, who knows?’
‘Look, is it not a bit weird to celebrate someone’s birthday almost four months before it actually occurs?’
‘It is your eighteenth.’ Mum taps her head. ‘Or is that my son from a previous relationship?’
‘Seriously, your talent is totally wasted, you know that?’
‘Recognition at last.’
‘And, anyway, your birthday is before mine. It’s in a few weeks.’
‘OK, let’s celebrate your non-birthday then, how’s that sound?’
‘Eh?’
‘Let’s just go out.’
‘Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?’
‘Where’s the fun in that?’
‘Can we wear nice clothes?’ I say.
‘You can even shower if you want.’
‘Really?’
‘I insist on it.’
‘Where will we go?’
‘Danny will be with us so that narrows it down to …’
‘Say no more.’
Conversations like this lead me into a false sense of hopefulness. You forget for a few minutes. You’re not worrying if there’s a prescription you were meant to pick up today or if Dan has clean clothes for tomorrow, you’re just kind of chewing the fat and plodding on as if everything’s normal. Your mind isn’t on your troubles at all. Until, that is, it smacks you full force on the jaw and jolts you right back into its clutches. A bit like getting admitted to a nightclub then getting lobbed out before the coats come off. It could be anything, a subtle grimace of pain on Mum’s face, the frailty of a movement, lack of clarity in her words, and BANG! Suddenly we’ve all returned. Illness. Disease. Sickness. Ailment. Disability. Mum wanting to go out celebrating is a positive thing; Mum wanting to celebrate birthdays prematurely worries the life out of me.
‘Help me up, Bobby,’ she says, rising from the chair. ‘Bit tired. I’m going to lie down and listen to music.’
‘I’ll help you upstairs.’
‘I can manage.’
‘OK, I’ll escort you then,’ I say. ‘I’m heading up anyway. Homework.’
‘Such a gentleman. Your mother will be so proud when I tell her.’
I could’ve carried her. I don’t suggest it. She doesn’t ask. We do the usual: I hold the bottom of her back and she grabs my arm. One step at a time, slower than five decades of the rosary. No rush, now.
‘How’s school going, son? I didn’t ask.’
‘It’s fine. School’s school.’
‘Are you still in the thick group?’
‘They don’t do that any more, don’t think they’re allowed.’
‘Well, they should bring it back,’ she says.
‘What?’
‘At least you know what you’re working with then.’ Her face blooms; she nips my arm. If either of her sons had been disposed of into some thick group, I can imagine the old powerhouse Mum marching right down to the school demanding revolution.
‘Just keep walking and try not to speak.’
‘Won’t be long,’ she says.
Won’t be long for what? Getting into bed or the not speaking part?
‘We haven’t been out for ages,’ she says, after I get her settled. ‘It’ll be nice to spend some time together.’
‘I know, it’s been yonks.’
‘I’ll try not to embarrass you both.’
‘Shut up.’
‘I’m serious,’ she adds.
‘Yeah, so am I, shut up.’
‘I don’t want to embarrass you or Danny, son. I don’t.’
‘Mum, stop saying that. How would you embarrass us?’
‘You’re a teenager, Bobby.’
‘And? So?’
‘So teenagers don’t go out with their mothers. Teenagers hate their mothers. Teenagers just want money and the internet. In fact, they want to live in the internet.’
‘You’re so down with teen life, it’s impressive.’
She holds out her hand. I take it. She brings mine up to her lips. Her eyes soften.
‘You’ve such a beautiful soul, Bobby Seed, know that?’
‘Mum!’
‘You don’t know it, but one day you will and so will everyone else.’
She kisses my knuckles.
‘Right, go and get your homework done before I take my slipper to your arse.’
A final hand kiss.
‘Night, Mum.’
‘Night, son.’