It kicked off with the occasional pangs of pins and needles in her feet, before moving steadily to her legs. I was twelve. Tingles frequently began creeping up the right side of her body. This went on for months. Mum told no one. She only visited the doctor when those black spots started to skew her vision. That’s when she felt everything collapsing, she said.
My memory is different though. I’m fourteen. We’re doing the big shop in Asda. For some reason Danny isn’t with us, can’t remember why. Maybe a school thing.
Trolley’s bulging at the seams. Mum’s pushing. I’m looking for things to have, eat, want. I usually persuaded Mum to let me drink a Coke while walking around, putting the empty can through the checkout at the end. (Shhh, didn’t do this ever. I shelved it before we got there. Not exactly aggravated robbery, but still. Mum never found out.)
‘Can we have Pot Noodles for dinner, Mum?’
‘No chance. Broccoli and kale tonight.’
‘Don’t even know what that is,’ I said.
‘It’s brain food.’
‘Aw, really?’
‘Yup, and stacks of it is required since yours is so weak.’
‘Why can’t we have what other families have?’
‘Oh, stop being a teenager, Bobby, or I’ll abandon you in aisle six. Do something useful – reach up and get that cranberry juice for me.’
I’m on tiptoes, hand in the sky, pure Superman pose, when I hear a deflating puff of air from behind. Mum’s slouched over the trolley.
‘Mum! What happened? … Mum, you OK?’ Didn’t know whether to drag her off the fruit and veg mountain or leave her be.
‘Help me up, Bobby.’
She’s upright.
‘Just felt really dizzy there for a second.’
‘Here, drink this.’ I handed her the Coke I was saving. ‘Drink loads of it. Might help.’
She sipped. I could tell it wasn’t going down well.
‘Better?’
‘Better,’ she said.
The colour returned to her cheeks, but her expression screamed defeat.
‘Mum?’
‘I’m good, Bobby. I’m better.’
‘Honest?’
‘Honest,’ she said. I didn’t believe her. ‘Did you get that cranberry juice?’
I launched my frame up again and scooped a carton off the shelf. Jammed it into the trolley.
‘Mum, can I get a Starbar?’ I imagined munching it, feeling the chocolate paint my mouth, knowing full well she’d say, ‘No chance.’ Mum thought apples were treats while chocolate bars were the devil’s diet. But I always asked. She always refused. Our recurring joke.
‘You can have what you want, son,’ she said.
‘Mum, seriously, are you OK?’
‘Just tired, Bobby.’
‘Anything I can do?’
‘Maybe push the trolley. I don’t have the energy.’
But the wheels made it easy to push, even with weight in it. I didn’t say that. It was clear she couldn’t shove it another yard. That trolley could’ve been overflowing with steam and she’d have been too weak for it.
‘Course I’ll push,’ I said.
‘Let’s get you a Starbar.’
I no longer wanted one.
I wanted my mum.
I wanted her to take the piss out of me, embarrass me, put me in my place with the slice of a sentence. But that day I understood, a good two years after those pins and needles started nipping away, that I’d be getting a new mum, a totally different one. And my heart was broken. Torn to shreds in fucking Asda.