More than once I’ve discovered Danny in Mum’s room while she’s asleep, perched at the end of the bed, gazing, transfixed by her peacefulness. No tears, talk or movement. Other times he’ll be closer, tenderly stroking her head or fiddling with the covers.
I’ve never disturbed him; these are Danny’s moments. Seeing my little brother’s courage and independence fills me with pride. I guess I should be more open about what’s going on with her, about what the consequences will be, but I’ve always thought that I should protect him by not revealing every grubby detail.
Secretly watching him secretly watching her is a kind of beautiful, heartbreaking connection we’ve all shared.
I know Mum’s breathing patterns as she sleeps; I know the sounds that radiate from her; I know every flicker her eyes make, every detail. And whenever Danny’s been there I know she hasn’t really been asleep: she’s pretending. This is Danny’s time, you see; Mum doesn’t want to intrude upon it any more than I do, nor does she want him exposed to her deterioration. Even at her weakest, she’s thinking about sheltering her son, as any mother would.