She’s in hospital.
Ruth Wallace is in hospital, and I’m to blame.
Dad told me at breakfast, just a while ago. (Of course I was up in time to have breakfast with him before he went off to work – I didn’t fall asleep till around two, and I woke before seven.) I got such a shock when he said it, I almost choked on my Weetabix. He had to thump me on the back.
When I could talk again, I asked him what was wrong with Ruth, hoping he’d say a chest infection, or a fractured skull, or something, but he said, ‘She’s having some kind of operation on her legs, I think,’ and I had to drop my spoon on the floor so I could disappear under the table for a minute.
It’s definitely my fault. It has to be.
When I came back up, I asked Dad if he knew what hospital Ruth was in, and he said no, and then he gave me a funny look, so I stopped talking about Ruth and tried to finish my Weetabix, which tasted even more like straw than it usually does.
And now Dad’s gone to work, and I’m trying to find the courage to do what I have to do.
I have to find out which hospital she’s in. I have to ring the bell at the Wallaces’ house and ask whoever comes to the door which hospital Ruth is in.
And then I have to go and see her, and I have to tell her I’m sorry for attacking her with the milk. If I don’t, I’ll never sleep or eat again, and they’re two things I really enjoy doing.
Right, better get it over with. Wish me luck. If this diary stops suddenly, you’ll know it’s because I’m in prison.
Thank goodness Ruth’s nice brother Damien answered the door. I was really hoping he would.
He smiled and said, ‘Hello Liz,’ when he saw me, and didn’t try to slam the door in my face, which I was half expecting. (So it does look like Ruth hasn’t told anyone what I did, which I still can’t understand, but which I’m not going to worry about right now.)
I told Damien that I’d heard Ruth was in hospital, and that I’d like to go and see her. I still felt a bit scared that he was going to tell me to get lost, since I was the one who’d put her there, but he didn’t. He said, ‘Hey, that’s really nice of you,’ which of course made me feel ten times guiltier, and then he told me which hospital she was in.
It wasn’t until I got back here that I realised I never asked him how she was.
I’ll go to see her tomorrow, which is Thursday, because this is one of those things that will only get harder the longer I put it off – and because I don’t want it hanging over me when I meet Chris on Friday.
The only good thing about being so worried about Ruth is that I haven’t time to worry about Chris.
I’ll take some apples with me – I’ll pick the least wrinkly ones out of the fruit bowl. I’ll tell her that I’m sorry.
Even writing it down makes me want to get sick. The thought of walking into her room, or ward, or wherever she is, makes my stomach do a flip-flop. But I have to.
What’ll she say? I have no idea. Maybe she’ll start shouting at me to go away and leave her alone, and a nurse will come running over to see what all the noise is about, and Ruth will tell her what I did, and the nurse will look at me as if I’m a criminal and make me leave the hospital, probably march me off with a hand on my arm, like the store detective in Boots, and everyone will be looking at me.
Or maybe Ruth will be too weak to say anything. Maybe she’ll just give me a filthy look with her dying eyes. I think that would probably be worse.
I wish I could talk to someone about this, but who? Not Dad, definitely. I absolutely can’t tell him – he’d hit the roof. And not Chloe – I’m not sure that she’d understand.
Bumble would understand, but he’d probably tell Catherine Eggleston, and she’s the last person I’d want to know.
I’d tell Mam, if she was here face to face. But not on the phone. I can’t say it on the phone, I can’t text it, I can’t email it. If only she was here.
Have I mentioned how much I miss her?