When I walk onto his ward, he’s sitting up in bed in someone else’s pyjamas. When I look closer I see they have a stamp on them ‘Property of Shrewsbury Hospital’. He’d never wear checks. There are other men in beds. They all look like someone’s grandfather. I can’t make eye contact with any of them, desperate not to see them all vulnerable and weak. I just keep looking at Nonno. He’s smiling but it hurts him, I can see it. I bend over to kiss him, trying hard only to touch his cheek. He’s hot and he doesn’t smell like Nonno; he smells of hospitals.

‘Piccolina,’ he says and I hear it all in his voice. He’s tired of this. He wants to go home. I can’t keep him here, not now. I feel toxic. Mum sits on the chair over on the other side of his bed, like I’m contagious.

‘Nonno, I’m so sorry,’ I start, but he lifts his papery hand, tea-stained and tender. His skin has changed colour already. He’s only been in here a day. Is that all it takes to strip yourself away from you, to institutionalise you? He’s a patient now, there are notes on him somewhere, a nurse will have taken his temperature and blood. I feel like I should break him out of here, release him back into the sunshine where he belongs. But he looks tired. And so does Mum.

‘Now, tell me you’ve brought me some decent food? Sì?’ he tries a joke and I fake a smile before passing him the food bag I put together at home.

‘What did the doctor say, Gianni?’ Mum asks, ignoring me and my food.

‘Another day or two of observations and then freedom!’ He winks at me.

‘But what did she say?’ Mum presses.

‘Is my heart, but we knew this, no?’

The news floors me. It sinks its teeth and talons into my skin, grinding my bones into the cold hospital floor. I’ve heard of broken hearts, but that felt like a fairy tale. Looking at Nonno, I can see this is real. Is his heart broken, like Dad’s, like Nonna’s?

‘Can’t they fix it?’ I ask him.

‘Yes, I change everything and that will fix it, or slow it down,’ he nods reassuringly.

‘And you knew?’ I ask Mum. I try to keep the tone out of my voice. ‘You knew all this time and didn’t tell me?’ My hand creeps into Nonno’s. His nails are too long and his whiskers need attention.

‘Yes, but it isn’t as bad as you think. Gianni will stop smoking that vile pipe, cut out the espressos and stop eating such a cholesterol-rich diet,’ Mum explains. ‘It isn’t the same as your dad, or Nonna.’ But I can’t trust her now. She’s kept this from me.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘You have had enough to worry about, piccolina,’ Nonno says. ‘I told your mamma not to tell you. I wanted to tell you myself but there hasn’t been the right time.’ Mum nods. And I know why there hasn’t been the right time. Because I’ve taken up all his time.

I say to Mum, ‘Half the time you’re telling me to grow up and act like an adult and the other half of the time you’re treating me like a child who should be kept in the dark?’

She doesn’t try to justify it or apologise.

‘So what happens now?’ I ask.

‘We carry on,’ Nonno says, as if it’s simple. Who knows, maybe it is. ‘We beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.’

‘What?’ I am lost but Mum’s smiling, as if this makes sense to her.

Everyone in my family has a broken heart and I don’t know how to fix any of them.

Nonno’s asleep but I can’t leave. The nurse has finally left us on our own, after giving me a mini-lecture on cholesterol and heart disease and yet another stupid leaflet. I want to ban hospitals leaflets. I want to gather them all up in a heap and set them on fire. I want to go home, get his clothes and give the hospital theirs back. I want to clip his whiskers, brush his hair and make him look like Nonno again.

When Mum goes to get a coffee, I check he’s still breathing. I sneak my hand underneath his nose – the hairs on the back of my hand tickle. He’s fine, for now.

I get my phone out and read Riley’s text again. What a stupid thing to send, no wonder Mum freaked out. It sounds so dodgy, so him.

Let’s do it.

I want to do it with you!

Name the time and place.

As if nothing has happened. As if he hasn’t been MIA for weeks now. I haven’t got anything to do while I sit here and wait for Mum to come back, so I text back.

Fuck off

She’s alive! The one with the foul mouth.

Fuck right off!

Ah, now don’t be angry. There’s been heavy family shite going on here. I would have texted you sooner.

Tell someone who gives a shit.

Fair play, I’m a gobshite but a very sorry one. I did try and phone you, remember? Now, do you still want to meet up?

Tell me about this heavy family stuff that meant you were unable to text me for weeks.

It wasn’t weeks now, was it? In case no one’s mentioned this before you can be a real drama queen.

Start talking.

My sister left to go to uni without saying goodbye to my da. He didn’t even want her to go. She took the coward’s way out and left Da a note, on the kitchen table of all places. The state of her! Da turned into a lunatic & made me farm manager. Good craic had by all!

And…

And that’s why I’ve been ignoring you, alright? I was embarrassed. Going on about all me travels and 80 days round the world and all that. Never going to happen now.

Sounds like a right mess.

Yeah. And I’m shamed. You must think I’m a right loser. I want to be a million miles from here but I’m stuck. I’m starting to hate him.

We all hate our parents at some point.

C’mon now there’s you go-getting and doing all the shite you said you would and I’m knee deep in cow shit. Back to arses, hey? Nothing changes.

I’m not doing anything other than making a mess of everything.

What do you mean?

Long story. I can’t see my screen properly cos it’s a bit smashed (part of the long story mess) so I’m going to phone you. Alright?

Are you sure? Like, now?

Yeah, why not? Let’s act like normal human beings. I’m done with hiding all the time.

Fair play to you. I should warn you I’m hardly a riot at the moment. Serious now, I might have even run out of jokes.

I’m in hospital, not working, not a riot either.

Shite, are you alright? What’s happened?

I’m ringing, you better answer.

And before I can chicken out I dial his number and he actually answers. I tell him all about what happened with Nonno. And Mum. And Callie. It feels like I recognise his voice, as if we’ve been talking all this time instead of texting. He sounds familiar when he tells me about all the arguments between his sister and his dad. And once he’s started he can’t stop talking: how trapped he is, how stuck. And I can’t stop asking him questions about what his sister said and where she’s gone and why. Just when I think alright, that’s enough, no more for tonight and I go to end the call, I can’t because he needs me. He needs me this time. And for some reason that feels good.