Chapter 12

Good.

Good.

I’m still thinking about that word: good job, good day, good girl. I know the theory of relativity is about time and physics and shit, but maybe it applies to language too. The meaning of the word depends on who’s using it. People think they’re so superior to animals because we have language, but maybe our words are as crude as the sharpened sticks that chimpanzees use to get termites out of their nest.

Good.

Good.

I’m walking home from work. Mum likes to make out like I’ve earned her trust back, but I reckon it’s because she’s working late and Uncle can’t be arsed. So I get to walk home unsupervised – big whoop – like I’m some seven-year-old. But it’s the only chunk of freedom I’ve been allowed these holidays, so I’ll take it. And it’s kind of nice to wander home; it’s warm in the afternoon but not too hot yet. It’s that funny time in spring when the world seems confused: daffodils and snap frosts, lambs born too early dying in the cold. That time when you can sit at the lakefront in a just a T-shirt and look at the mountains still frozen with snow and think that it’s like a painting, a postcard – but then the mountains remind you that they’re real: the wind changes and their cold breath chills you. Sometimes things are not as good as they seem.

But don’t tell the tourists that. They expect picture-perfect; they expect absolutely pure fantasy. The tourists who visit here are the kind of people in search of adventure. But not the real kind – they want the type of adventure with safety guarantees and souvenir photos at the end. People like that crave drama because their lives are so perfect, so good. Good. Good.

Bugs.

If I don’t look at a text straight away, my phone just keeps nagging me and nagging me.

Bugs.

I set dogs barking as my alert, so it’s like I’m being hunted – duck on a maimai, pig in the bush, rabbit in a hole. I’m not supposed to have contact with her: that’s what the parents decided; that was the deal, the Treaty of Versailles.

Bugs.

And I don’t want to have contact with her, anyway. I’m still pissed. How could she call herself a mate and just let me take the fall? All she needed to do was say it was my idea and it would have been sweet. Like her dad would’ve threatened to go to the cops then.

Bugs.

What?

Please come around.

I can’t.

Please.

I can’t.

I need you.

Bugs.

It’s not far from here, so I could just pop around, wave to Shelley as she tries to sic Duke on me, and wait for the cops that Mr Fox called.

And the little rabbit in my brain is thumping its hind foot: it’s a trap, it’s a trap, it’s a trap …

I can’t.

I think I’m dying.

That’s not funny.

I think I am.

The whole bottle is gone.

Bottle of what?

…

Bottle of what?

That’s a shitty thing to do. Now I have to go. And if she’s ‘dying’ just because she’s fucked up her manicure or whatever I’m gonna punch her. I pick up my pace but try to keep it as a fast walk. A sixteen-year-old Māori running in this neighbourhood? Probably not out for a jog. Why make the cops pick me up here, when they can have a nice cup of tea and an organic, gluten-free scone while they wait for me at Stone Cold’s? I feel the thump, thump, thump again, but this time it’s in my chest. I can’t be that unfit; I must be freaked. And it gets worse as I get closer to Stone Cold’s place, as I see the red of their hedge – stop-light red, warning warning, the red of Mr Fox’s face as his spittle foams with rage like a rabid dog. I press my back against the hedge and inch along to the driveway. Only Stone Cold’s little car is there – Shelley’s big-arse four-wheel drive is gone – so I relax a bit, but still duck down past the big picture windows. Duke is gone too. The back garden seems empty without him, but there are lemons dotted everywhere that he’s left around. The door to the sleep-out is open, but it feels weird to be here now, so I knock on the door.

‘Hello?’

I rush in when she doesn’t answer, hoping that she’s still breathing. She’s sitting on the floor of the empty room, phone in one hand and a bottle of whisky in the other. She’s all skinny jeans and Ugg boots, T-shirt and merino. And I could slap her.

‘Bugs. You came. I didn’t think you would.’

‘What happened? Where’s your stuff?’

‘Gone.’ She waves her arm towards the house like it is too heavy to lift. ‘I’m learning a lesson.’

The bottle in her hand is empty, and the glass is clean of marks. I thought Shelley marked these, with a Vivid? ‘It’s one you watered down, eh? Weak as?’

Stone Cold shakes the bottle. ‘Brand new. Duty free. Saving it for Gran. For Christmas.’

‘How much did you drink?’

‘Just all of it.’

‘You need to puke then.’

‘Have.’ Stone Cold taps the wall behind her and I notice that the window is open. I look out the window, and her vomit is still dripping off the weatherboards and pooling in the garden. It stinks, so I cover my nose and mouth with my hand.

‘Better in then out, Bugs.’

‘I think you mean …’

‘I know what I said.’ She looks at the empty bottle in her hand. ‘Gone, all gone.’

I sit next to her, back against the wall. ‘Your stuff, or the whisky?’

‘Everything. Hey, you couldn’t go and get another bottle of something? I could tell you where they are …’

‘I think you’ve had enough.’

‘God, not you too. Everyone thinks they know what I need, thinks that I can’t make a decision. And it wasn’t for me, it was for you, to catch up.’

‘Because misery loves company?’

‘You think I’m sad?’ She says that with a voice that’s as rag-doll limp as her arms and legs, her head wilting like she has no spine. She might not think she’s sad, but it’s what she is. But she’s at that point of drunk when anything could set her off – and a supposedly sad drunk can turn angry really quickly.

So I just smile at her and shake my head. ‘No, I don’t think you’re sad.’

‘You’re a good friend, Bugs.’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Yes, you are. You sacrificed yourself.’ Her arms flail as she tries to pat my leg, and I move away from her a bit. ‘For me.’

‘Yep.’

‘That’s so awesome, because our friendship …’ Stone Cold unscrews the top of the bottle and tries to have a swig, and then looks into the bottle like the overacting drama queen she is. ‘It’s empty.’

‘Yes, it is.’ I take the bottle from her and put it above me on the windowsill. Stone Cold slides down the wall towards me. I’m just that little bit further away, so she ends up at a weird angle against me, instead of just her head being tilted to my shoulder. Her breath stinks and she’s heavy.

‘Where are your olds?’

‘The Mount. I stress Mum out, put strain on their marriage. They’ve gone to … reconnect.’

I think of Trace, her forefinger going in and out, in and out. Hotel sheets in disarray, the room stinking of sweat and perfume, used condoms floating in the toilet bowl.

‘And they took Duke?’

Stone Cold cracks up. ‘Fuck Bugs, that’s so gross.’

‘I didn’t mean …’

‘They took Duke –’ Stone Cold is still laughing – ‘to a kennel.’

‘Shouldn’t they have left him here? To protect you?’

‘He’d probably attack me before a burglar. I stress him out too.’ The laughter has dried up. ‘Besides, he’s worth more than me.’

‘They left you here all alone? Aren’t they afraid you’ll have a party?’

‘I don’t have friends. No chance of a party if you don’t have anyone to party with. No friends: not even Jez and you any more. No one at all.’ Stone Cold looks down at her hands like she’s counting off everything she’s lost on her fingers. ‘Whatever. Like I need anyone. I can party by myself.’ She moves her arms like she’s trying to dance. ‘I’m tired.’

I don’t know if I should let her sleep or if I should keep her awake and moving like they do in the movies. Or is that just for drugs? Either way, she can’t sleep in this empty room on the floor. I get to my knees and try to lever her up off the wall. Her head slumps forward, and I see that she’s hacked the back of her hair off.

‘What have you done?’

She cracks up again. ‘Makeover!’ She pats the back of her head with her hand. ‘What a fuck-up.’

The hair is uneven at the back, like she cut at different angles; like she cut it in a hurry. One deep breath and snip, snip. She is on her knees now, just pulling at the hair, sobbing, ‘I fucked up, Bugs. I fucked up.’

There’s a part of me that wants to stick the boot in, a part of me that wants to say yeah, you did, you fucked up. But I know that wouldn’t help either of us now. I kneel down beside her, put her arm around my shoulder and my arm around her waist and struggle up with her. She doesn’t seem to have any bones or muscles in her legs any more: the whisky has robbed her of motion but gifted her with e-motion, big time. Emotion on my shoulder, on my face, running down my neck.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says, but I’m not sure what she’s sorry for. It is the indiscriminate apology of the drunk. She could be sorry for anything: the crying, the whisky, her hair, everything.

I’m … so … rry … punctuates our steps as we walk to the house, each rry weighing us down, slowing the short walk to an epic journey. If Jez was here he could have picked her up: carried her across the threshold and to her bed …

Sheets tangled, sweat and perfume, used condoms …

I want to stop and close my eyes and get that image out of my head, but if I do we’ll lose momentum and we’ll never get inside.

‘I’m sorry, Bugs. I’m sorry.’

Stone Cold is managing to stay upright in the stool. It must be easier for her since she has the kitchen bench to lean on. I’m looking in the fridge for something for her to eat. Something a bit stodgy, to soak up her sorry. She just keeps saying it over and over again, like she’s a tape stuck in a deck playing the same song.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I know.’

‘My hair …’ she puts her head down on the bench and shakes with sobbing. I go over and pat her back; try to make soothing noises, the empty promises made to children. It will be all right, you’ll be fine, we’ll sort you out. She rolls her head to the side so that I can see her face. She’s smiling, laughing – not crying at all.

‘I fucked it up, my “crowning glory”.’ She sing-songs the phrase. ‘That’s what he calls it …’

‘Who?’ I’m back in the fridge, moving around the salad leaves, the low-fat this and that.

‘Dad. Never let me cut it, because it is my crowning glory, my greatest achievement. Because what matters is on my head, not in it. It’s all about what I look like, not who I am. I don’t matter.’ She pulls at her hair. ‘But this does?’

I find some leftover potatoes and chop them into a pan sizzling with lots of butter.

‘He calls me a princess. That’s all I am – long dresses and hair, waiting for someone to save me.’

Asleep for one hundred years, waiting for true love’s kiss. She’s right. All those princesses in fairy tales, waiting in a tower, waiting in a glass coffin, waiting to be kissed like their lives mean nothing without a prince. Waiting to live happily ever after. Worse still are the princesses who give up their lives for him – the ones who dance in red shoes until they die, the ones who give up their voice to follow after him – step by painful step on their new feet. This is what we’re fed; this is what we’re supposed to aspire to. It’s not my life; it’s not hers. It’s bullshit.

I flip the potatoes. Each piece glistens with fat, the edges crisping to a nutty brown. I learn about fathers, and how they expect you to be the perfect little girl forever. That when they say you’ll always be my little girl like they do on TV, it is not a heart-warming, soft-lens moment but an order, a demand. It means that they’re never going to take you seriously; that what you think will never matter, because no one listens to a child.

‘I didn’t want to be a princess, Bugs.’ She touches the back of her head again. ‘I cut it so I didn’t have to be his princess.’

I tip the potatoes into a bowl, sprinkle them with salt and put them in front of her. ‘So now you can be the ugly sister, eh?’

And she laughs with her mouth full of potato. ‘Yeah, ugly sisters!’ She puts her hand up to high-five me. Excuse me? I’m Cinder-fucking-rella; did you not see the cast list? The obvious plot progression? But I high-five her anyway, because you can’t leave a mate hanging.

A mate. I pick at a potato and look at this drunk, emotional, loud-mouth bitch, and she is. She’s my mate.

‘Bugs, these are the best potatoes I have ever eaten. Ever. Eaten.’ She points a potato at every full stop.

‘It’s the butter.’

‘It’s the butter, and it’s the love. The love you put in them, Bugs.’ Uh-oh, she’s starting to tear up. ‘The love for me, because you saw that I needed these potatoes and you made them for me.’

‘Yeah, I did.’ She’s kind of wobbly in her seat, her eyebrows scrunched together. ‘Are you OK?’

‘I’m gonna be sick.’ And she stumbles off the stool to the bathroom. I follow her and sit outside listening to her retch.

A proper friend would probably go in there and pat her on the back, but that’s not how we roll. ‘At least I don’t have to hold your hair.’

‘Fuck you, Bugs. Stop making me laugh because I’ll swallow it … ergh.’

‘You’ll feel better in a minute.’ The toilet flushes. ‘You want to brush your teeth?’ Because your breath probably reeks.

The bathroom door opens and Stone Cold comes out and sits next to me.

‘Are you OK?’

‘No.’ She rubs her forehead like the hangover is already starting to kick in. ‘Bugs, I know you’re not a deep and meaningful kinda girl; that we’ve never really talked about stuff together, not really. And I don’t mean stupid stuff like make-up or clothes …’

‘Or hair.’ Stone Cold tries to punch me in the arm, but she misses me completely.

‘Shut up, OK? I’m trying to have a real conversation with you, but I don’t need you to talk. I just need someone to listen to me.’

So I shut up and listen, except she isn’t saying anything. We sit here listening to the hiss of the cistern filling up. Stone Cold plays with her fingers as if she’s trying to knit together her thoughts; untangle all the strands so they make sense.

‘It’s stupid, because when we moved here I really hated it. You’re so lucky, Bugs, because you’ve been here forever. Not because of the stupid touristy postcardy things but because you have history, y’know? You have Jez. You know what they said to me when we were moving? That I’d like it here because of the skiing. Like freezing in the middle of nowhere would make up for losing …’

Stone Cold is tracing the patterns on the wallpaper with her fingers like she’s skiing the slalom on a slope. It’s like I’m no longer here – or maybe she’s not.

‘They never ask me. Why would they? My life doesn’t matter to them. I’m just one of the things to be packed up, labelled and shipped off. Don’t sign if there’s any damage, Shelley!’ Stone Cold laughs. It’s weird – she’s swinging from happy to angry to almost crying. ‘I don’t think she’d even notice my damage anyway. It’s not like I was perfect to begin with …’ She scratches the wallpaper like she’s trying to rip open the seam. ‘So perfect: everything has to be so perfect. That’s all she spends her life on; making things exactly how she wants them.’ Stone Cold mimes her mother’s garden shears. ‘Schick schick schick, she turns a wild thing into a perfectly square box. And if they couldn’t take it? If they just shrivelled up and died? She’d just pull them out and replace them. Schick schick schick – not one looks out of place. Everything in order for Mrs Fox. Y’know, I don’t even know if there was a Shelley before there was a Mrs Fox. She never talks about what she wanted to be. Just a wife and mother; just background noise for my dad’s life, the radio you put on so you don’t feel so alone. Even when he’s not here, I dunno, it’s like she’s on pause. Like she’s just waiting for him. She’s just his shadow.’ She makes her hands into a shadow puppet dog, that just sits and waits and pants. ‘But your mum …’ The dog comes to life, barking and attacking. ‘Nikki stood up to him. Even though she’s a short-arse like you, Bugs, she just stood up, staunch as. That’s what I want; that’s what I need. Someone to stick up for me.’

She tries to pat me on the shoulder, but misses and smacks me on my boob. ‘You’re so lucky.’ I swear she’s fully talking to my boobs now. ‘You’re so lucky.’

Stone Cold has been slowly sliding down the wall. She rests her head on my lap, and I can’t help but stroke her head like she’s Kēhua come in for a cuddle. The short hair at the back of her head curls around my fingers like your pubes do when you wank.

‘I used to lie like this on my mum when she checked my hair for nits. And it should have been gross but I used to love it being so close to her as she checked every strand. Her fingernails scraping the eggs from my head. It’s stupid, but I loved it.’

I run my fingers through her hair, because it seems to be comforting for her to have the knots in her longer curls gently tugged loose, the shorter hair smoothed down. Stone Cold closes her eyes. Her head is heavier in my lap as she relaxes.

‘You know when we went out to the farm? How your family just welcomed us and fed us and stuff? They were angry with you, but they were happy to see you. They wanted you there. You know what happened when I got home? She took my keys and sent me to the sleep-out. She didn’t even want to look at me.’

She’s crying: not heaving, like earlier, but the kind that runs down your face and you don’t even realise it. The tears drop and spread through the fabric of my sweatpants.

‘They want to get rid of me. They want to send me away.’

‘No, they don’t.’

‘Yes, they do. They said they’re going to send me to boarding school. No distractions, because I’ll have no friends. You don’t know how hard it is, to try and fit into somewhere new – because people have already got their friends; had them forever, like you and Jez. I was lucky that Jez wanted me.’

I should lie and say that I wanted her too, but we both know that it’s not true. And that’s not what she really needs.

‘They say it’ll be for my own good, to improve my marks before uni, but they just want me gone, because I’m an embarrassment. I’m a failure because I’m not perfect. They want me out of their lives, so I don’t remind them every day. Maybe I should make it easy for them …’

I stop running my fingers through her hair. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Maybe it would be easier if I wasn’t here; if I was just … gone.’

What do you say to someone on the edge? I’ve got to say something: this silence feels, I don’t know, dangerous. These are the ‘life skills’ I actually need: not a five-year plan. In this moment, a five-minute plan seems optimistic. So I say the only thing I can think of, dumb and bland and nothing. ‘No, it wouldn’t be easier …’ Not for me. Not for them.

‘I don’t fit into their plans. No daughter of theirs would get stoned, or drink, or fuck, do anything except look pretty and wait until some guy comes along and I can make his house look good …’

‘I thought they wanted you to be a lawyer.’

‘Either way, Bugs that’s it, isn’t it? It’s what they want. No one asks me; no one cares. Just follow this line we’ve drawn you: one foot in front of the other.’

My legs are getting pins and needles, but I let her just cry in my lap a little bit longer, before I push myself up and pull her to her feet. I take her to the lounge, leading her, one foot in front of the other.

Their couch is too short for Stone Cold to stretch out completely; instead she lies on her side with her knees tucked up. I put a couple of cushions under her head and cover her with a throw that Shelley probably spent hours arranging.

‘Can you stay with me, Bugs?’

I sit on the floor in front of the couch and lean my head back onto the seat of it so I can look in her eyes. ‘Yeah.’ And she leans over and kisses me, full on on the mouth, but it is not full of sex or want; it is just full of need. So I kiss her back, cupping her cheek, stroking her hair, because she needs me, and what I feel, whatever it is, doesn’t matter right now.

‘I don’t want to be alone.’

‘You’re not.’

I sit there until the little hiccoughs of tears fade, until her breath deepens and slows, until the whisky finally makes her snore. I sit there and watch the shadows lengthen on the hard wood floor, and the antique furniture in this light seems monstrous, like it’s waiting to attack me. I think that Shelley would be pleased that she managed to trick me; managed to make me believe that this place was perfect – that they were perfect. I look at Stone Cold sleeping and think of all the times I just thought of her as a drama queen; that she was putting on an act. But how could she be anything else, living here? Why are her parents so surprised that she wants to act when they’ve been training her all her life?

The phone rings, I scramble to get up, to answer it before Stone Cold wakes up. If Shelley is anything like her daughter she won’t give up calling until she’s heard “her”. I pick up the phone and it is my debut on this stage.

‘Hello?’

‘Charmaine? Is that any way to answer the phone?’ Shelley’s voice sounds different to me now; it sounds more demanding.

I try to make my voice like Stone Cold’s, enjoying the chance to talk back without punishment. ‘God, Mo-THER, I knew it was you. Caller ID?’

‘You sound strange.’ Uh-oh, busted already. ‘Are you all right?’

‘You woke me up.’

‘Nice for some.’

‘You’re the one on a dirty weekend.’ I’m really getting into this now. ‘God. I’ve got a headache, OK?’

‘I just rang to see if you’re OK.’

I could tell Shelley now: tell her that Stone Cold is not OK. That she’s scared and upset – and drunk – but I know Stone Cold wouldn’t thank me, so I tilt my chin and say down the phone, ‘What do you care?’ And then hang up.

It’s a rush, man, being someone else; like shooting those bunnies. Bang, bang! My hands are shaking and the adrenaline just makes me want to shout, but Stone Cold is still sleeping in the lounge. I go out to the back garden and just run around and around like Duke chasing lemons. I run until it’s hard to breathe and I flop down on the grass; the dew that has already started to set soaks into my back. I’ll probably get grass stains on my back and ruin my work shirt. I bet Mum will make me wear it anyway, so that Trace and that can have a real laugh at me, ask me who I’ve been fucking in a field or something. But then, like Mum would let me wear anything dirty to her hotel. Everything there has to be just …

Perfect.

I sit up. It’s getting cold as the light is fading. I hug my knees to my chest. It’s funny, me and Stone Cold thinking each other’s lives are perfect, wishing we could live the other’s life. But we’ve just been looking at the set – the two-dimensional, painted to look real. The throw, arranged but offering no comfort, the crisp turn-down on a bed made new for each guest. We all put on a good show, don’t we?

It’s hard to be real, in a place like this. Stone Cold had to get stone cold drunk to break through. To break through our wall. But what if this isn’t real either? What if tomorrow, when the alcohol and tears fade, the wall has built back up? If she circles me with suspicion because she’s let too much go? The balance is off and she’ll want my tears, my confessions to make things right again. But I don’t even tell that stuff to Jez any more. I don’t even tell that stuff to me. I throw a couple of lemons at the hedge, and get a couple of good hits. Red leaves fall on the grass below. Maybe it wasn’t when the eggs hit Jez’s place that we were free, but when we decided to throw them; when we opened our hands and let them go.

I look at Stone Cold from the deck for a while, until it gets too cold and I realise that I’ve been standing here like a stalker. I ease the door open and tiptoe across the floor like Stone Cold is a fussy baby that I don’t want to wake. I pull the curtains shut, and put the heat pump on low – startled by its beep as it comes to life, and the heavy sigh it makes.

Everything in this frickin’ room is emo.

If we were at the farm I would build us a fire to keep warm. I reckon the firelight keeps you warm too; the soft orange glow kinda soaks into your skin, makes you feel, I don’t know, happy. Happier than the invisible heat of a pristine unit mounted on a wall, which whines as it works.

I check to see if she’s still breathing, worried about those stories you hear about people dying from being too drunk. She’s OK, grumbling in her sleep; she even manages to bat my hand away, so I guess she still has some control. I put a lamp on just so I don’t disturb her when I come in again, crashing about as my eyes adjust. I close the door quietly and go to the kitchen.

I help myself to a lemonade, thinking that it might be better to grab some Dutch courage – but we can’t both be wasted. She needs someone here for her, and when you drinking you’re not really there, are you? Sip, sip, sip, hoping the sugar will hit my system, make me brave. Maybe I need a cup of tea? That’s what people do in situations. Make tea. I fill the kettle and put it on. I have to walk past the phone several times to do this, but I don’t want to pick it up. Not yet.

The tea has barely had time to brew before I stir in some milk. It is tasteless and too hot but I keep sipping, hoping that it is some sort of magic elixir: the magic potion the Gauls lined up for before they whooped the Romans’ arses. But it has no effect on me, like I was dropped in the cauldron as a baby.

I pick up the phone and just hold it. Like they make people do with spiders when they’re shit scared of them. I should just get it over and done with, like peas on my dinner plate or a sticky plaster that needs to come off. I dial and wait for her to pick up.

‘Mum?’

‘Bugs? What’s wrong? Why are you calling me at work?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m at Char’s.’

‘You’re not supposed to be around there.’

‘I know, I’m grounded.’

‘Not just grounded; they don’t want you to hang out with each other.’

‘I know, but we’re friends …’

‘Let me talk to Shelley.’ Mum is clipped, impatient. ‘To apologise …’

‘They’re not here; they’ve gone to the Mount.’

‘Oh God, Bugs, did you break in? Are you in trouble?’

‘I didn’t break in. God, why would you think that?’ Why does she think that? ‘Char’s here, her olds have gone …’

‘Parents, Bugs …’ Seriously? She’s worried about what I call them?

‘“Parents”, whatever. They’ve gone. And Char’s alone.’

‘So she’s alone. Tell her to watch a movie or do her homework.’ I can see her at work, rolling her eyes and flicking her hand like Stone Cold is an annoying mosquito.

‘Mum just, God, just … she’s alone, OK.’ I take a breath so I can slow my words down, forget the stuff between me and Mum, because this is important, because Mum has to understand. ‘She needs me, Mum. She’s in trouble.’

‘You will be too, when you get home.’

‘No, Mum. Like emotional trouble.’

Mum is quiet. I stand there with the phone pressed hard against my ear, so hard that I think Mum could probably hear my thoughts; know how worried I am.

‘She hasn’t … she hasn’t done anything … stupid?’

‘No. Not stupid stupid. She just got drunk, cut her hair.’ But it could still happen. ‘Mum, she can’t be on her own right now. ‘

‘Do you need me to come around?’ Mum sounds worried. ‘Are you OK?’

‘I’m OK. She’s just sleeping it off.’ I trace my fingers over the veins in the stone of the kitchen bench: dark grey against white. They make it look as if the stone is living; as if it would bleed if I cut it, even though it is cold to the touch.

Mum is silent. She must be calculating how many extra hours of punishment this will get me. ‘You’re a good friend, Bugs. Call me if you need me, OK? You don’t have to do this by yourself.’

You’re lucky Bugs, so lucky. They’ve left me here, alone.

‘I know, I will.’ I wish she was here right now, I really do, but I push what I’m feeling, whatever it is, away. ‘She needs me Mum, OK? She needs me.’

‘She’s lucky to have you.’

Lucky, so lucky.

And I hang up the phone and cry.