A smile she was getting tired of wearing when her life was well and truly up shit creek.
11
Gio had been discharged from hospital almost a fortnight ago and December had crept up on them all with one day much the same as any other now he wasn’t at work.
To say he was frustrated was an understatement. He’d had surgery to fix his knee and allow for the return of function but whenever he asked the healthcare team, nobody would tell him when or how long before he got back to the job.
Gio’s healing could now be done from home with visits from the physiotherapist. He was diligently icing the knee to stop pain and swelling – which would’ve been a hell of a lot more pleasant in summer than winter – the bruising was beginning to subside, but he had a brace on his leg when he moved around to stop it twisting or being subject to unnecessary impact. He was told he had to have the brace for at least two but possibly as many as six weeks, but it was better than wearing a cast. At least he could remove the brace when he was sitting or lying down – it meant he didn’t have to imagine his limb shrivelling up beneath plaster either; his muscles were still there, he could see them rather than think about them.
Gio was doing his utmost to stay positive, to think about getting back on the job, but the whole situation was making him far rattier with his mother than he needed to be and she was watching him like a hawk, something he was neither used to nor needed.
‘I thought you were working until six,’ he said when she came through the door at four.
‘Not today; I started at 7a.m., remember.’
‘I forgot.’ He was still on the sofa, this morning’s session with a physiotherapist basic to onlookers but even moving his foot up and down at the moment was painful and a unique kind of torture.
He watched his mother closely as she unlaced her trainers, her face hidden as her ponytail of dark-grey hair that was once the same colour as his fell over her shoulder. ‘How was work?’
‘Tiring,’ she said, not making eye contact as she lifted her shoes in her fingers and took them back to the hallway and the rack.
He had a sinking feeling in his stomach that had nothing to do with his recent surgery or the fact he was facing a long time before he could return to the job he loved. He looked at her when she came back into the room, but rather than the eyes he expected to be dancing with an alcohol-fuelled enthusiasm she was desperately trying to hide, she really did look exhausted.
She caught him looking as she set down her handbag. ‘You want to ask whether I’ve had a drink.’
‘No.’
‘Gio…’
Having her here was a pain, a worry, but in the moment, he found himself smiling. ‘I don’t want to ask you but I was suspecting.’
She sat down on the armchair opposite the sofa. ‘I suppose Iask for that with my history. It’s what you boys probably came to expect.’
‘It’s what we saw, Mum.’
‘It’s hard for you to shake off your doubts. And it’s hard to get rid of my own too. I’m always waiting to fuck up again. Sorry, excuse the language.’
Having listened to him swearing his head off since he came home, he couldn’t very well complain. He’d moaned about everything – the pain, the swelling, not being at work, not being able to stand and make himself a meal, sleeping on the camp bed in the small dining room next to the lounge, the inconvenience of not being able to use the shower upstairs because he couldn’t get up there. He was having to make do with the one downstairs that he’d never got around to replacing. He was pretty sure that the owner before had used it to shower their dog after long, muddy walks and the thought, despite the fact he’d lived here for a while and the shower had seen many cleans, made him feel even worse every time he got under the weak-as-piss jets of the shower head.
He pushed himself upright, looked at the crutches resting against the wall. Already, he couldn’t wait to see the back of them.
She must have seen him do it. ‘What do you need?’ Her hands were on her knees as if poised and ready to leap into action.
‘I need to do things for myself, that’s what I need.’
‘Stop being so hard on yourself. What do you want?’
Reluctantly, he admitted, ‘I could murder a can of Coke from the fridge.’
Marianne went to get the drink and brought it back along with a couple of painkillers.
‘Don’t need those.’
‘Yes, you do. I saw you wincing when I came in the door.’
The physio had reprimanded him earlier for saying he no longer needed painkillers. She’d explained that it would hinder him in the long run if he didn’t take them; it would leave him in pain and unable to do the exercises. That meant he’d suffer more stiffness and a slower recovery. He’d also been told not to do too much too soon, so he couldn’t really win, could he?
His mother disappeared and for a blissful moment, he enjoyed the cold, fizzy drink. The heating was on and it didn’t matter that it was almost winter beyond the doors and windows of his home; for now, he could close his eyes and imagine himself anywhere. Tropical preferably, with fully functioning legs.
