“Oh! Okay baby, let’s just-um, here,” she thrust a fluffy, white towel at me, and I obligingly wrapped it around myself before allowing her to lead me to the bathroom.
The small room was fragrant with warm, scented air, but I couldn’t tell what smell it was supposed to be.
“Come on, love. You’ll feel much better after a nice bath, hmm?”
She guided me towards the full tub. Tendrils of steam coiled in the air above the water. Like a child, I allowed her to take my towel, and I stepped into the bath, sitting down in the water.
“There now, doesn’t that feel nice?”
I tried to muster up the answer I knew she wanted, but even thinking about what she wanted me to say felt like too much. I hummed noncommittally.
She sighed.
I felt warm, strong hands on my scalp. The unexpected touch coupled with the scent of shampoo broke through the fuzzy layer of incomprehension that had been wrapped so tightly around me, and the sudden intrusion through my layers of grief made me yelp.
“Hush,” Mum soothed, lathering the shampoo into my hair with gentle, intentional movements that seemed to transport me back to childhood. She hummed, a lilting, but nonsensical tune.
The smell was different, but everything else… it was the same. Suddenly, I was a little girl again, getting my hair washed in the bath by my mum.
That’s all it took.
My shoulders caved inwards, pulling the air from my lungs as a sob tore its way up my throat, spilling into the warm water.
Silent, wrenching cries I had no breath to give noise to.
“Ssh, I’ve got you.”
Mum ran her hands down from my scalp to my neck and shoulders, moving her soft hands in familiar, comforting circles, at once gentle and firm.
“It’s okay, my love, you’re going to be okay.”
I don’t know how long we stayed like that, but by the end, I was leaning against my Mum, throat aching, a headache blooming between my eyes. She was cascading warm water over my head, and she had been doing it for so long that surely no trace of shampoo remained, but she kept at it until eventually, my heaves gentled into quiet shudders.
“I’m here, baby,” she murmured.
I realised she was soaking, either from me pressing against her so tightly, or from the water she’d poured over me. She didn’t seem to care, as she gently rocked me in her arms.
Mum stayed with me the rest of the day. Dad made us soup and cheese toasties, and we sat on the floor of my room eating. I was wrapped in a robe as Mum gently brushed my tangled hair.
We didn’t talk. Or, rather, I didn’t because every time I opened my mouth, I felt a burning sensation behind my eyes, my throat tightening. So, Mum talked. She talked about little bits of everything, culminating in not much of anything. Scraps of life, from how many leaves were blowing into the garden, to how the new hand sanitiser dried out her hands, to how this person or that person from her cancer support group was having an affair. Real life stayed behind the door. We didn’t talk about her own cancer. We didn’t talk about… him.
We spent so long passing time, that I almost didn’t notice when the light took on an orange tint, but Mum glanced out the window and looked down at her watch.
“It should be okay to call Becka now, love. I really think you should. Do you feel up to it?”
Did I? The self-care ministrations – and my mum – had helped me regain some clarity, and the more I thought about calling Becka, the more I felt the desperate urge to hear her voice.
“Yes,” I said, voice cracking.
“Shall I get your phone?” She moved to get up, but I halted her, my hand shooting out to grab hers.
“No.” I cleared my throat. “No, I’ll use my laptop.”
Mum’s eyes ran over my face, eyes narrowing. She made a noise in her throat, but nodded.
“Alright, love. Shall I get you another hot drink?”
I’d drunk enough hot chocolate to satisfy even fictional little boys in magical chocolate factories, so I shook my head.
