‘The only one?’ Her voice catches in her throat.
‘The only one. I guess that’s why it hurt so much when I thought you didn’t want me.’
‘I never said I didn’t want you,’ Dolly whispers. ‘That’s the whole problem.’
I step closer to her, even though I know I shouldn’t. ‘I know. I know the truth now. I heard Whit and her mother talking about your mum. That you’re her carer. I know what the state of social care and welfare is for disabled people. So I know that you must be struggling, and that the protection isn’t there long term. You needed the money for her, didn’t you?’
Dolly sighs but she doesn’t look angry. If anything, she seems relieved. ‘I didn’t tell you because—’
‘I understand,’ I cut her off. ‘I’m the only one who could have put it all together. I could have got you thrown out.’
‘But you didn’t,’ she says. ‘And that’s on me for not trusting you.’
‘To be fair, for most of the time I was either trying to fight you or fuck you.’
We both laugh sadly.
‘Can I tell you now?’ Dolly says, and this feels like confession.
‘Tell me.’
‘Mum is my favourite person in the whole world, and I nearly fucked things up with her too – she’s, err, kind of angry with me that I did this for her without asking.’ She pauses now,to hold back tears. ‘Which is fair, that was my fuck up. I just really want to protect her, which she finds maddening because she’s the mum. She’s so funny and brutal and honest. Just this absolute pillar of a person, she always was.’
‘Sounds like someone else I know.’
‘She… well, she got sick when I was a teenager. Do you know what seizures are?’ she says, in a rush of air.
‘Yes, from my first aid training I know a bit. Not enough, admittedly.’
‘Well, most people think of epilepsy when we talk about that, but that’s just, like, one kind of seizure. You can have them for all kinds of reasons. My mum has this thing called Functional Neurological Disorder. When I was a teenager, she had a really bad fall at work and we thought it wasjusta fall, but it very quickly became clear it was not just a fall. Sometimes her legs wouldn’t move right, or her hands would get stuck clenched up.’
‘That sounds painful.’
‘Yeah, it’s shit for her. And she started having seizures, like the shaking kind mostly. It’s really hard because there’s still so much unknown about what it is, other than it being some kind of nerve communication problem, like the software on her computer-brain has gone wrong?’ She pauses to laugh. ‘Sorry, can you tell I know dick all about computers or neurology?’
‘You’re doing great,’ I insist.
‘Anyway, she’s on a lot of meds for various things that she seems toalsohave alongside it. It’s like every few years we’d spot something else was going on. So I guess she was just… coping or trying to for too long, and it all went kaput.’
The fuzzing in my brain whispers that this feels a little too familiar. ‘That must be really hard for her.’
Dolly looks a little surprised. ‘You know, usually the firstthing people say is “that’s hard for you”, meaning me, and that pisses me the hell off,’ she says with anger. ‘But it’s hard forher. Sure, I help her with a lot of things, and I’ve worked from home for years so I could be there to help care for her, but I don’t have to have the thing, you know?’
‘Forgive me if this is an ignorant question,’ I say, waiting for her to give me the go-ahead. ‘Does she get any extra help, like someone to come in to help her other than you?’
‘Well, there’s my Auntie Carol and my cousin Jas. And me. At the moment, we’ve not had much luck getting her at-home care, but—’ She bites down on her lip. ‘Yeah, maybe in the future. It’s a bit complicated. Plus, looking after her is my pride and joy. And it’s also a doddle, most of the time.She’sthe one who has it tough.’
It all makes sense now. This version of Dolly I thought I knew, this conniving faker with a veneer of kindness, was completely wrong. ‘I think you’re allowed to say that it’s hard for you too, because I imagine it’s a lot of pressure.’
‘Yeah, but what family isn’t? We all have something,’ Dolly says casually.
‘Hmm, yeah,’ I say, not wanting to add that thatsomethingwas, for a long time, me. ‘But you’ve been doing that while dealing with your own stuff.’ I feel a bit stupid for the euphemism. It’s like I can’t get out of the habit of talking around things. ‘Your endometriosis.’
‘Like I said, we all have something,’ she says, softer now. ‘Have you told anyone else you’re autistic?’
‘Here? God, no.’
‘Not even Patrick?’
