A knock on my bedroom door pulls me out of my self-pity. It’s Ruairi. He has showered and appears to be dressed in a pair of Adam’s joggers and a hoodie. It’s very disarming. I am not used to seeing my brother outside of his solicitor’s suit, or hisposh look of chinos and a sweater on his days off. He does not do casual. I can’t remember the last time I saw him in a pair of jeans let alone a pair of joggers. Not even when he was Adam’s age.
It gives him a vulnerable appearance that almost makes me forget what a complete pain in the arse he is most of the time.
‘Adam said I could change into some of his things,’ he says by way of an explanation. ‘I’ve made some soup and sandwiches downstairs if you want to grab some lunch before we head back to the hospital.’
‘That sounds great,’ I say. ‘I’m impressed. I didn’t know you knew how to use a tin opener.’
He gives me a death stare which reminds me of many, many interesting exchanges in our teenage years and leaves to go back down the stairs.
When I join him, I am surprised to see bowls of chunky leek and potato soup on the table, with toasted cheese sandwiches.
‘I hope you checked the use-by date on this soup,’ I tell him. ‘I can’t think of the last time I bought chunky leek and potato soup. It’s possible they predate Simon leaving and I definitely don’t think that would make it good eating!’
It smells delicious though, and I realise that I haven’t eaten since the nuggets and McFlurry Sneaky Car McDonald’s episode. And as enjoyably slutty as that sneaky treat had been, an hour later I had been hungry. It’s the curse of fast food. Like a cheap date, it feels really good at the time, but an hour later you are filled with regret.
I’m so hungry, in fact, that I don’t actually care if the soup is ten years out of date. I’ll take my chances. I’m going to the hospital anyway. They can help me if it all goes south.
‘It’s not tinned soup,’ Ruairi says, taking a seat opposite me.
‘What do you mean it’s not tinned soup?’ I ask, bringing a tentative spoonful to my mouth.
‘I made the soup,’ Ruairi says. ‘You know, with fresh ingredients. It’s not that hard. Tinned soups are full of all sorts of additives and whatever.’
‘Where did you get the ingredients?’ I ask, mentally running through what supplies I know we had in the house. I can’t lie, my cupboards are getting a little bare and I don’t remember the last time I bought leeks. In fact, my entire fresh vegetable drawer in the bottom of the fridge is looking severely neglected save for some aged broccoli that is slowly turning brown and half a packet of green beans. There’s some frozen veg in the freezer – which of course is exactly where you would hope the frozen veg would be – but I’m not sure Ruairi would count that as fresh enough. He’s also exactly the kind of person to be horrified that I’d bought pre-diced onions as if making life easier for myself is some sort of crime.
‘I went to the shop and got some,’ he says as if I’m particularly dense. ‘I’m not stupid, you know, sis. I know how to go to a shop and how to make a fresh soup. Normally I’d go for organic veg, but it seems corner shops aren’t big on stocking that.’
If it was my corner shop, he’s lucky he got what he did. Harry, the kindly shop owner, isn’t famed for his fresh ingredients. Or variety. He’s an old-fashioned Derry man and his veg selection rarely ventures beyond spuds, carrots, onions and cabbage. The occasional turnip makes an appearance if he’s trying to be a bit more cosmopolitan.
But as I take a mouthful, I have to admit my brother knows how to make soup well. It tastes as delicious as it smells. ‘I’m impressed,’ I tell him, ‘but you were supposed to be sleeping.’
He gives a sad smile. ‘I should’ve been, but my brain wouldn’t switch off. I had to make some calls for work, and then when I couldn’t sleep I thought I’d go for a walk, which I did. I was passing the shop and called in and thought I’d make somesoup. We need to take care of ourselves and, no offence, sis, but I know how organised you are and I wanted to make sure we had something nutritious. So I whipped this up, had a shower while it was simmering and here we go.’
‘You must be exhausted,’ I tell him.
He shrugs. ‘I’m used to operating on very little sleep, but yes, I’m tired. Not as tired as Mum though.’
‘Adam said she was awake briefly but has been sleeping most of the time.’
‘Good. Sleep will be healing,’ he says, breaking off a piece of his toasted sandwich, dipping it in his soup. ‘I’m not sure it’s a conversation for today but, Becca, we need to talk about what we do now.’ He takes a bite of his sandwich while looking at me for some kind of response.
‘Right now, we get Mum better,’ I say. ‘That’s all there is to it. We get her through the next few days and weeks. Make sure the risk of a secondary stroke has passed.’
‘She’s going to need care,’ he says. ‘Even in the short term. She’s not going to be as independent as she has been.’
‘She’s strong, Ruairi. Don’t underestimate her,’ I say, feeling defensive on her behalf, even though I know what he is saying is true. Roisin Burnside, for all her stubborn independence, is not the superwoman she wants to be. She will need help and she will not be one bit happy about it.
‘I’m not underestimating her,’ Ruairi says, ‘but I don’t want you to underestimate what she will need either.’
‘I’m under no illusions,’ I tell him. ‘I haven’t had the chance to figure it all out yet, but I know she will need me more. Whether she comes here, or I move there. Or I spend the days there and she gets carers at night. I can work in my old bedroom, set up a makeshift office there. We’ll work something out. Don’tworry, I know you have your home, your work and your responsibilities in Belfast. You need to be there.’
He shakes his head. ‘She’s my mother too,’ he says. ‘I’m not just going to leave you to it. I will help. I want to help. But look, you should know. Mum has talked about this before.’
‘Talked about what? Having a stroke and us sitting in my kitchen eating soup?’
‘Don’t be facetious, Becks,’ Ruairi says. ‘I think we’re both too tired for that. What I mean is that Mum is very, very determined that she does not want to become a burden to us.’
I drop my spoon in the bowl and push my chair back to stand up. ‘Mum is not, and never could be, a burden. Jesus Christ, Ruairi. I can’t believe you’d even say that. What are you suggesting exactly? She’s not a dog. We aren’t going to put her down.’
