All things considered, she’s doing remarkably well. She even had me fix her hair and help her change into some nice new pyjamas from Bonmarché today. Jodie brought baby Clara to see her earlier, and then while the rest of us – including Lizzie the nurse – fought over who was getting the next cuddle of the baby, Jodie treated Mum to a manicure.
It’s like looking at a different woman in the bed now compared to that awful night during the week. If things continue as they are, she may get home in three or four days. She just has to keep up with physio and we have to agree a care plan.
Because yes, there is of course a sticking point in all this and it is, once again, what happens next. In my mind it’s not up for discussion. While mum convalesces, I will go and stay with her.She will be more comfortable in her own space and there is room for me and Daniel to go about our business. Being freelance, my work is more flexible than Ruairi’s, and Mum is unlikely to want her son dealing with any personal care needs anyway.
Adam and Jodie will stay in my house – giving them precious family time with Clara, but also making sure no one breaks in and steals all my not very exciting treasures. Not that I think there is much demand on the black market for a signed Michael Bublé CD. Even if it has been referred to on more than one occasion as ‘my precious’.
I haven’t discussed this with mum as yet. She has had enough to contend with and I want to make sure to have all the answers to any questions she might ask. I’m quite proud of myself, if the truth be told.
Laura and Niamh have both agreed to help out, and even Conal has offered to be unofficial taxi driver and assistant should we need to go to the big Asda. We’ve managed to arrange the hire of a wheelchair to help my mother stay mobile until she is back on her feet. Or, worst case, until she is content for us to buy one, but there are signs she will make a good recovery. It won’t be easy. There are likely to be some deficits remaining. But it will be possible that she will have a decent quality of life. It’s as good as we could hope for in the circumstances. It’s absolutely better than what we were worried about just a few days ago.
With her being in such good form today, this might just be the day that I let her know how we all are going to pitch in to make sure she can stay at home. If I present it to her as done and dusted, she and her stubbornness won’t be able to argue. Not when her entire family and her daughter’s best friends are in on the plans.
I know that ‘best friends’ sounds a bit twee and childish, butI don’t think we ever really grow out of the need for those special friends who just get you. They understand. They don’t judge – unless it’s that awful haircut you got in 2004 – and they will absolutely never let anyone keep you down.
I see now that my mother has that friendship with Mrs Bishop, who – God love her – has come to visit every day. She has read to her, showed her TikToks on her phone, sneaked in a few contraband sweets and, when she thinks no one is looking, just held my mother’s hand and told her she’s going to be okay.
She says it with such conviction that I can’t help but believe it too. It is all going to be okay. They’ll be up to their own mischief again in no time. My mother brightens as Mrs Bishop arrives today for her visit and gestures for me to help her sit up. I do as I’m told, and then tell Mrs Bishop to sit down.
‘I don’t think you need to call me Mrs Bishop any more, Rebecca,’ the older woman says. ‘I think we can move to first names.’
I don’t know what to say. It doesn’t seem right. Even my mother calls her Mrs Bishop when she is talking to me about her. It would feel weird – that special kind of weird, like meeting one of your former teachers years later and them telling you to use their first name. Nope. I can’t do it. But I appreciate the offer. Just as I appreciate Mrs Bishop being here every day, making my mother smile and giving her a reason to work towards getting better.
‘I think I’ll stick with Mrs Bishop,’ I tell her. ‘No offence intended. Just respect.’
‘Okay, dear,’ she says. ‘I understand.’
‘Can I get you anything? I can go to the vending machine and get you a tea or a coffee? We have some chocolate biscuits stashed away in the locker.’
‘No, pet,’ Mrs Bishop says. ‘I had a cup before I came out. Butif you don’t mind leaving me to chat to your mother for a wee while? There’s something we need to talk about.’
My gaze goes from Mrs Bishop to my mother and back again, trying to pick up any clues as to what it is they are talking about. These women are serving incredible poker face – even if my mother’s poker face is a little wonky right now.
‘Is there anything I can help you with?’ I ask, trying to hide my exceptionally nosey nature and pretend that really I can go either way. I don’t need to know, but it might be nice – that kind of thing.
‘No. We’re good,’ my mother says, while Mrs Bishop sits looking as innocent as a newborn baby, giving absolutely nothing away.
What, I wonder, can they need to talk about just between them? What could be happening that they don’t want me to know about? Are they discussing their TikTok plans? It’s unlikely given my mother’s incapacitated status. Are they making plans for world domination? Again, unlikely. Because any plan for world domination would absolutely require a trip to the big Asda first and they have not asked me about that.
My stomach tightens when I think it might be something truly worrying. Like, perhaps, Mrs Bishop acting as my mother’s wingwoman and having to break some poor pensioner’s heart now that Mum was unwell and not up for any dates any time in the future.
No, I’m being ridiculous, I tell myself as I walk out of the room just in time to bump into Conal making his way towards me. He smiles when he sees me – the same slow, sexy smile he always has. The one that makes his forehead crinkle, his head tilt a little to the left. The sexiest thing about Conal O’Hagan’s smile is just how genuine it is. I’ve heard people describe smilesas ‘like a warm hug’ before and never really understood it until Conal smiled at me after we started dating.
He has been my hero in all this. I could not have asked for more. I don’t think Simon, even on his best day, could ever be as caring and understanding as Conal has been. Perhaps it’s because Conal knows exactly what it is like to worry about a sick parent that he is extra attentive. Like his sister, he has a soft heart. But I think, I realise as I walk towards him, that this is just the person he is. This isn’t an act. It isn’t a honeymoon-stage performance. It is who he is as a person, through and through.
Up until this moment I have thought I trusted him. I’d have sworn on a Bible in front of a judge and jury that I trusted him, but clearly I have been guarding my heart. Only I’m not sure there is anything I need to guard my heart against with this man.
‘Hey,’ I say, every part of me melting as he pulls me into a hug and places a light kiss on my cheek. This is a hospital ward after all – and not a place for a full-on snog. But the light kiss feels like an infusion of love and, yes, that is nauseatingly twee but it is the truth.
‘Hi yourself,’ he says. ‘You look good. Did you get some sleep last night?’
I nod. ‘Finally. Yes. No nightmares and Saul kidnapped Daniel so I had no dog breath or scratching at the door to be let out to deal with.’
‘Good,’ he says. ‘I was starting to worry about you. You need to take care of yourself.’
‘I am!’ I assure him. ‘But I love you for caring.’
‘I care because I love you,’ he says, without hint of embarrassment or reservation.
