‘You got your hair cut,’ I say.
‘I’m a “superhairo”. I gave it to the people to make a wig for the children.’
‘She donated it to a kids’ cancer charity,’ says Josie from the front seat. ‘Less likely to get nits too, which is a bonus.’
We pull up outside Josie’s house and Josie takes Héloïse inside. While she’s gone, I get in the front and phone Simon. He’s not answering – and he hasn’t seen my message. I can’t call Alannah or either of the boys as they’re all still in Australia and it’s the middle of the night. They wouldn’t be able to do anything from there anyway. By now, there are also sixty-three missed calls, two voice notes (who even does these?), eight voicemails and a new message from Merlyn:
Erica – we must reconvene post-haste. Baci, M
It takes just over half an hour to get to the hospital in Swindon. Josie doesn’t say much on the way, apart from telling me she’s been watering the tubs on my patio and how Keith said our chat didn’t go that well yesterday. Yesterday? Was that really only yesterday? Why does it seem as though everything has speeded up? I want to say to her that… I don’t know. That I miss her? But I’m not sure if that’s what she would want to hear. I feel like I have pushed people too far away from me, Nandy included. The only messages I get now are from a pansexual twenty-four-year-old who hasn’t been to bed yet. I haven’t even been able to tell anyone what happened with Kofi, and what he told me about Owen, which is burning a hole in my brain, if that’s a thing.
At the hospital, Josie drops me off. I’m not convinced it’s a good idea to go in and see Mother Pells, after what happened in the ambulance. But if Simon isn’t here, I have to. She can’t be on her own. She can’t think nobody is here for her. There’s a Costa inside the hospital entrance so first I get a flat white and sit down so I can call Simon again. There’s a pregnant woman beside me wearing slippers and drinking hot chocolate. On the seat next to her, I can see the newspaper with the story about me on the cover, but she doesn’t pick it up – she seems to be too busy stroking her belly and grimacing. Near the counter stands an elderly man on his phone. I can hear him say, ‘No change at all, Linda, but maybe that’s a good thing,’ then he wipes his eyes on the sleeve of his cardigan.
Simon still isn’t answering but then I see ‘Semen is typing’. I changed his contact name last year and I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t still make me laugh. Although not today.
Rica yes
Simon? Are you OK? Mum is in hospital. I’ve just arrived. Where are you?
God
Can you get to Swindon? I think my appearance is upsetting her and one of us needs to be here.
It’s not good Eric 8
Is he drunk? It’s not even midday.
What’s going on Simon?
I ddntt get the dose right rite write… Which one is it?
The mushrooms. Of course. The one time I actually bloody need him, he’s… useless.
It’s fine. I’ll deal with it. I’ll be in touch and let you know how she is.
Twenty minutes later, I walk into the ward. There’s a woman at the nurses’ station picking the mini Milky Ways out of a box of Celebrations. She gives me a weird look, perhaps wondering howI can be the daughter of someone who is eighty, and tells me Mother Pells is ‘stable’, but has to get a scan of her brain because of a head injury. She also tells me she has her own room, which is good. I think. Or maybe it’s not. Then she says something about my visit being welcome as she ‘couldn’t get hold of the next of kin’, which will of course be Simon, and something about how she’ll be ‘glad to have family here’.
‘Welcome’? But maybe I – at least in my current form – am not. I walk down the long corridor towards her room and take a breath outside. Can I go in? Should I go in? What if she doesn’t recognise me again? What if she gets upset? If I don’t though, she will think neither me nor Simon have come. Oh crap. What have I done? I feel this unfamiliar, new protectiveness of her, and I am torn between wanting to be there for her, and the fear of making things worse. So I reverse up the corridor, pausing only at the nurses’ station to write down Auntie Viv’s number on a piece of paper, and hand it to the Milky Way woman. And then I leave.
I need to be nearby, even if I can’t go and see her, so I go back to my ‘dark little cottage’ and let myself in. There are some takeaway menus and other letters that have been put neatly on the hall table by Josie, the only person who has keys. It feels safe, and quiet, and not that dark at all. Maybe a housecanbe a home without a cat, Auntie Viv.
Thanks to Zoe, tea has become my go-to drink in times of crisis, instead of wine. There’s a fresh pint of milk in the fridge, which Josie must have put there, just in case. She’s so bloody thoughtful. The fridge looks clean too, which it certainly wasn’t when I left – I’m pretty sure there was some Gruyèreof questionable age in the salad drawer. I spot she’s also put the fridge magnet Héloïse got me on the door. It says,Time changes everything except something within us which is always surprised by change.I stare at it, trying to work out what it means. I think I get it now.
The rain has stopped now so, opening the French doors, I move a kitchen chair into the sunny spot, sipping my tea and trying to calm down. But I can’t stop thinking about Mother Pells pushing me away. About us not being there for her. About how hard I’ve been on her over the years. And how I only now realise, late in the day as usual, that we all love, and grieve, in different ways. I can’t bear it. As soon as the tears stop, they come again, and again, and I have to abandon my tea. My chest keeps rising and falling in panting noises, like a dog when it’s dreaming. It’s funny, isn’t it – I used to worry about becoming someone Father Pells wouldn’t recognise. Maybe I should have focused on the person that’s still here.
