I feel bad, and Mum must see it, because she shakes her head.
‘It was the right thing at the time, Neena. You mustn’t feel sorry. But now – now we celebrate him. And I was thinking we could scatter his ashes somewhere, once everything’s a bit calmer. They’ve been in our bedroom for so long, hidden away …’
I’d been ignoring the urn, had almost forgotten they had it. But now it seems only right to set Akash free. ‘Yes,’ I say, nodding. ‘That would be good.’
Mum cuts us slabs of cake and pushes plates towards us. The sponge is buttery and light and the icing is sweet and tangy. She pours us mugs of tea.
‘I was bursting with pride the day he was born,’ Dad says. ‘I wanted to be a better person, to show him what a good man could be.’
I look at Dad. It’s the first time he’s talked about Akash like this. He’s wearing black jogging bottoms and a black T-shirt and, although he’s wearing those clothes because they’re black, because of what today is, I remember Dad used to love running and playing football with his friends. He used to do a lot of that, before everything happened. I’d forgotten.
He shakes his head. ‘But he was always teaching me. He had such an appetite for life, such gusto. He taught me to see what’s around me.’
Mum rubs Dad’s arm. ‘He was always telling me he wanted to see the world,’ she says. ‘But he’d always say, “I’ll come back to you, Ummi, don’t you worry. I’ll look after you when you’re old.”’ She presses her hand against her heart. ‘He was always trying to explain new things to me.’
Mum and Dad look at me. I realize they’re waiting for me to say something too, but I don’t know what to say. Always trying to explain things? Teaching them? Really? All they did for years was fight. With them, I realize, Akash was harsh and erratic and uncompromising. I feel a surge of anger towards him as I remember the pressure I felt to go to parties with him.
Then, and I don’t know where it comes from, I laugh. ‘I loved him,’ I say, ‘but didn’t he give us all hell sometimes?’
Mum and Dad look shocked. Then Dad laughs too, and Mum joins in.
‘Oh yes,’ Dad says. ‘Impossible, when he felt like it.’
‘Couldn’t get any sense out of him about his future,’ Mum adds.
We all laugh and, when we stop, we’re all crying. It’s like now we’ve finally acknowledged his death it makes it so much easier to talk about him – flaws and all. It’s easier to remember Akash, rather than the memory of Akash.
‘He was loud and annoying and stubborn, but he could definitely make us laugh,’ I say, sniffling. ‘He’d do something to cheer us up if he was here.’
Dad nods.
‘He’d make some comment about this cake for a start,’ I say. ‘What were you thinking, Mum? You could serve that at a wedding!’
‘Don’t you worry, your wedding cake will be three times this size,’ Mum says, her face brightening a bit. ‘Vanilla sponge, cream icing, strawberry jam. Classic. It will melt in people’s mouth like butter.’
‘Not my wedding,’ I say, rolling my eyes. I can’t help briefly thinking about Josh though. ‘A wedding, Mum.’
‘Come on, stop all this talk of weddings and let’s eat more of this cake,’ Dad says, chuckling.
Mum cuts more slices. ‘We’re going to the hospital in a while. There’s food in the fridge for lunch,’ she says. ‘I made chicken with aubergine. And there’s naan bread. I didn’t have time to make roti – you just need to heat it all in the microwave.’
She looks nervous suddenly, fingering her dupatta. ‘Or maybe Dad should stay with you today.’
‘It’s OK,’ I say. Tomorrow is Monday and then … ‘The exams start on Thursday – I’ve got plenty to do.’
‘Art first?’ Dad says.
‘Yeah. I could do with some practice – I haven’t painted for ages.’
Dad nods. ‘But I want you to know that there’s no pressure, OK? You don’t have to sit your exams if you don’t want to. Only do them if you’re ready. I’ve been acting like … like the whole of our future depends on it.’ He shakes his head. ‘I shouldn’t have put you under so much pressure. I just didn’t want you to miss out on anything; I thought I was helping you focus, but I realize now that … I’m sorry, Neena.’ He leans across and kisses me on the forehead.
I stare at Dad, and then at Mum, and take in a long, deep breath. Their eyes are swollen and red. They’re worn out. My throat hurts as I realize – really realize – how much I’ve put them through. How much we’ve all been through. And, although I haven’t had this conversation with them before, something about it is familiar. The way they’re looking at me. Their gentle voices.
It’s how it always was when I was a kid. Before Akash was a teenager and started drinking, and before they started fighting. Before he encouraged me to do the same and I began to hide things from them, stopped talking to anyone.
‘Thanks, Dad,’ I say, remembering that this – actually talking about things – is a better way. ‘But I think I’m ready.’ And, as annoying as Dad’s been at times, I now wonder if I’d still be ready if he hadn’t obsessed about my schoolwork. Even if it was another pressure, another possible trigger, to making me ill.
Mum looks suddenly uncomfortable. She wraps the corner of her dupatta round her little finger. ‘I don’t know – maybe I should stay with you today?’
I roll my eyes. ‘Really, I’ll be OK!’
Dad pushes a spoonful of cake into his mouth and leans over to pat Mum’s arm. ‘Listen to your daughter. She’ll be OK,’ he says. ‘Give her some space.’
It’s such an unexpected thing for Dad to say that we all laugh.
‘Actually,’ Mum says when we stop, ‘we … we’ve also been talking, Neena. About counselling …’
‘Yes, Mum,’ I say. ‘I know I need it. I’m doing well.’
She nods. ‘Yes, but there’s something else … We were wondering … If … if it’s OK with you, we’d like to get some as a family.’
‘Counselling?’ I ask, shocked.
Mum nods. ‘We’ve all been struggling. And I still am – it’s difficult every time I leave the house …’
I look at Dad. ‘You too?’ I ask. Somehow I can’t imagine him sitting in a room and talking openly about his feelings.
But Dad nods. ‘I think it would be a very good idea,’ he says.
‘I thought you were both thinking we could pray this away,’ I say, only half joking.
Dad smiles. ‘We will still pray!’ he says.
‘But we’ve seen the difference that medicine and therapy has made to you already,’ Mum adds. ‘And we realize that we all need it.’ She laughs. ‘Better late than never?’
‘It’s a great idea,’ I agree, my chest filling with so much relief that they’re finally beginning to get it. And, as I look at Mum and Dad, I already feel a bit closer to them. Weird, but this will be the first time we’re doing something as a family, even if it is therapy sessions! And that makes me feel … well, a bit less alone … and a bit more together. It feels like a fresh start.
‘Right,’ Mum says, standing up and clearing the dishes. ‘I need to get some clean clothes together for Raj,’ she says to Dad. ‘I’ll pack a bag, and then we’ll go.’
Raj. Hope. I’m beginning to feel more than just a bit of it. And suddenly I realize that art preparation can wait.
‘Can I come too?’ I ask. My heart is racing. ‘I’m ready.’
The Neonatal Intensive Care Unit has white walls and grey tiled floors. It’s clinical and serious, and the blue patterned curtains do nothing to hide that. I’m not sure what I expected. Those wicker baskets you sometimes see babies in? Maybe even nursery rhymes playing in the background? Instead, in every direction I look, there are machines, tubes, leads and tiny babies. I clutch Mum’s arm.
‘Why are they in those boxes?’ I ask.
‘They’re incubators,’ she says. ‘They’re like heated cots, to help them maintain their body temperature.’
I think I knew that really, but it’s still weird seeing all the incubators lined up, with all the little babies inside. I don’t know why but it makes me nervous. I guess because they seem so fragile. I take deep breaths as I follow Mum and Dad to the far end of the room.
There, a nurse in a white uniform is cradling a baby in her arms. She peers at us through her black-rimmed glasses. She looks efficient and tough. I get a good feeling from her.
‘Morning, Mr and Mrs Gill. I’ve just changed his nappy and checked his temperature,’ she says, her voice low. ‘Good news – I think we’ll be moving him from ICU to Ward 76 very soon!’
‘Oh!’ Mum says, smiling widely, and Dad makes a little noise of delight too. ‘That’s wonderful news!’
I’m not exactly sure what this means, but it’s clearly good so I smile too.
Mum squirts some antibacterial gel on to her hands and passes me the tube. We’re all standing round the efficient-looking nurse and the baby.
I realize that this baby is THE baby. It’s Raj. Though I can’t really see much of him from here, my heart beats fast, in a good way. After all the dreading and all the waiting, I’m truly excited to see him.
Mum takes tiny Raj from the nurse, holds him close to her chest; she plants soft kisses on his forehead. ‘Look, Neena, betee,’ she says. She turns, and I get my first proper look at him.
I stare at Raj’s wrinkled skin and tiny arms. His small nose. He has a white knitted blanket round him. And long eyelashes. My breath catches in my throat.
My brother.
‘Do you want to hold him?’ Mum asks.
I nod.
The nurse indicates an armchair next to the incubator. ‘You can sit down. Make yourself comfortable.’
I sink into the chair.
‘Meet your sister, Raj,’ Mum says, very carefully placing him in my arms.
I look down at him. He’s so small. And light. So fragile. I cradle him against my chest. Everything around me fades away.
I stare at his little ears, the size of pennies, at his fingernails, not much bigger than grains of rice.
He turns his face towards me, presses it into my chest. Then he yawns, his little mouth forming a perfect ‘O’.
Mum and Dad are talking, but I don’t hear what they say.
‘Hi, Raj,’ I whisper.
He opens his eyes and they glint at me, tiny dark pools. And then close again.
Oh, Raj! He’s perfect.
There’s a painting by Gustav Klimt called The Three Ages of Woman. It has a woman with long, flowing blonde hair, with flowers in it, and she’s leaning her head on her baby, who is tucked in close to her. They’ve both got their eyes closed and they look so content in each other’s arms. They fit together, completing each other. Whenever I’ve looked at that painting, I’ve felt a warm glow inside.
But now, thinking about that picture while cradling Raj, fire burns in my stomach. Like the woman and her child, we are also our own world. He’s my brother and I’m his sister.
Just like Akash is my brother, and I am his sister.
And nothing will ever change that.
A few days later, I call Raheela and ask her if she’d like to come over. She says she’s really glad I called – study leave has started and there’s no school, so she’ll come right away. I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling while I wait for her. I think about Raj. I’ve been visiting him every day and I still can’t believe how tiny and perfect and beautiful he is. I picture his bright eyes, and I feel light and warm.
There’s a knock on the door.
‘Come in,’ I say, sitting up and swinging my legs over the side of the bed.
Raheela edges in hesitantly, clutching a huge carrier bag. ‘Your mum let me in,’ she says. ‘I hope that’s OK.’ She’s dressed all in black: skinny jeans, vest top, hijab and lots of black eyeliner. Plus tons of silver jewellery. I notice a tremor in her hands.
‘Of course! And don’t look so worried,’ I say, laughing. Now that she’s here, I can’t remember why I was so anxious about seeing her.
She smiles. ‘How are you feeling? Oh God, that’s probably a really insensitive thing to ask. Is it? Sorry …’ She puts down the bag and sits on the edge of the bed next to me.
‘No, no – I’m doing … OK. A lot better than I was.’
She plays with one of the millions of bracelets on her wrist. ‘I’m sorry I … I haven’t been there for you,’ she says. ‘I should’ve noticed something was wrong. I mean, I knew something was up, but I had no idea how bad …’ She looks down at her lap. ‘I’ve been a terrible friend.’
‘No, no one could’ve known. Don’t feel bad. And anyway I’m a lot better …’
She smiles. ‘I’ve actually got a get-well present for you.’ She picks up the carrier bag and puts it in my lap. ‘My books so you can catch up. I’m done with revision, so you can have them.’
I laugh. ‘Wow, you really know how to cheer a girl up.’
‘I know, I know. You can thank me later. Oh, and I saw Mr Butler the other day. He said he’s really pleased you’re sitting the exam. Is it tomorrow?’
I nod.
She nods too. ‘And he said to use your experience. Draw from life and inject it into your work! Or something deep like that. Oh, and that you’re a lot more talented than you let yourself know.’
I hug Raheela. ‘Thank you. I’ve missed you so much.’
‘I’ve really missed you too,’ she says, hugging me back.
After Raheela leaves, I’ve still got a couple of hours until my session with Laura. Mum and Dad have gone back to the hospital to see Raj, so I try calling Josh, but I get his voicemail. I leave him a message asking how he is, and saying it would be good to chat soon. Maybe even meet up? I’m feeling much more like my old self today, I tell him, and I can’t wait to see him.
I lie on my bed and think about what I want to discuss with Laura today. She says I’m making good progress and that I should think of anything I haven’t yet talked about to get the most out of our time together. But I’m not sure what I want to chat about today.
I’m a bit nervous about exams starting tomorrow, but I know that’s normal. And I realize the world’s not going to end if I do mess up.
I still miss Akash, but that’s normal too.
Josh and I aren’t chatting much and I don’t know what to make of it. I miss him but I’m not panicking. I’m not having any racing thoughts. I’m controlling my flutters of anxiety. And I’m learning to challenge my thoughts using CBT when something irrational or worrisome pops into my head.
I think maybe Josh and I just need a bit of space after everything that’s happened. I wanted him to fix me so much – but I now realize that you can’t rely on other people for that. It doesn’t mean we don’t care about each other. I do care. And I know he does too.
I’m feeling positive. I know I’ll be on meds for a while yet, to make sure I don’t get ill again, but that’s OK. I’m learning that mental health is always a continuing journey anyway.
Wow – I’ve learned, and am learning, a lot.
I take a deep breath and listen to the quiet. The house is silent. I wonder what it will be like when Raj is home; I try to imagine his gurgle noises filling the house. His sweet, hiccupy cry. Raj. My brother. He makes me want to be better, to look after myself so I can look after him too.
I get up and walk over to my dressing table. Looking up, I see that my sky-sea poster is missing. I frown, and look around. I check under my bed, but there’s nothing at all there – I cleared out all the empty alcohol bottles the other day. I look in my wardrobe, but it’s not there either. I find it behind my dressing table and I have a vague memory of either me or someone else putting it there, though I have no idea why. After I’ve hung it back up, I look at it for a while.
It really does capture how I feel in the world. A bit wobbly at times, but often beautiful, and that really is OK.
I walk out into the hallway and press my palm agains
t Akash’s bedroom door, but instead of going in I slide my fingers along the wall until I reach the kitchen. I look around the room. I’ve told Mum and Dad so many lies in here, just trying to be myself. But I’m going to try to be more honest with them from now on.
In my mind, I see Josh’s kind face. I taste his fierce kiss. Then I picture the dark circles under Mum and Dad’s eyes, and Mum sitting beside my bed night after night when I was ill. I think of Raj again and his smell, sweet and soft, like milk and honey.
I tie my hair up off my face and open the back door. Warm air blows into the kitchen and I breathe it in as I peer out at the grass and the trees and the blue sky. Slipping off my sandals, I step out on to the patio. The stone is warm beneath my bare feet. The air’s thick. The sun glides over my bare arms as I step on to the lawn; warm strands of grass tickle between my toes.
Sinking to the ground, I stretch my face up to the sky. I listen to the gentle breeze rustling leaves in the trees, the noise of distant traffic passing on the road. The sun warms my face.
I smile.
Josh is waiting on the Ridgeway as we’ve planned. He’s sitting on the grass, peering out at the rolling hills with his legs stretched in front of him. The sun is setting, its orange glow fierce against the lilac sky. Our eyes meet as I walk towards him. I want to run into his arms – it’s all I want – but I stop myself.
‘Neens,’ he says, standing up and pulling me in for a hug.
His soft yellow hoody smells of soap and coffee and his eyes are almost luminous green in the strange evening light. He has stubble on his cheeks – when did that happen? – and his hair is long, down to his chin. We sit on the grass and he looks at my face, waiting for me to say something.
I’ve missed you, I want to say. Can we go back to the way things were?
But the words are stuck somewhere deep inside, and really I know that there’s no going back to how everything was.
Things have changed. We’ve changed.
The Million Pieces of Neena Gill Page 23
