by Aimee Said
Siouxsie’s face brightens for an instant before fading again. “What about your mum? Is she well enough to have people to stay?”
“Mum would love to see you,” I assure her. “And Dad’ll appreciate having someone else there to dilute Gran. If he wasn’t so worried about Mum, I reckon he would try to move in here with Mike till she goes back to Queensland.”
“Okay, I definitely have to see this gran of yours for myself! I’ll get Mike to drive me over when he gets back from work.”
Gran’s sitting in what’s become her usual armchair when I get home, but something feels out of place. It takes me a moment to realise she’s not knitting. Her tote bag is at her feet and she’s staring into a mug of tea.
“Hi, Gran.”
“There you are, Bloss. Be a good girl and call us a cab. Tell them it’s urgent.” Her voice is even, but she doesn’t sound her usual bossy self.
“What’s happened? Where are we going?”
“I’m afraid Gene’s taken a turn for the worse – some kind of infection, they think. Your dad’s already at the hospital, but I said I’d wait and come with you.”
“What about Ziggy?”
“He’s at that boy’s house. Terence called there, but Ziggy didn’t want to go to the hospital. I don’t think he’s handling this very well.”
None of us are, I think as I dial the number on the Silver Cabs card Mum keeps by the phone. But we’re still doing our bit, aren’t we? After ten minutes of listening to an instrumental version of that song from Titanic and being told intermittently how important my call is, I hang up and dial another number.
Jay honks his horn less than five minutes later. Either he didn’t lock up when he left Switch or he’s ignored the speed limit. Right now I don’t care which it is.
“Come on, Gran. Our lift’s here.”
Jay gives a little wave when he sees us coming down the driveway. “You must be Thelma,” he says, opening the front passenger door of his enormous old car for her. “Freia’s told me all about you.”
“Really,” says Gran, turning to shoot me a raised eyebrow over the back of her seat. “She’s told me nothing about you.”
“I’m Jay. Nicky’s boyfriend.”
“Nicky’s my English tutor, Gran. You met her when you visited last year.”
“Was she the pretty girl with overdyed hair and too much red lipstick?”
“Gran!”
Jay laughs. “That sounds about right. Luckily, I find overdyed hair and red lipstick irresistible.”
Finding herself with a new male to flirt with lifts Gran’s mood. While I stare at the traffic, willing it to part so that we can escape the peak-hour crush, the two of them chat like old friends. Gran tells Jay about Rocky’s nervous twitch and moans about Archie coming on too strong, and Jay tells her how much he misses Nicky and that he can empathise with Archie, which makes Gran giggle and check her lippie in the side mirror.
When Jay pulls up outside the hospital he hops out to open Gran’s door. “I hope your mum’s okay,” he says to me. “You know where I am if you need me.”
I nod without making eye contact and step towards the sliding glass doors, pulling Gran with me.
The woman on the front desk tells us that Mum’s been taken to the Intensive Care Unit. “You can go to ICU and find out how she’s doing,” she says, “but they might not let you see her.”
Gran mutters under her breath all the way, something about a mother’s right to be with her child and jumped-up nurses with superiority complexes. I cross fingers that we get to see Mum before Gran does something to get us kicked out of the building altogether. She marches through the swinging doors marked Intensive Care – Visitors Restricted and is marched straight back out.
“It’s strictly one visitor at a time in the ICU,” says the nurse, directing Gran to a row of plastic seats. “I’ll let your son-in-law know you’re here.”
Gran scowls but sits down. She resumes her muttering. I take the seat next to her even though I’d rather pretend I wasn’t with the crazy old lady who’s talking to herself. A couple of minutes later Dad comes through the swinging doors. He looks exhausted. Exhausted and terrified. He gives me a sad smile.
“What’s happening? How’s Gene?” demands Gran.
“She’s stable but she still has a very high temperature. They think it’s some kind of bacterial infection but they have to wait for the pathology results to know how to treat it.”
“Is she in pain?” I ask, imagining Mum’s face twisted in agony.
“She’s agitated, but they’ve given her a sedative, so she’s barely awake. To be honest, I’m not sure she knows what’s going on.” As Dad speaks, his face crumples and his shoulders hunch.
I stand and hug him as tightly as I can. “She’ll be okay,” I say, trying to sound as if I believe it.
The Rocky theme song makes us both jump.
“Bloody Archie,” says Gran, pulling her phone from her handbag. “I said I’d call you later,” she barks without saying hello. Then, “Oh. Sorry, Mrs Biggie, I mean, Mrs Biggins. I thought you were someone else … Yes, he’s here.”
She holds the phone out to Dad who puts it cautiously to his ear, as if he’s scared it might bite him. He gets as far in the conversation as “Hello?” before the nurse returns, points to the Switch Off Your Phone sign and nods to the door that leads back to the main foyer. As the door swings behind him, Dad says, “He’s done what?”
Dad returns a few minutes later. “That was Paul’s mum,” he says, as if we didn’t already know. “Ziggy’s at the police station.”
“What for?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Mrs Biggins is in a panic; she wasn’t making much sense – something about vandalism and a park ranger. I have to go to the station so they can interview him.”
“But what about Mum? What if something happens to her while you’re gone?”
“Freia’s right,” says Gran. “You should stay here and I’ll look after Ziggy. I’ve seen enough of those LA cop shows to know when they’re intimidating the suspect.”
“Thanks, Thelma, but I really think I should go. If anything happens to Ziggy, Gene will be furious with me.”
Gran makes Dad take her phone with him so we can call if there’s any news about Mum. “And if Archie calls, tell him I’m on a hot date,” she says with an evil cackle.
After Dad leaves, the nurse says one of us can go in and see Mum.
“You go,” I tell Gran. “I should let Siouxsie know what’s going on.” Besides, I’m scared of seeing Mum by myself.
25
You’d think a building that bans the use of mobiles would be brimming with payphones, but I have to go all the way to obstetrics on the other side of the hospital before I find one. After the clinical whiteness of the ICU, the blue and pink flowers that cover the walls of the waiting room feel far too bright and cheerful.
Facing the wall, I dial the number on autopilot.
“This is Daniel. I’m either busy or screening my calls. Leave a message.”
What can I say? I miss you. I need you. I hang up and dig the crumpled scrap of paper from my pocket.
“Do you want me to come to the hospital?” Siouxsie asks when I explain what’s happened.
“Thanks, but I’ll be okay.” I promise to call her if there’s any news and put the receiver down. Then I pick it up again.
“This is Daniel. I’m either busy or screening my calls …”
Gran’s back on the plastic seat when I return to ICU. If she hadn’t got her knitting out while I was gone, I’d swear she hadn’t moved.
“I thought you were going in to see Mum.”
“I did – she looks terrible. They’ve got her hooked up to a million monitors and all of them are beeping like crazy. It’s lucky they’ve knocked her out or she’d have a splitting headache, I know I did after five minutes. If you’re going in, I suggest you stick some tissue in your ears.”
I glance towards the ward. Perhaps I
won’t go in. From what Dad said, Mum’s so out of it she won’t even know I’ve been. It’s enough that I’m here, isn’t it? After whatever Ziggy’s got himself into, I’m already coming out of tonight looking like the golden child.
“Do you want me to ask the nurse if I can go in with you?” asks Gran. “I’m sure if I explain–”
“No, it’s okay. I’ll go by myself.”
I turn and push through the doors to the Intensive Care Unit before I can change my mind. And promptly want to walk straight back out again. I’d figured it’d be depressing to see Mum in there, hooked up to machines and possibly in pain from whatever’s attacking her body from the inside, but I hadn’t reckoned on having to see other patients in the same – or worse – state. The beds are partitioned only by thin fabric screens, most of which are open at the front. Beneath the regular beating of heart monitors and something that sounds like an air compressor and the occasional beep-beep-beep of a monitor that needs attention is a chorus of rasping breaths, low groans and the occasional gasp of pain.
“Are you Gene’s daughter?” asks the nurse. I nod. “My name’s Tim. Follow me.”
On the way to Mum’s bed, Tim tells me that she looks worse than she is and the doctors are confident that as soon as they have the pathology results back they’ll be able to start treating the infection aggressively. As we walk I keep my eyes glued to his back so that I can’t accidentally see into one of the other cubicles.
“Here she is,” says Tim, stopping at the second-last bed on the left. “She’s not really conscious of what’s happening around her at the moment, so she might not realise it’s you, but don’t let that put you off. You can hold her hand – the one without the drip – and even if it seems like she doesn’t understand what you’re saying, studies have shown that hearing familiar voices helps with patient recovery.” He pulls the curtain on his way out, leaving me standing at the foot of the bed.
Mum seems smaller than ever. It’s partly because they seem to have given her an XXL size hospital gown, but also because everything around her is so big. To her right, a drip with multiple bags on it trickles down the tube to the cannula in the top of her hand. On the left is a monitor that’s connected to one of her fingers by a thin wire and a clip. I wonder if the beeps and digital display of squiggly lines and numbers actually mean anything or if hospitals just use these things because people expect to see them after watching so many hospital dramas.
I walk to the left side of the bed and brush Mum’s hand with my three middle fingers, being careful not to put any pressure on her skin. Her face is a greyish green, but she doesn’t appear to be in pain.
“Hi, Mum,” I whisper. “It’s me, Freia.” Her face shows no response. “The nurse said I should talk to you, but I don’t know what to say. It sucks that you’re sick again just when you’d got home … and this infection they’re talking about sounds pretty nasty … I hope it’s not because we didn’t keep things clean enough at home … Please don’t die.”
As the final words leave my mouth, two things happen: Mum’s eyelids start twitching like mad and the monitor starts beeping and won’t stop. As Tim pulls back the curtain, I snatch my fingers back from Mum’s hand.
“I didn’t touch anything,” I tell him.
Tim stares at me as if I’m Crazy McCracked and points to the IV stand. “Don’t get your tights in a twist, the monitor’s just letting me know it’s time to change the IV bag.”
“You look like you need a cuppa,” says Gran when I take the plastic seat beside her. “I’ll be back in a tick.”
She returns a few minutes later with two plastic cups and hands one to me. “Are you okay?”
“She looks so small compared to all those machines. And her eyelids …”
Gran pats my arm. “I know, Bloss. Drink your tea, you’ll feel better.”
The tea is hot and syrupy with sugar. It doesn’t make me feel better but drinking it does give me something to do for five minutes. When I finish it I walk to the bin and throw my cup in. That takes up another thirty seconds. It’s ten past eight.
Gran has resumed her knitting, apparently unalarmed by the prospect of spending the night in this small sterile space. The click-clack of her needles becomes the beat of the room. I walk the eleven steps from the seats to the doors of the ICU, turn and walk another eleven to the lift, turn again.
“This room is a perfect square,” I announce after completing a couple more laps.
Gran raises her eyes slightly, her hands paused mid-stitch. “Sit down, you’re making me dizzy.”
“I can’t just sit there. I have to do something.”
Gran pulls another set of needles from her bag. It has what looks like the beginnings of a scarf on it, knitted in bright blue.
“I always keep a spare,” she says, offering it to me. “You never know when someone will need a little distraction, especially once you get to my age. I never go to a doctor’s appointment without it, that’s for sure.”
“I don’t know how,” I say, attempting to hand the bundle back to her.
She ignores me. “Knitting’s like riding a bike: once you learn, you never forget. Remember the rhyme I taught you when you were little?” When I shake my head she pulls me down onto the seat next to hers. “In through the bunny hole, around the big tree, out through the bunny hole and off goes she.” As Gran says the rhyme, she guides my hands, pushing the needle in behind the first stitch, drawing the yarn around where the needles meet and then pulling the needle at the back down through the loop that’s formed before slipping it off the front needle. The movement takes about ten times longer than when she does it herself, but after she’s repeated it a few times she lets go of my hands and I begin to do it on my own.
“There you are, I told you you’d remember. Do a few rows like that and then I’ll show you how to purl and you’ll be cooking with gas.”
Much as I doubt it, as long as I’m repeating that stupid rhyme there isn’t room in my head to think about whether Mum’s going to be okay, and if Ziggy’s going to get a criminal record and what Dan’s doing tonight. Soon, I’m saying the rhyme to the click-clack of Gran’s own needles, only it takes five of her stitches for me to make one.
By the time Dad gets back I’ve made seven rows of tightly knitted stitches. He has his hand on Ziggy’s shoulder and I can’t tell whether it’s to steer him through the hospital’s labyrinthine corridors or if he’s making sure Zig doesn’t make a run for it. Even though Ziggy’s eyes are focused firmly on the floor, I can see the glistening streaks of tears on his pink-tinged cheeks.
Gran peers at the two of them over her specs. “All sorted out?”
Dad nods. “For now. We have to go back during office hours to work out a community service arrangement, but the park isn’t pressing charges.”
“What’d he–” I cut myself off when I see Dad’s eyes narrow.
“Thelma, could you take Freia and Ziggy home, please? I’m going to stay here with Gene.”
“I’ll stay with you,” I offer.
“No,” says Dad. Conversation over. It’s the sort of thing Mum does all the time, but I don’t expect it from him.
“Come on, kids,” says Gran, gathering up her bags. “Let’s go downstairs and get some dinner. It’s too late to start cooking and I could murder some fries.”
“Great idea, thanks, Thelma,” says Dad, pushing through the swinging doors before I can protest.
When we get home after our lard-laden meal, Gran says she needs a long, hot bath and heads upstairs, taking Rocky with her. Ziggy flops down on the sofa and reaches for the TV remote. I grab it first.
“What have you done now, you little turd?”
Ziggy crosses his arms and stares at the wall. “Get stuffed, Fraymond. I’ve had enough lectures for one day.”
“You’re getting lectured because you’re behaving like a criminal. How could you go and … do whatever you did when you knew Mum was back in hospital? Are you jealous because she’s ge
tting all the attention now and poor little Siegfried’s being ignored?”
Ziggy says nothing, keeps staring at the wall.
“You’re pathetic,” I say, turning and walking quickly to the hall to ensure I have the last word.
The message light on the answering machine is flashing. I hit play and the little tinny voice inside the machine tells me there are three new messages. The first is from Steph, asking if I know what’s up with Siouxsie. The second is from Siouxsie, asking if there’s any news about Mum. The third is from Dan, saying he’s going camping with “Kristy and the gang” for a couple of days and that he’ll call me when he gets back.
I’m trying to decide whether to slump on the seat by the phone and have a good cry or call Siouxsie and have a good rant when Ziggy comes out of the living room.
“You want to know what me and Biggie did?” he asks, puffing out his chest and standing so close to me that I can feel his breath on my cheek. “We made our mark on your precious tree. All the way around it. I’m afraid we may have cut off the bit where Danielle carved your names. Whoops.”
“You ringbarked the tree?”
Ziggy considers the idea for a moment. “I didn’t know it had a name, but that sounds about right.”
“But that’ll kill it.”
Ziggy shrugs and smirks. An imaginary scoreboard over his head flashes up the score, Freia: 1, Ziggy: 1 million. My heartbeat pounds in my ears as the adrenaline hits my bloodstream.
“You little bastard,” I shout as I launch myself at him.
It’s been about five years since I last crash-tackled my little brother, and he’s not expecting it. He falls to the floor under my weight. Once I’ve got him there, though, I don’t know what to do. Our old game of dangling long gobs of spit over the weaker opponent doesn’t seem appropriate at this moment, and the idea of me actually hitting him is laughable. The decision is taken away from me when Ziggy bucks his hips, sending me flying towards the study door. I land with a thud and a groan.
