Apple and Rain

by Sarah Crossan

  I push my shoulders back and swallow. I feel brave and scared all at once. ‘I don’t want to live here any more,’ I tell her.

  ‘What did you say?’ Nana glares at me. I might as well have slapped her.

  I turn and head up to my bedroom.

  ‘Apple, get back down here,’ Nana calls after me.

  ‘I’m going to live with Mum,’ I say, and shut my bedroom door.

  16

  Dad is in Nana’s kitchen the next morning. ‘I’m missing work to be here,’ he says.

  I make myself a bowl of cornflakes while Dad tries to convince me to stay with Nana. He says things like, ‘Your mother isn’t what she seems,’ and, ‘I don’t want you to look back and regret that you did this.’ And when I tell him that Mum’s really trying, Dad goes quiet and says, ‘Well, it’s about bloody well time.’

  Even though Dad doesn’t want me to live with Mum, he never says I should live with him. Trish wouldn’t allow it. Anyway, I’d rather live under a bridge with diseased rats than in a house with Trish – but he could at least offer.

  Then Nana and Derry are back from their walk, and Mum is at the front door, and I am dragging my suitcase down the path. It is all happening so quickly. Quicker than I imagined.

  Derry sits on the front step. He is confused. I kneel in front of him and put my face into his neck. ‘Take care of Nana,’ I tell him. ‘Don’t forget to bark at strangers, OK?’

  Derry looks at Nana. She is standing with her hands in the pocket of her apron. She is watching Mum pack up the car. She is not looking at me.

  I know she’s sad. So am I. But Nana’s solution for everything is either to feed me or to get angry.

  ‘Do you have everything you need?’ she asks in a croaky whisper. Her eyes are hard.

  ‘I think so. But I can come back and get anything I forgot, can’t I?’ I ask. My room is still packed with all my stuff because Mum doesn’t have a lot of space in her new flat. I’ve left my posters on the walls and my drawers full of summer clothes.

  Nana nods. ‘You know you can come back any time, Apple.’

  Mum taps the face of her watch and waves for me to get into the car.

  I want to tell Nana how grateful I am that she let me live with her all my life. I want to tell her that, even though I’ve never said it out loud before, I really do love her. But when I try to speak, I end up coughing. Nana pats me on the back.

  ‘Go on now, if that’s what you’re doing,’ she says.

  Derry rests his head between Nana’s feet. His big brown eyes are watery.

  ‘See you soon, Derry,’ I say.

  I quickly turn around and rush towards Mum. If I linger, I might change my mind. And Nana doesn’t wait at the door. She doesn’t wave me off like she usually does when visitors leave.

  She shuts the door gently and is gone.

  17

  Mum pushes open the front entrance and kicks junk mail off the mat. Two doors separate the house into flats. Mum opens a red one with scuff marks along the bottom and drags my suitcase up a flight of narrow stairs.

  ‘Here we are. Come on,’ she says. She huffs as she plonks the case by the stairwell. She sweeps her arms wide. ‘Home sweet home,’ she says. We are in a large sitting room with a small kitchen tucked into one corner. Piles of boxes, like giant building blocks, are scattered around the room and the couch, the only piece of furniture in the room apart from a tiny dining table, is covered in clothes.

  Dust dances by the open windows. The room smells of burnt toast.

  ‘What do you think?’ Mum asks.

  ‘It’s got loads of potential,’ I say as cheerfully as I can. It doesn’t look like a home yet, but she’s just moved in.

  Mum smiles. ‘Exactly. Loads of potential. We’ll get some pictures up and maybe paint the walls. It’ll be unrecognisable. I love the open-plan living, don’t you? Makes me feel like I’m still in the States.’

  Mum goes to the kitchen. She rummages in a box and pulls out a saucepan. She fills it with water and places it on the hob.

  ‘Let’s have coffee.’

  ‘OK,’ I say.

  ‘But I want to give you the full tour first. I think you’ll be surprised,’ she says. She opens her handbag, which is slung across her body, and takes out a packet of cigarettes. She pinches one between her lips and lights the end, drawing in deeply and exhaling the smoke through her nose.

  ‘You smoke,’ I say.

  Mum pulls the cigarette out of her mouth and looks at it. ‘I know. Disgusting. I meant to give up in the New Year but it never happened.’ She laughs and inhales again. She goes to the open window and blows the smoke outside. She swats the air with her free hand. When she’s finished her cigarette, I follow her to the hallway.

  She pushes open the first door, revealing a pink bathroom. The side of the bath and sink are crowded with bottles of shampoo, soaps and make-up. ‘Little girls’ room,’ Mum says. ‘And this is my room.’ She opens the door opposite. ‘Thinking of painting it a duck-egg blue. And I like butterflies, so maybe one side of wallpaper. What do you think?’

  ‘That would be nice,’ I say.

  Mum pulls her bedroom door behind her. ‘A bit of a mess, but I’ll get there.’

  At the end of the hallway is one more door. Mum is beaming. ‘And this is your room.’ She turns the handle.

  I step inside and almost screech with excitement. Instead of a single bed in the corner and a large sensible desk, like at Nana’s, Mum’s bought a yellow bunk bed and two green beanbags. ‘It’s so fun!’ I say.

  ‘Phew! I was worried you’d think it looked childish. But I thought better a bunk bed than two separate beds squished in.’

  ‘Huh?’

  I feel something coming. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to know. I put my hands in my pockets and make fists.

  ‘Rain? Rain, are you awake, my darling?’ Mum says.

  The covers on the top bunk shift, and from beneath them a head appears. A red head with frayed plaits, curly at the ends.

  The tired eyes of a kid.

  A girl.

  She rubs her eyes with her fists.

  ‘This is Apple. I was telling you all about her, remember? You’re going to be best friends, I know it,’ Mum says.

  The girl sits up and blinks. She finds a pair of large round glasses under her pillow and slips them over her nose. ‘Hi,’ Rain says.

  I don’t reply. I’m just about managing to stay on my feet.

  ‘Apple?’ Mum says. Her voice sounds like it’s coming from another room. From behind a wall. ‘Apple?’

  ‘Yes?’ I look at her, fixing my mouth into a jagged smile.

  ‘This is Rain. She’s your sister. Aren’t you going to say hello?’

  18

  ‘I wish it would snow,’ I said one winter, when there was nothing but hailstones and drizzle. Nana looked up from the scones she was baking. Her forehead was powdered with flour. She said, ‘Snow? No thank you. Be careful what you wish for, Apple!’ As though anything bad could come from snowmen and a bit of sledging down Cliff Gardens.

  And another time I was brushing my hair, dragging out the knots and complaining. ‘I wish I had straight hair,’ I said. Nana looked up from her sewing and said, ‘Goodness me, what for? Be careful what you wish for, Apple!’ As though anything bad could come from sleek locks.

  And last spring, when it was raining outside and I was playing myself at Monopoly, I said, ‘I wish I had a sister.’ Nana held her biscuit, undunked, over a teacup. She said, ‘Oh, Apple, please, please be careful what you wish for.’ As though anything bad could come from a ready-made friend.

  All those times I was thinking that Nana was wrong, wrong, wrong.

  But she was right.

  I was the wrong, wrong, wrong one to wish for things I didn’t have.

  I should have been careful about my wishes.

  And I should never have wished for a sister.

  19

  Rain is sitting on the couch, cra
dling a doll and shushing it. Mum is making coffee.

  ‘So how old are you?’ I ask Rain.

  ‘Ten,’ Rain says. She kisses the doll’s forehead. ‘And Jenny’s six months.’ Rain holds the doll close. ‘I know you’re hungry, sweetie-pie. I’ll get you milk in a minute.’

  I can’t help staring. Rain isn’t behaving like she’s playing; she’s acting like the doll is real.

  Mum hands me a mug. ‘I don’t know how you take it, so I gave you one sugar.’ She sounds anxious, as though not knowing how I take my coffee is her biggest concern. As though she hasn’t got other things to explain.

  ‘I’ve never had coffee before,’ I admit. It’s the colour of strong tea. I take a sip. It’s bitter and thick – like clay. Mum sits on the floor under the window, blowing into her own coffee mug.

  ‘Oh my goodness, is that smell what I think it is? Have you done a poop?’ Rain laughs. ‘Come on, honey, let’s change you.’ She leaves the room and shouts from the hallway in her nasal, American accent. ‘We gotta buy more diapers, Mom!’

  Mum unbuttons her shirt at the wrists and rolls up her sleeves. ‘The doll is a phase. The doctor told me that she’s completely normal,’ Mum says.

  ‘Oh. OK.’

  Mum lights a fresh cigarette. ‘It’s best if you play along. No good upsetting her by telling her Jenny isn’t real.’

  ‘OK,’ I say again. But Rain’s doll isn’t the thing that’s knocked me sideways. ‘When you said you had a big surprise for me, I thought maybe you had a boyfriend or something,’ I tell Mum.

  ‘Boyfriend? No, I prefer to keep the men moving through.’ She laughs, alternating between the coffee and the cigarette.

  ‘It’s just that once Dad got Trish . . .’

  But I don’t have to finish the sentence. I see in Mum’s eyes that she understands. ‘He changed,’ she says. ‘I could see it when I met him. So full of his own importance. And uptight. Very uptight.’

  Rain returns, patting her doll. ‘She’s so tearful all the time. She can tell she’s not at home,’ she says.

  ‘I’m sure she’ll feel better soon,’ Mum says.

  ‘She needs a crib, Mom. She’s getting too big to sleep in with me.’

  Mum closes her eyes. ‘Let’s look in Mothercare next week,’ she says, as though what Rain’s asking for isn’t beyond weird. As though there’s space in our tiny bedroom for a cot. ‘We have to go shopping for your new school uniform anyway.’ Mum leans her head against the rusting radiator. ‘I’m so fricking tired,’ she says.

  ‘What school are you going to?’ I ask Rain.

  Mum opens her eyes and grins. ‘She’s going to Littleton Park Primary. And as it’s right around the corner from your school, I thought you could walk together sometimes.’

  ‘I’m bringing Jenny to school with me,’ Rain says.

  I don’t want to walk with Rain, but Mum looks so happy about the idea, I can’t say no.

  ‘Sounds fun,’ I say and put my mug to my mouth so I can bite on the rim.

  We order pizza for dinner. With cans of lemonade and garlic bread on the side. Afterwards, Mum takes me into my bedroom and tells me to put my things in the plastic boxes she’s hidden beneath the bunk beds. She hasn’t had a chance to buy any wardrobes yet. ‘We’ll get some soon,’ she says.

  Rain is standing in the door frame. She kisses the doll’s nose.

  ‘Tomorrow evening I’ve arranged for some old friends of mine to come over to meet you both, so try to get a good night’s sleep,’ Mum says.

  ‘A party?’ Rain whines. ‘Jenny hates them.’

  ‘It’s not a party. It’s . . .’ Mum fondles the air for the right word, ‘. . . a do.’

  ‘A do? Like a dodo? Like poop?’ Rain says.

  ‘No, honey, you were right the first time. It’ll be a small party,’ Mum says.

  Rain stamps a foot.

  ‘Let’s have an early night so we can get up fresh and plan the food,’ Mum says. She takes our hands. ‘Both my babies with me again. What a day. Oh, what a day!’ Her eyes water at the corners. ‘Goodnight then.’

  ‘Goodnight,’ I say. I watch her leave the room.

  ‘I sleep up here with Jenny,’ Rain says. She climbs the ladder to the top bunk. I ignore her and unzip my suitcase. ‘Don’t use any of my boxes!’ she shouts.

  At three o’clock in the morning I give up trying to sleep. It’s useless with Rain climbing in and out of her bunk – going back and forth to the kitchen every hour. I throw my legs over the side of the bed. ‘What are you doing?’ I ask.

  ‘Jenny’s hungry at night.’ She waves a baby bottle of milk in my face.

  Rain kneels on the floor with the doll lying in front of her and changes her nappy. Then she paces the room for ages humming Twinkle Twinkle Little Star into Jenny’s plastic ear. The doll’s eyes are fixed open.

  ‘Can’t you bring the baby to bed now?’ I ask as kindly as possible even though I don’t want to take this ridiculous game seriously.

  Rain’s eyes are white marbles in the dark. ‘Go home if you don’t like it. This was our room before you came along.’

  Even in my half-asleep haze I feel hurt. Not because Rain doesn’t want me around – that I get – but because it dawns on me that even though I see Rain as someone who’s come along and spoiled things between me and Mum, really it’s me who’s new and out of place.

  I burrow back beneath the covers and pull them up to my chin thinking about my bed at Nana’s house, and how it was mine alone and no one else’s. It would be nice to crawl into it. Just for a couple of hours.

  20

  Mum leaves me at home with Rain and goes to the supermarket where she buys baguettes, crackers, cheese, grapes, sweets, biscuits, and bottles of wine and beer and Coke for the party, plus other groceries for the week. As I’m unpacking, I open a box of Jaffa Cakes for breakfast.

  Rain rifles through the shopping I’ve piled along the counter. ‘You forgot Jenny’s milk,’ she complains.

  Mum pats Rain gently. ‘Look, here’s the milk, honey.’

  ‘Two litres? That won’t be enough for everyone,’ she says.

  Mum sighs and Rain goes storming off to the bedroom. She slams the door behind her so hard the walls judder.

  Mum shakes her head. ‘She throws away the old diapers and gets me to buy fresh ones. Now she’s insisting on more and more milk. What next, a changing table?’

  ‘I’ll tell her the doll’s not alive, if you like. I mean, I don’t care if she gets mad at me,’ I say.

  ‘I tried that six months ago when it all started. Don’t think I didn’t try. She pretends she can’t hear you, or she’ll act like you’re making a joke. It hurts her to know the truth, and the doctor . . .’ She trails off because she’s already told me what the doctor said – it’s a normal phase – but when will it end? Will she still be carrying it around when she begins secondary school – my secondary school? How long is everyone meant to wait for her to figure it out? How long are we all meant to pretend?

  ‘Maybe you need a second opinion,’ I say quietly because all of a sudden Mum is rubbing her temples and breathing fast.

  ‘I need to get her a therapist. She had a good one in Brooklyn but . . .’ She looks at the shopping. ‘Maybe we should have stayed in America,’ Mum whispers.

  ‘What?’ If she’d stayed in America then where would that have left me?

  ‘Oh, I don’t mean it,’ she says. She blows me a kiss.

  ‘I’ll put away the food,’ I say.

  ‘I’m not sure about the party any more. Don’t think I’m in the mood,’ Mum says. Her forehead is furrowed with lines.

  ‘But you bought all the stuff.’ I hold up a bunch of bananas, which makes her smile.

  ‘Banana cocktails?’ she asks.

  ‘Sure! We’ll mash them and mix them with this.’ I hold up what looks like a bottle of champagne.

  ‘If people don’t like the taste, we’ll force-feed it to Jenny,’ Mum says. She laughs finally, b
ut not before she sees Rain in the hallway, watching and clutching Jenny to her chest.

  When I show Mum my neon green T-shirt, she sucks in her cheeks. ‘For a party? Really?’

  ‘I wore it to the school disco last term,’ I say. I feel my face flush because it’s so obvious that Mum doesn’t approve.

  ‘How about something a little more . . . feminine,’ she says.

  I’m not sure what she means. I don’t wear skirts, except to school. I don’t like showing off my legs.

  ‘I’ve something that might fit you,’ she says, and dashes into her bedroom and out again, carrying a yellow dress. She holds it up to the window, so I can see it in the light. It’s the same colour as the one I wore when I was Trish’s bridesmaid, but this dress has silver sequins along the neckline. ‘It’ll look amazing.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  Mum presses the dress against me. ‘You can’t go around in boys’clothes for ever, you know, sweets.’ She winks, and I want to feel part of some lovely conspiracy, but I don’t; I just feel really embarrassed.

  So I go to the bathroom, put on the dress, and study my figure in the mirror. I don’t feel like myself. I step into the hall.

  ‘Wow!’ Mum says.

  ‘I look like I’ve been pumped full of custard,’ I say. I’m fatter than Mum, so the dress is tight across the tummy, but I have no breasts, so it sags at the chest.

  Mum laughs loudly, throwing her head back and showing off her back teeth. ‘You look like a girl,’ she says. ‘Remind me what size shoe you take.’

  ‘Four,’ I mutter.

  ‘I’m a five! And I’ve a lovely pair of sandals to go with that dress.’

  ‘Not high ones,’ I croak, but it’s too late. She’s in and out of her bedroom again and holding a pair of strappy high heels.

  ‘I won’t be able to walk in them,’ I say.

  Mum kneels in front of me and slips the shoes on to my feet.

  ‘Aren’t sandals for the summer?’ I say.