Apple and Rain

by Sarah Crossan

  ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

  ‘I’m not thinking anything.’ He pauses. ‘Actually, I am. I’m wondering whether a snail finds its shell heavy. I’d hate to have to carry a thing like that around.’

  ‘Stop it, Del. You think that my mum doesn’t care about us. That she only cares about herself. But she needs to act to feed us and to pay the rent and . . .’ I twist my hands together. The truth is I have no idea where Mum is right now or what she’s doing. The only acting part she def­­initely has is a small role in a play and that doesn’t start until next week. And then I realise she has no idea where we are or what we’re doing either. Would she care if she knew we’d spent the afternoon gambling on fruit machines?

  Del places a hand on my arm. ‘Are you OK?’

  I feel so tired – like I might cry. Luckily Rain distracts me from my tears by jumping and waving at us.

  ‘Hurry up!’ she shouts.

  ‘Coming!’ I call. Del and I run to her.

  ‘Right, so the price in these places is based on weight,’ Del tells her. ‘My advice is to go for the light stuff. Marshmallows, that kind of thing. Avoid Brazil nuts. Heavy as hell. Got it?’

  Rain nods. ‘How much can I buy?’

  ‘Hmm.’ Del taps his chin with his index finger. ‘About a third of a bag. That sound good?’

  Rain nods. ‘Sounds great!’ She looks at me and then quickly pushes Jenny into my arms and skips away. I stare at the doll. Maybe I should throw her into the nearest bin. I could tell Rain someone kidnapped her. Rain would be sad, devastated probably, but wouldn’t that solve the problem? Rain could be a normal girl again and maybe she’d fancy a few boys and buy make-up and feel insecure about her thighs – normal stuff like that. I suggest it to Del.

  ‘Don’t be a crazy lady. Give her here.’ He grabs Jenny from me and holds her on his hip like a real baby. An old man with a flat cap frowns at him, but Del doesn’t care. He strokes Jenny’s back. When Rain acts like Jenny’s real, it gives me this sick feeling, but Del doing it makes me smile.

  ‘What you getting?’ he asks. He points at the rainbow rows of sweets snaking around the shop.

  ‘Cola bottles,’ I say.

  ‘Ah, a bit of a sweet-and-sour fan, huh? Me, I’m into black liquorice.’

  ‘Ew. No one likes that.’

  ‘I do. And if you don’t, it’s perfect because it means you won’t steal any of mine.’

  He grabs two paper bags. One for me. One for him. I am laughing, but I don’t know why. It’s not the best day of my life or the most fun, but I feel happy for the first time in ages.

  And then I look at the flat paper bag and at Del and Rain picking their sweets. And I go from feeling happy to feeling like my heart is a stick of rock. Before now I didn’t even know I needed cheering up. I thought I was OK. I thought I was perfectly fine and that Rain was the one with the problem.

  I load up my bag with cola bottles and realise Del was right – I’m a big sweet-and-sour fan.

  34

  I eat so many sweets that by the time Rain and I get home, my teeth hurt. I brush them and make Rain brush hers. Then we climb up on to her bunk with a bottle of water, a stack of books and my laptop. I check my email and Del has already sent the poem. I read it through and even though I don’t know what all the words mean, it makes me laugh.

  ‘What’s funny?’ Rain asks. She is studying a world atlas, the page open at a map of Africa.

  ‘Just something Del sent,’ I tell her.

  ‘Show me.’ She puts down her book.

  ‘It’s a poem called “Jabberwocky”. I’ll read a bit of it,’ I say. Rain leans back into her pillow to listen.

  ‘’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

  All mimsy were the borogoves,

  And the mome raths outgrabe.’

  I wiggle my fingers and tickle her tummy.

  Rain giggles. ‘More!’

  ‘You want me to read the whole thing?’

  ‘With actions!’ she says.

  I kneel on the bed and round my back, trying to look like a monster. And I read, my voice low and growly:

  ‘“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

  The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

  Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

  The frumious Bandersnatch!”’

  When I’ve read it through to the end, Rain claps. ‘That was funny,’ she says. ‘Did Del write it?’

  ‘No, it was someone called Lewis Carroll.’

  ‘I want to write one.’

  ‘OK, let’s,’ I say. I jump down from the bunk, pull my special poetry exercise book and a mechanical pencil from my bag and climb back up next to Rain.

  She is muttering to herself. ‘I’ve got the first bit,’ she says.

  I open the book and hold the pencil ready. ‘Go on.’

  She holds a finger in the air. ‘She boobled down to the dirreny sonce,’ she says. She sounds doubtful but I write it in the book, spelling the words however they first come to me. Rain runs her finger along the line. ‘What do you think it means?’ she wonders.

  ‘Hmm. I think the person is stumbling her way to a murky river.’

  ‘Yes!’ Rain says. ‘Now your turn.’

  I think for a few seconds. ‘Alone, unarmed, her tickery jonced,’ I say.

  Rain giggles again and taps the book. ‘That rhymes! Quick, write it down before you forget!’

  And we do this for an hour, taking turns and discussing what the words might mean. At the end, when we read it through, we change a few of the parts so they sound creepier or so the beat of the poem goes more smoothly. And for the whole time I forget that I’m babysitting or that Rain is sick and just focus on writing something good.

  ‘Read it from the start,’ Rain tells me once we’ve agreed it’s as good as it can be.

  ‘Why don’t you?’ I ask.

  She twists her mouth to the side. ‘I’ll do some actions,’ she says.

  ‘OK.’ I hold the book in front of me and read.

  ‘She boobled down to the dirreny sonce

  Alone, unarmed, her tickery jonced.

  “What me? What my? What cooliers lie here?”

  She whinnied furverly in the ghoulian ear.

  And up he rose like a miney bront,

  Waving his tammons and sleery flont.

  “Don’t wake me, don’t shake me,” the ghoulian gristled,

  And piped his phantons across the spistles.

  A ploon bellowed out over the sheel

  And she ran as fast as her miggens could reel.

  “No more dirrenies,” she whispered aloud

  And slumped back down to sleep on her mound.’

  ‘Want to write another one?’ I ask.

  Rain shakes her head. ‘I’m going to pee,’ she says. She scuttles down the ladder.

  I jiggle the pencil and the spare lead quietly ticks against the plastic casing. I want to write my own poem now. Another nonsense poem, or maybe two or three of them. And so I do. I write until it’s dark outside. Until Rain has finished studying her atlas and until Mum calls from the kitchen to tell us she’s finally home.

  35

  Mum is so tired from working all week that she sleeps late on Saturday. She appears at noon and collapses on the couch. She watches TV and sips coffee, both hands hugging the mug. When Rain takes a shower, I make myself tea and sit next to her. I turn off the TV.

  Mum’s eyebrows knit together. ‘I’m so grateful for everything you’re doing, Apple. You load and unload the dishwasher, you keep on top of all the laundry and grocery shopping. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I don’t know what I ever did.’ She goes back to her coffee. ‘But I promise you I’m close to getting a babysitter. I’m so close.’

  ‘We have to talk about Rain,’ I say. I know I sound a bit serious; I need her to listen and do something.

  ‘Oh, please don’t tell me she’s too much for you. I couldn’t take
it.’ She presses her fingertips against her temples.

  ‘She really has to see a doctor. I think she wants to see a doctor.’

  ‘I’ve already told you that Doctor Bronson in Brooklyn said –’

  I cut her off. ‘I know what he said. But that was months ago, and Rain’s no better. She’s worse. She keeps pretending Jenny’s on death’s door.’

  ‘If only.’ Mum shakes her head.

  ‘I don’t think she can help it,’ I say.

  Mum scratches her head. ‘I keep hoping it will go away on its own. I thought that if she had a sister, she’d stop all this nonsense.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I always wanted to come back to England, but once Rain got sick and started obsessing about that stupid doll, I knew it was time. I needed help raising her, so I had to come back. For Rain, if not for myself.’

  I stare at the rings of tea stains in my mug. I don’t know what to say – I feel like someone is pouring dirty old sludge into me.

  Mum quickly realises what she’s said and throws herself at me. ‘Oh God, Apple, I know what that sounds like, but I came back for you too. I missed you so much.’

  She cradles my head in her arms, but it hurts my neck. I push her away and sit up straight. ‘Why did you leave in the first place?’ I ask. It’s what I’ve lived all my life wondering and been too afraid to ask until now: Why did Mum leave? Was I that unlovable?

  Mum goes to the window and lights a cigarette.

  ‘It wasn’t about you,’ she says.

  ‘But you left me behind. Why couldn’t you have taken me with you?’ I ask.

  ‘How could I care for you? I couldn’t even take care of myself.’

  ‘Then you should’ve stayed. Nana would have cared for both of us,’ I say.

  ‘Your grandmother threw me out, Apple. If you want the truth, then that’s it. Your perfect, oh-so-virtuous religious grandmother kicked me out.’ She drags on the cigarette like it’ll be her last breath. ‘What should I have done? Brought you with me? I didn’t have a job, and I had no money. I wanted to be an actress. It was no life for a baby.’

  When Nana tells the story of Mum leaving, she skips the bit about her kicking Mum out. She pretends it was all Mum’s doing. But that means the story I have in my head about what happened the night Mum left isn’t true either – it means I’ve made the whole thing up. Mum never rushed out, Nana pleading with her to stay – Nana pushed Mum out into the storm.

  ‘Mom, there’s no shampoo and my hair’s like an old grease ball!’ Rain is standing in a towel and dripping all over the carpet.

  Mum stubs out her cigarette. She throws the butt out of the window without looking to see where it will land. ‘I’ll go and get some today. I’m really sorry.’ She does sound sorry, but I don’t think she cares that much about shampoo. ‘If you dry your hair quickly we can all go to Pizza Express for lunch.’ She looks at me meaningfully, but I don’t know why. And I don’t think she really knows why either. But Pizza Express is a start – it’s better than sitting around drinking coffee and watching TV all day long.

  ‘Dough balls!’ Rain shouts. She turns and drops the towel before she reaches our room so that her naked bum is the last thing I see of her. I laugh. Mum looks up, a bit relieved to see I’m not grumpy any more.

  ‘You remind me of your grandmother sometimes,’ she says.

  ‘Oh,’ I say.

  ‘No, no. In a good way. You’re firm but fair. Like a strict teacher. You know?’

  I shrug. I don’t want to be like a strict teacher – that’s her job.

  ‘Mum . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Who is Rain’s dad?’

  Mum’s shakes her head. ‘Oh, just some loser. Never should have gone near him.’

  ‘Was dad a loser too?’

  Mum laughs.

  ‘I’m serious.’

  She chews on her knuckles. ‘Your dad was lovely. But we were both young. It wouldn’t have worked between us. I see him now and I know it definitely wouldn’t have worked.’

  ‘You gave me a stupid long Greek name.’

  ‘I wanted you to have a history, Apple. And back then, well, I loved your dad.’ This could be true. I know that how Mum acts isn’t always how she feels. ‘Have you seen this?’ she says. She pushes the band of her tracksuit bottoms down a fraction. There’s a green mark on her hip.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask.

  She steps closer so I can see. It’s a tattoo. But not any old tattoo. It’s an apple. A tiny, bright green apple, hidden from the world but permanently and secretly stamped on Mum’s skin. ‘You were always with me, honey,’ she says. ‘Look, I know you’re upset, but it was a long time ago that I left. Can’t you forgive me? I’m back and I’m trying.’

  I hug her. She has me tattooed on her skin – she loves me that much.

  And she’s right. It was all a long time ago. People change. Everyone deserves a second chance.

  36

  After we’re stuffed from too much pizza and ice cream, Mum takes us to the park to feed the ducks. The sun’s come out a bit. The tree leaves are beginning to bud. Ducks jostle for the scraps of pizza crust we throw into the water. Rain makes quacking sounds until a mallard takes a fancy to her and follows her around the pond. We laugh and laugh, and I start thinking this is the beginning of it all – the beginning of us acting like a real family – until Mum’s phone rings and she rushes off to answer it in secret.

  Rain stops quacking and throws the rest of the crust she’s holding on the ground.

  ‘Want to play on the swings?’ I ask her. I don’t want the phone call to mean anything, and if I can convince Rain everything is fine, maybe it will be.

  ‘Nope,’ she says. She finds a bench and sits on it. I plonk myself next to her and wait for Mum. I thrash my legs violently whenever a duck gets too close. They’re cute when you’re throwing food at them, but when they’re surrounding you and pecking at your feet, it’s sort of horrifying.

  After ten minutes, Mum steps out from behind an oak tree. She sits between us on the bench.

  ‘I’ve got to go to London tomorrow afternoon for an audition. It’s an American casting director I met in New York. He’s in London for the weekend. This could be a big break for me. I know it’s a huge ask, Apple, but could you be in charge until I get back on Monday morning?’

  I lash out at a duck and almost kick it in the head. It spits at me and waddles away. Mum titters. I don’t. And neither does Rain.

  ‘You’ll be gone overnight?’ After everything we talked about this morning and after the fun we’ve had this afternoon, I thought things might change. I so badly wanted it to be different from how it was. I wanted everything to be better.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, but I’ll get an early train and be back home by eight. You won’t miss another school day.’

  But Mum’s got it all wrong. I don’t care about school. I just want her to care about me going to school like any other normal mother.

  ‘Can’t you get a late train home on Sunday evening instead?’ I ask.

  ‘Roles go to the people who have time to schmooze and that can mean cavorting into the early hours. It’s a petty business.’ She squeezes my knee. ‘Apple, I promise this is the last time you’ll have to do this. I’ve spoken to Gina and she’s going to pop in to make sure you’re all right. She’s going to help with the weekdays from now on too. OK? Please say it’s OK. Please.’ Her face is a picture of worry, and I don’t want to be the reason for it. I want her to be happy. I want everyone to be happy.

  ‘You should go to London,’ I say because part of me wants to believe it really will be the last time and that if I say yes, everything will be better.

  But a bigger part of me knows it won’t be any different after Monday. It won’t be any different at all.

  37

  Mum leaves early Sunday afternoon, once Rain and I are back from Mass and a cup of tea at Nana’s. I warn Rain not to tell Nana that
Mum is staying away overnight. She promises not to say a word, but I get nervous that maybe I’ll let it slip, so I make an excuse as soon as we’ve had our tea, and rush home, leaving Nana to eat Sunday dinner alone and probably feed most of the stew she’s cooked to Derry.

  Mum makes us peanut butter and jam sandwiches for dinner and has stocked up on Coco Pops and yoghurts. ‘You’ve got food, money and my number. And remember not to open the door . . . unless it’s Gina.’

  ‘How will we know it’s Gina?’ Rain asks. It’s the first time she’s spoken to Mum since the park.

  ‘Ask,’ Mum snaps. Then she remembers herself. ‘Right, so be good. I love you both, and I’ll see you in less than twenty-four hours. Cross your fingers and toes for me.’

  ‘Good luck,’ I manage to say.

  She is wearing a short, red dress, puffy at the sleeves with lace across the back. Her hair is backcombed so it looks a bit like a wasp’s nest. She doesn’t look bad exactly, but she doesn’t look like she’s going to find work, that’s all. She clip-clops down the stairs in her high heels.

  ‘What about your coat?’ I call after her.

  ‘Coats are for cowards,’ she shouts back.

  And she’s out the door.

  I look at Rain. Rain looks at me.

  ‘The library’s closed,’ I say.

  ‘And no good films on TV until after seven o’clock.’

  ‘We could read,’ I suggest.

  Rain shakes her head. ‘I’ve finished all my books. I’d have to read one of yours, and I think they’re all about kissing.’

  ‘They are,’ I admit.

  ‘Ugh.’ She pauses to caress one of Jenny’s hands. ‘We could knock for Del and ask him to take us to the fruities again. That was fun.’

  ‘It was,’ I say. ‘Let’s do that.’

  Del opens the door before I knock. He’s got beads in his hair and I think he’s wearing black eyeliner. He’s swapped his wellies for heavy boots with the laces undone.

  ‘I had a hunch it would be you two,’ he says. He hitches up his jeans, which are hanging, crumpled and loose on his waist.