Just My Luck

by Andrea Bramhall

  “Genna…”

  “No. You pushed and pushed and pushed. So there it is.” I stand up and walk to the door. “Are you happy now?” I shoot over my shoulder before I walk out of the room.

  * * *

  I don’t feel like going to bed. I feel like getting pissed, but I don’t think that’ll fit in with the calorie-controlled, clean-living prison that I currently live in, so I wander back down to the dog lounge and find Claire holding her belly.

  “What’s up? Do you feel sick?”

  “I need food.”

  “Don’t be silly. You wanted to come here.”

  “I made a mistake,” she whines. “I like being round. I feel comfortable this way.”

  “You’ll be grateful when you have the shape you want.” I’m thinking about Tory’s comments about how I need to encourage Claire. I’m trying to ignore my own hunger pangs and the bubbling anger in the pit of my stomach. I’m trying to be the best friend I can possibly be.

  “You want to come to the chip shop with me?” Claire asks.

  Well, at least I can say I tried. “Okay.”

  “We’ll have to walk. I don’t know where Tory hid the car keys.”

  “It’s only two and a half miles.”

  “I have blisters.”

  “The chips would be cold by the time I got back if you don’t come with me.” I say.

  “It’s a good point you make, and you make it well. At least we’ll be walking off some of the calories.”

  “Another good point.”

  “Let’s go.”

  I have to say, Claire is walking considerably quicker than she did this afternoon, and my own anger gives me energy. We walk the two and a half miles in less than forty minutes, as opposed to three hours, as we did earlier. Conversation is sparse as gasping for breath is the order of the hour. We make it to the chip shop and order two lots of fish and chips. Just for good measure, Claire asks for a portion of “bits” on hers. “Bits” are the bits of batter that drop into the fat off the fish. Basically, its deep-fried fat. Extra crispy. We start walking back, munching our illicit grease and cholesterol with happy sighs of contentment and the odd gasp when a particularly hot chip burns my tongue. The pungent scent of vinegar fills my nostrils. The tang of salt dances on my taste buds. It really is a revelation how much I enjoy these little pleasures in life.

  I swear on everything I hold sacred, I do not see the pothole. I have no inkling, Your Honour, that it exists and I, in no way shape or form, aim for it. What happens next is not a deliberate accident. Nonetheless, my foot and the pothole meet just the same.

  The next thing I know, Claire is turning me onto my back and peeling chips off my face, berating me for knocking her food out of her hands as I went down. Then she pulls me to my feet.

  That’s when I feel it.

  The pothole emerges from our meeting victorious. Foot hangs its head in shame. I suppose, technically, I should say that my ankle hangs my foot in shame. Not quite as catchy, I don’t think.

  My lovely fish and chips clamour for freedom as the pain settles in my stomach instead.

  “Don’t think I can walk back, Claire.”

  “You got to. Tory’ll catch us.”

  She finally looks down at where I point as I let loose and hurl up the recent additions to my belly.

  “I guess we need an ambulance, then. Where’s your phone?”

  I fish it out of my pocket, hand it over, and lay next to the puddle of my own vomit. Maybe I should have face-friended God too.

  * * *

  Okay, so the good news is, my ankle is not broken. Just a very bad sprain, torn ligaments. That sort of thing. The other good news is that we got kicked out of the fat farm. I use the term “we” loosely, of course. Tory used words like “fat enabler” and “feeder” to describe me. She said we have a “co-dependent relationship” and that I am going to feed Claire into diabetes, high cholesterol, poor circulation, heart disease, and an increased risk of stroke. She said Claire could stay. Tory thought it might be better if she did. Then my “enabling tendencies” wouldn’t sway her and she would have a chance to address her issues without me interfering. Apparently, I’m the bad influence in this friendship. Who knew?

  Claire pulls off at every service station on the way home and goes through every drive-through. I have KFC, McDonalds, Burger King, and a Marks and Spencer sandwich. We draw the line at Little Chef. Some places are just pushing it too far.

  Mum is waiting for us when we get back. Claire is told off for leading me astray. See? Someone knows who the real ringleader is in this duo.

  CHAPTER 12

  ABI

  “Rosie, have we got the grapes?”

  “Check.”

  “Sudoku puzzle book?”

  “Check.”

  “Box of chocolates?”

  “Check.”

  “Get-well-soon card?”

  “Check.”

  “So we’re good to go?”

  “You need shoes, Mum.”

  I look down at my own bare feet and mentally hold back the curse I know Rosie would mimic. I take a deep breath and try to focus. I know that Genna’s okay. I know she isn’t seriously hurt. I know she is going to be fine. But I need to see it for myself. I need to see that she’s still in one piece and that a sprained ankle doesn’t mean she is at death’s door. I know, I know. I’m being ridiculous. I know. My head knows this. Intellectually, I know this. Emotionally? I’m a fucking wreck. It’s a sprained ankle. A few torn ligaments. We are not talking amputation here.

  Shoes located, and we head for the car. My hands shake when I try to open the door. It’s a good job that there’s pretty much no traffic on the streets of Greater Manchester, because I’m driving on autopilot. Anything could happen, and I wouldn’t know. Rosie jumps out of the car and knocks on the door while I’m still fighting hyperventilation. But it’s Genna who opens the door and stands there, the strapping on her ankle visible where her jeans are rolled up. She’s gripping a crutch under each arm. She grins at Rosie as she holds out her handmade card. It has rainbows on it and a butterfly with a plaster on its wing. The G in get well is backwards, and the edges on the card are more than a little dog-eared, but Genna looks at it and handles it as if it were the most precious thing she’s ever been given. I can’t stop myself from smiling when she looks at me. I don’t remember getting out of the car or walking to the house, but I must have because the next thing I know, she’s hobbling out of the way so that we can go inside.

  “Go and sit down before you fall and do the other ankle in.” She rolls her eyes at me but goes into the front room, and I close the door behind us. I watch her manoeuvre around as Rosie skips along beside her, holding one of her crutches instead of her hand like normal. She puts Rosie’s card on the mantelshelf and sits down. She hoists her bandaged leg onto a small table and stretches to put a bag of frozen peas over it.

  “I’ll do it.” Rosie seizes the bag and places it gently over Genna’s foot. “I want to be a nurse when I grow up.”

  Genna smiles. “I think you’ll be brilliant at it.”

  “Or a pirate.”

  “Another perfect choice for you, Rosie.”

  “I got you presents.”

  “You did?”

  Rosie takes the bag from me and drops it on Genna’s lap. “Grapes, puzzles, and chocolates. All for you.”

  “Thanks very much.”

  “Can I have some grapes?”

  I shake my head as Genna opens the bag and gives her a small bunch. “I’ll go and wash them all for you.” I take hold of the bag and the small bunch and try to ignore the way my belly flip-flops when I touch her fingers. “Do you want a brew while I’m in the kitchen?”

  “I’d love one.”

  Rosie retrieves a pencil for the puzzle-fest to begin, and I leave them to it. I fix Genna’s coffee—lots of milk, no sugar—my tea, and a juice for Rosie. It gives me a few minutes to sort myself out. Maybe it’s because she is single now, or
maybe it was because she’s hurt, I don’t know. But I do know that it’s getting harder and harder to keep my feelings for her in check. I thought after three years of lusting from afar, I’d have it under control. Apparently not. Control would appear to be a figment of my imagination. Too old, not interested, too much baggage. It’s my mantra. My Hail Mary, if you will. And it’s not fucking working. I pick up the mugs and head back.

  “So I just have to put the numbers one to nine in the little squares?” Rosie asks.

  “Yes. But you have to make sure that there are no repeats in an internal square or in a line,” Genna replies.

  “Oh. So can I put a number there?” Rosie is hovering over the page and pointing at the square.

  “Yes. What number do you think it is?”

  “One.”

  “But there is already a one in that line, Rosie.”

  “Oh.”

  “Rosie, why don’t you grab your crayons out of your bag and make Genna another picture?” I say.

  “Okay.”

  I hand Genna her cup and sit down next to her. She rests her head back against the sofa and turns to look at me, smiling that smile that makes my heart flutter every time.

  “Thanks.”

  “So how bad is it really?” I lean forward and adjust the bag over her ankle. Any excuse to touch her, you say? Yeah, and?

  “It’s not too bad. The doctor said it’ll be a couple of weeks on the crutches but that I should try to weight-bear and move it as soon as I can so that it doesn’t stiffen up too much and cause more problems in the long run.”

  “Have you sorted some physiotherapy?”

  “Not yet, but I will.”

  “Let me know when, and I’ll drive you.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I know. I want to.” Any excuse to see her? Yeah, and?

  “You sure?”

  “Positive. You’d do the same for me, right?” I don’t have to ask this. I already know. She’s done this and more for me. I’ve lost count of the number of times she’s come with me to appointments for Rosie. Doctors, dentists, picking up prescriptions. She even made me go for a damn eye test last year. Contact lenses are now my best friend. I hate getting older.

  “Of course I would.”

  “Just tell me where and when, then.”

  It isn’t the desire to mother her that I feel, but I do want to look after her. I want to make sure that she’s okay. That she’s comfortable and that she has everything she wants, everything she needs. I want to be the one to provide all those things for her. I want it to be me who gets called next time she falls in a pothole and hurts herself. I want it to be me whom she calls when she hears something amazing. Or that pisses her off. Me and Genna against the world. Yeah, and do you know what my gran used to say? She used to say, if wishes were horses, we’d all ride.

  CHAPTER 13

  GENNA

  I grab my phone from my bedside table while gasping and trying not to swear when I twist my ankle funny. The pain that shoots up my legs is hard to describe, but I’ll have a go. You know how the ancient Egyptians used to use a red-hot poker stuffed up someone’s nose to pull the brains out? Well, I think they’re using the same method to pull out the bones in my leg. Two weeks, and I’m still using these bloody crutches.

  “Yeah?”

  “Have you seen the paper?”

  “Mum?”

  “Yes. Have you seen it?”

  “Mum, I’m still in bed and still using crutches. In your house. Why are you calling me from the kitchen?”

  “The papers.”

  “What about them?”

  “You’re in ’em!”

  “What?”

  “You’re in the papers.”

  “How?”

  “Someone wrote words and the editor printed ’em.”

  There is nothing like parental sarcasm in the morning. “Why?”

  “Because some idiot—three guesses who, by the way—couldn’t keep their mouth shut.”

  “Who?” Oh yes, now I was awake.

  “I’d guess at your Gran Collins, or—”

  “Uncle Kev.”

  “Yep.”

  “Can you bring them up?” My bedroom door swings open, and Mum walks in with a stack of papers. She drops each one onto the bed next to me. I cut off the phone and pick up the first one, then the next.

  Headlines scream off the front pages.

  Euro winner snubs own father in family handouts!

  RAGS AND RICHES: Father on welfare, daughter a millionaire!

  ‘I’ve lost everything, and she won’t even speak to me!’

  ‘I didn’t know where she was. Now she won’t let me explain!’

  ‘She’s been poisoned against me.’

  Mum just watches me the whole time I’m reading them. Every word of every article in every paper. The words of a man who had no regard for his family for twenty-two years and now claims that I have done something wrong. No reference to his own misdeeds. Not one.

  “It’s Gran.”

  I don’t know why I need to say it. It’s completely obvious to both of us. Gran Collins has pushed the button and told my dad, the man who abandoned us twenty-two years ago and never even attempted to get in touch. The man who’s never even seen his own son. Who’s never picked up the phone and made a call, not even just to say, “Hi, how are you?” The man who was so adamant about keeping his distance that I couldn’t visit Gran while he was at the house. Who Gran protected by not telling us where he was. Who has made me feel unlovable…unworthy my whole life.

  Now I’m the one being vilified. My mother is being made to look like a bitch who was keeping his kids from him. Scratch that, there’s no mention of Michael after all. Just me. Just me with the money. It’s all just about the money.

  “What can I do, Mum?”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Honestly?”

  She just nods at me.

  “I want to cry. I mean, who does he think he is? Who does she think she is? I tried to do something nice for her. I tried to make her more comfortable. And all she has ever done is lie to me and keep secrets from me. About him. For him. Have you read these?”

  “I started to, but I got mad.”

  “There is not a single mention of Michael. It’s like he doesn’t exist.”

  “I got that impression.”

  “He knows about Michael, right?”

  “Yeah, he was in the waiting room till the doctor told him he had a son. Then he left. He has been contacted by the CSA since in regards to you both.”

  “But he doesn’t care.” I’ve known this all along. It isn’t a surprise to find out. “What’s wrong with me? What did I do that was so bad? Is there something about me that people can do this?”

  “Genna, there is nothing wrong with you. Your dad was…is…just an arsehole. He never cared about anyone but himself. He was the biggest mistake of my life, but he did give me you and Michael, so it can’t be all bad.”

  “But it’s not just him, is it? There’s Ruth too, and Gran Collins—”

  “Sweetie, in your life, if you only meet three people who manage to hurt you, believe me, you’re doing brilliantly. The fact that you’re related to two of them is their problem, not yours.”

  “But, Mum, why do they want to hurt me?”

  “I honestly don’t think that they realise this will hurt you.”

  “How could it not?”

  “I know, baby. But I don’t think your dad has any empathy. I don’t think he can see beyond his own needs and wants. And your Gran? I think she didn’t like the way you stood up to her at the meal. And this is her way of trying to show you that she’s in charge. I don’t think she intends to hurt you, but she doesn’t realise that this will, because it wouldn’t hurt her.”

  “How can she know me so little? She’s known me my whole life.”

  “Yeah, but there are a lot of things that you keep to yourself. You’ve never told them about t
he work you’ve done with Liam and others like him, for example. Something like that says a lot about the kind of person you are, but you’ve never showed any of them that side of you. None of them know how much time you spend with Rosie. Even Abi doesn’t know that you’re subsidising that bursary Rosie’s gotten at the new school.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I’m your mother. I do know you. I know about the money you’ve given to the reading program and that you’ve paid the lawyer to go round to Liam’s mum and convince her that letting Liam and Kylie look after those kiddies is the best option for them.”

  “Liam and Kylie love those little girls. They’re so much better off with them, and they should be able to stay together.”

  “I know. I agree. And Cathy is helping them out too.”

  “Is she? That’s good.”

  “But none of them know any of these things, the things you’d still be doing even if you didn’t have the money. Those are the things that make you special, Genna. Those are the things that make you the daughter I love and that I am so proud of. Those are the things they don’t have a clue about, and they never will now. Will they?”

  Tears are already running down my face when she hugs me.

  “So I don’t think they really do know you. And I think that is a great shame for them. But I don’t really think they deserve to lick your shoes after you’ve walked in dog poo. So, what do you want to do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you told your gran that if she did this, you’d sue her. Do you want to go ahead with that? And what do you want to do about the papers? I’ve had a couple of calls already, and I’m sure there will be more when I put the phone back on the hook.”

  Good question. Tell them all to go to hell? Is that an option? Let’s play that one out…

  If I ignore the press, it will probably eventually go away. Ruth would probably crawl out of the woodwork, putting her nose in where it doesn’t belong. That would open up a can of worms, but it’s not like I care if people know I’m gay. Everyone I care about already knows and really doesn’t give a shit. Will negative publicity hurt me in the future? Really depends on what I want to do. I know I’ll want to do something to help kids, maybe kids like Rosie. Hands-on or behind the scenes? There are just too many variables. Negative publicity may hurt me. I don’t really care about that, but if it has a negative impact on the kids I want to help, well, that’s a different story.