Writing in the Sand

by Helen Brandom

  Mr Kelly answers. I explain what’s happening and he says to remind him to let us have some runner beans. If we’re interested, that is. I say thanks, we’d love some, and ring off.

  I whisper to Mum, to ask her if she wants a wee before we set off. She does, so it’s a few minutes before we’re downstairs again. I’m about to suggest the best way of carrying Mum, when Shaun – first making sure we don’t forget the frisbee – picks her up like she’s weightless, and we’re off out the front door. Toffee thinks this is massive fun, and has to be persuaded not to jump up at Mum’s bottom, which is sagging slightly between Shaun’s arms. I’m closing the front door when I think, Hey, wait a minute – and dash back inside to get our moth-eaten tartan rug and Mum’s sun hat from under the stairs.

  I’d worried that managing Mum over the dunes could be a problem. But Shaun, like he’s half man, half mountain goat, carries her as if she’s his prize. His princess in a fairy tale. She looks wonderful, her dark silky hair swaying to the rhythm of his steady pace.

  Shaun looks into Mum’s eyes. “Where would you like to be, Mrs Preston?”

  “Close to the sea, please.”

  I run on ahead and spread out the rug where the sand is still dry, yet near enough to the sea for us to paddle. I sit down as Shaun gently lowers Mum, and I pop her sun hat onto her head. I realize the only way she’ll be comfortable, and still able to look out to sea, is if we sit back-to-back. I wriggle round – so now my view is the southerly curve of the shoreline and Croppers Rock.

  We sit like this for about a quarter of an hour, Mum and me talking with our backs to each other. I don’t need to see her to recognize the almost-tears in her voice when she says, “I’d begun to think I’d never come down here again.”

  “That’s awful, Mum. We’ll come often.” I call out to Shaun, who’s about to throw the frisbee. “Won’t we, Shaun!”

  He takes great leaps across the sand to us. “Won’t we what?”

  “Bring Mum down here often.”

  “Of course we will. It’ll be my pleasure, Mrs Preston. We’ll come every day.”

  Mum wouldn’t dream of laughing at Shaun, but the giggle is there. “Every week would be lovely.”

  “Consider it done,” he says. Then he moves round to face me. “You know your baby?”

  How is it my body can freeze on such a hot afternoon? I try not to stiffen my back against Mum’s. “My baby?”

  “Robbie,” he says.

  I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. I control my breathing. “He’s not my baby.”

  Mum moves her head against mine. “Shaun doesn’t mean your baby. It’s just obvious you’re very fond of Robbie.” She pauses. “Aren’t I right, Shaun?”

  “You are right, Mrs Preston. Dead right.”

  “Shaun,” Mum says, “you’re a tonic.” She eases her neck. “Anyway, what about Robbie?”

  Shaun says, “I probably shouldn’t say.”

  Mum says, “You’ve started now, so you might as well finish.”

  “Like Mastermind?”

  “Yes,” says Mum, “like Mastermind.”

  Toffee rushes off, barking at a seagull.

  Shaun says, “Someone might adopt him. It’s not for definite, but they might.”

  I say, “You’re not supposed to know that,” which makes it sound like I also know something I shouldn’t. I hesitate before I add, “One day, someone will probably adopt Robbie, but there’s no one in particular at the moment.”

  Mum says teasingly, “Are you sure?”

  Shaun pulls a face. “Like Amy says, I’m – we’re – not supposed to know anything.” Then he looks at me, holding my gaze. “But there is something I know.”

  For the moment I don’t want to think about Mr and Mrs Smith. Changing the subject, I tell Mum that of course Shaun knows things. (Despite being dyslexic, he’s very bright indeed. He’s what Mr Wilson calls “College material”.)

  “I don’t need college,” he says, “I’ll be running a chain of salons.”

  I say, “You’d need to train.”

  “Not for long I wouldn’t.”

  I force a laugh. “So it’s a chain, eh? What will you call yourself?”

  He frowns in concentration, and we spend a while thinking up silly names for hairdressing salons. I know Mum’s in pain, but she still laughs at “Get Shorn” and “Shaun’s Unisex Shampoo and Shave”. Every now and then Shaun nods vigorously at what he reckons is a good name for his empire.

  I say, “Shaun, how about we paddle?” And he bends down, scoops Mum up gently and carries her into the sea. A little way in, still supporting her, he helps her to stand.

  With the sea rolling round my ankles, I paddle beside Mum and Shaun. Toffee rushes to join us, and Mum laughs. Shaun sways her from side to side like she’s a piece of seaweed. She’s loving it.

  I squint at my watch. We ought to be making tracks. It’s nearly time for a bit of tea and Mum’s early evening medication. But it’s so lovely here I don’t want to break the spell. Not for the next few minutes at least.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  It’s been a great day. Such a different day, especially for Mum. We’ve had our tea. Nothing haute cuisine, but I cooked properly. Sausage and mash. Plus broccoli, which is full of healthy antioxidants. (I’m always on the lookout for nourishing vegetables that could help improve Mum’s health.)

  I’m wiping down the draining board. The TV is on – one of the soaps – but I’m not paying much attention. I’ve got my back to it. Sounds like the usual over-the-top stuff – someone breathing their last breath. Whoever it is gasps, and Toffee jumps up, catching a claw in a loose thread in my shirt. I half turn. He’s not wagging his tail, and squeals when I release his paw.

  I hear a whisper as if from far off. “Amy?”

  I spin round. Something’s the matter with Mum.

  Dropping to my knees beside her, I force myself to stay calm. She’s having a panic attack and can’t breathe. I jump up and open the drawer where I keep paper bags. I hold one over her nose and mouth. “Breathe into the bag, Mum.”

  She tries, but her eyes are scared. I tell her I’m calling the doctor and take no notice when she tries shaking her head to say no. I know the doctor’s number by heart; but it’s after hours and there’s only a message. The voice gives me another number to try. Hell, I’ve got no pencil. I go back to Mum. She’s trying hard with the paper bag, but it’s not helping. Hurriedly, I kiss her forehead, take the paper bag off her face, and put it back on again. “I’ve got to dial again, Mum.”

  I find a pencil, ring our doctor’s practice and wait for the out-of-hours number. I hold my breath, ready to focus on the recorded voice – there’s no time for making repeated calls. I listen to the number and write it down. I look back at Mum. Her eyes are full of fear.

  I call the new number. A woman asks who I am. Who do I want the doctor for? When was Mum born? This is awful. I can’t remember the year Mum was born and I’m not going to get her into more of a state by asking her to talk. I tell the woman it’s really urgent. She asks if Mum’s bleeding – and has she hit her head? I say no to both and give her our address. She says a doctor will be here very soon, and tells me to keep Mum calm.

  I would try to keep her calm but suddenly she leans forward, clutching herself round the middle. She starts retching. I grab Toffee’s bowl from the floor and put it under her chin, just in time. She retches again and is very, very sick. More of it comes with more retching. She lets her head fall back, and I take the bowl away.

  Moaning, she sounds as if she’s in agony.

  “Where’s the pain, Mum?” But I can see where. It’s the whole of her stomach area, and lower.

  This is all my fault. If I hadn’t had that crazy idea of Shaun and me taking her to the beach. If I hadn’t had her sitting on the sand for ages. If I hadn’t let her practically stand up in the sea. If I hadn’t thought this would be good for her – which it obviously wasn’t – she wouldn’t be il
l now. God, if only the doctor would hurry.

  It feels like for ever but it’s only ten minutes. There’s a rap at the front door. I forget about keeping calm and rush to open it. I don’t know her, the pretty woman on the doorstep, but she’s got the confident look of a doctor.

  “Hello,” she says. “Am I right for Mrs Preston?”

  “Yes. Through here.”

  She follows me into the kitchen and looks at Mum. It doesn’t seem to surprise her that Mum’s sitting with a paper bag over her face, which she now lets drop. I can feel Mum’s relief at knowing we’ve got help.

  She smiles at Mum. “Mrs Preston,” she says, “I’m Dr Walker. You’re having trouble getting your breath?”

  Mum nods.

  “And she’s been terribly sick.” I point to the bowl on the draining board. Dr Walker takes a quick look at the vomit, then picks up Mum’s wrist to feel her pulse.

  I say, “And she’s got a lot of pain.”

  Dr Walker nods, takes out her thermometer and pops it in Mum’s ear. She doesn’t say anything, so I don’t know if things are normal or not. I don’t ask.

  Dr Walker looks at Mum, then at me. “We’ll want Mum to go into hospital.” If Mum could shake her head and say no, she would. But she can’t. It’s only in her eyes I can see how much she doesn’t want this. The doctor takes an oxygen mask from her bulky bag and fixes it round Mum’s ears and onto her face. Then Dr Walker takes out her phone and calls for an ambulance.

  She looks at me. “Is it only you and your mum?”

  I check my watch; make it look – and sound – like this is a temporary arrangement. “At the moment, yes.”

  “Dad coming back later, is he?”

  “No.” My brain whirrs, and I tell a lie. One of many, but I can’t risk Mum being taken into hospital and never coming back here. “My sister Lisa is due home any minute.”

  Mum’s eyes widen above the mask. I say, “Her usual time, Mum? She should be here any minute.” It’s like my nose grows longer. “Unless she has to stay on at the shop.” I look at Dr Walker. “She could get held up if there’s a late customer.”

  The doctor says, “If your sister hasn’t got back by the time the ambulance arrives, perhaps you can text her.” I don’t tell her I haven’t got a mobile.

  She smiles such a kind smile. “I expect you’d like to come with Mum?” she says.

  “Yes, please.”

  At the hospital I trail along after Mum’s trolley while she’s taken from place to place. She ends up in the High Dependency Unit, where they ask me to wait in the corridor so they have a chance to make her comfortable. Although I don’t see Dr Walker again, other people stop and talk to me. A nurse says they’ll tell me some more when Dr Briggs has seen Mum.

  When I see Dr Briggs – who is cosy-looking and the same height as me – he tells me he’ll talk to a Mr Dorrington, after which he thinks they’ll have a clearer picture.

  I ask Dr Briggs, “Do you know what’s wrong? I mean, I know she has rheumatoid arthritis, but she hasn’t been like this before.”

  He says he can’t be sure, but he’ll be back to talk to me again. He’s gone a few paces, but I can’t keep it in any longer. I say, perhaps too loudly, “Dr Briggs?”

  He comes back and sits down beside me. He seems a kind person.

  “We’re doing everything we can,” he says.

  To me, this sounds ominous. I pour out my guilty fear: “We – I – took Mum down to the sea this afternoon. She was so hot – sweating, really – I thought it would cool her down. Me and my friend, we helped her paddle. We sat on the sand for quite a long while. On a rug. Would that have made her ill?” This sounds idiotic and I say, “I don’t mean the rug, I mean the whole thing. The outing.”

  He pats my hand. “Tell me your name.”

  “Amy.”

  “Well, Amy, I can honestly say that letting your mum enjoy a breath of fresh air on a lovely day like today won’t have been the cause of her trouble. It’s far more likely to have been brewing for a while.”

  “She’s seemed more tired than usual for quite a few days.”

  He stands up. “There’s a cafe near the main entrance,” he says. “Why not get yourself a coffee or a soft drink?” He puts his hand in his pocket, as if he might be going to give me some money.

  I try to look like I hadn’t noticed. “Thank you, I’ll do that.”

  My sense of direction is zilch. Finding the cafe is going to be an orienteering exercise, minus the map. I hadn’t taken any notice of how Mum and I ended up at the High Dependency Unit. We’d come up in a lift and only stopped once – for someone to get out for the Prem Unit, where it had hit me like a brick that I was probably a few paces from where the doctors had saved Robbie’s life.

  Now I’m off down a flight of stairs, and through a pair of swing doors and down yet more stairs. It’s lucky I start spotting Way Out signs. Surely this means I’m near the main entrance? Unless I’m near the main exit – if there is one. No, it’s okay, one more door and I’m beside the entrance.

  I don’t buy a drink straight away because I need to check my purse for the bus fare home. I try not to make it obvious that I’m counting my money. I don’t want to look as pathetic as I feel. Anyway I’ve got enough, so I buy a cappuccino and take it back upstairs to where Mum is.

  I’m still waiting outside the HDU, finishing my frothy coffee, when Mr Dorrington introduces himself. He’s tall, thin and willowy – the exact opposite of Dr Briggs. Who now joins him. This somehow gives me confidence, though he looks to Mr Dorrington to speak first.

  “We have two issues here, Amy.” He pauses, and I soon realize Mr Dorrington pauses a lot. I wonder if this is just habit, or whether it’s more significant. He says, “Your mother is really quite poorly.” My heart pounds. What does that mean? Your mother is seriously ill. Your mother is very seriously ill. Your mother is…dying?

  Dr Briggs says, “We think it’s safe to say Mum has a condition called pancreatitis.”

  This doesn’t sound any safer to me, even when Mr Dorrington explains: “Put simply, this is an inflamed pancreas.”

  Dr Briggs says, “In addition, she may have gallstones.”

  I can relate better to this because there are some in a jar in the science block at school. He adds, “Though these shouldn’t pose too great a problem.”

  I have a sudden thought. “Would my mum’s arthritis have caused this pancreas—?”

  Dr Briggs helps me out. “Pancreatitis?” He shakes his head. “This is something quite separate. Though your mother’s poor health won’t be helping matters.”

  Mr Dorrington says, “Your mother will be in hospital for, well—”

  “As long as it takes,” says Dr Briggs. “By which we mean, unfortunately she won’t be coming home just yet.”

  Mr Dorrington says, “Your mother has explained she is not in touch with your father, and that you and your sister are known to Social Services.”

  He stops there. A long pause. And I wait. This could be it. The beginning of the end. Mum in residential care, me on my own and Robbie adopted. Suddenly I’m on the point of tears at the thought of how Mum met my baby without having any idea who he was.

  Dr Briggs says, “If we need to be in touch with your sister, can we assume she’s on the same number as you?”

  I nod. “But she’s out more often than me.”

  I know what I have to do. And I must do it immediately. Even so, I don’t want to look rude, like I’m not grateful for their help. Fortunately Mr Dorrington has to hurry off, and when Dr Briggs asks if I’d like to see Mum, I say, “Do you mind if I find a toilet first?”

  “Of course not,” he says. “There’s a visitors’ loo round the corner, then to your left.” He touches me briefly on the shoulder. “When you come back, let the Ward Sister know who you are. She’ll take you to your mum…” He hesitates. “Who, by the way, is a bit wired-up, so try not to be too alarmed when you see her.”

  I let him get out
of sight, then I run. I amaze myself because I easily find my way to the cafe, which is where I’d seen the phone. And in my purse – actually in my purse – is Lisa’s mobile number. And I’ve got the right change for the phone.

  I punch the number, put my money in and wait. I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it – she answers immediately, sounding quite lively. “Hello?”

  “Lisa, it’s me. Now listen. Really listen. I’ve not got long. Mum is in hospital. She’s in the General.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s very ill – and you’ve got to get here to see her. Plus you have to say – if you’re asked – that you live at home permanently. Permanently. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  God, is that all she can say?

  I speak clearly, so there’ll be no misunderstandings. “Come tonight. To the hospital.”

  “I hate hospitals.”

  “I know, but you’ve got to come. Mum’ll be desperate to see you.”

  “Yeah, but… Is she really ill?”

  “Yes! She’s in the High Dependency Unit.”

  “I will come – though…”

  “Are you still there?”

  “I’m worried about Darren. I thought you were him.”

  “Well I’m not. Now listen—”

  “For God’s sake!” she says. “I am listening.”

  “Just give everyone the impression you’ll be at ours tonight – and every night.”

  “Okay.”

  “Is that all you can say – okay?”

  “Well – this is a bit of a shock—”

  “I’ll say this once more, Lisa: you live with me and Mum.” I hesitate for a second. “And for the time being, we’ll let Mum think you’ve moved back in.” She sighs, and I add, “Right?” But my money runs out. There’s not much more I could have said. If that doesn’t get through her thick skull, nothing will.

  I’ve got my bearings, and with only one wrong turn find my way back to the High Dependency Unit. I’m not sure if the nurse at the nurses’ station is actually the Ward Sister. I don’t like to look too closely at her badge – it might look as if I’m fascinated by her enormous bust. She’s notices me anyway. “Yes?” But then a phone rings, and it sounds like whoever’s at the other end is annoyed. The nurse – or Ward Sister – says it’s not strictly her responsibility, and puts the phone down. But it’s like she’s forgotten me. I clear my throat. She looks up. “Can I help you?”