Writing in the Sand

by Helen Brandom

  “I’m Amy Preston. Is it all right for me to see my mother?”

  There’s this lovely smile. “Of course you can, pet. Follow me.” She tells me Mum is quite seriously ill and that for the time being she has a specialist nurse caring for her. We stop outside a door with clear glass at the top. It’s opened by Mum’s nurse who says, “Ah, you must be Amy.”

  My stomach churns. Why am I nervous of seeing Mum? From where I am, I can’t see her because another nurse blocks my view. But then the nurse moves, and there’s Mum’s bed – the only bed in the room. She’s surrounded by wires and tubes, a drip on a stand, and a monitor close by. There’s a movement, her hand lifts a little. I go to the bed, touch her fingers.

  “Amy, love,” she says, “are you all right?” Typical of Mum – forgetting herself, and worrying about me.

  “I’m fine,” I say, “but how about you?”

  “They’ve given me something for the pain. It’s wonderful – I’m imagining myself beside the sea.”

  “We’ll go again,” I say. “I promise.”

  “Just thinking about it,” she says, “makes me believe in a future.”

  I tell her I’ve been in touch with Lisa. Her face lights up, then she says, “I hope you didn’t worry her.”

  “Of course I didn’t. She’s going to try to get in to see you this evening.”

  As her eyes start to close I lean over her and whisper, “Toffee sends his love.” She’s already half asleep and probably can’t hear me. All the same, I stroke her hand and say, “Night, night, Mum – sleep tight.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  I’m back home. Alone – apart from Toffee, who’d like to go out. Sorry, boy, you’ll have to make do with the backyard. (I don’t dare leave the house in case there’s a call from the hospital.)

  I jump as the phone rings. My ribcage squeezes inwards, but it’s only Lisa. Amazingly, she’s already been to see Mum. “I thought I’d go as soon as possible,” she says. “It must be good for her, mustn’t it, to know we care?”

  “Absolutely! It’ll do her the world of good, knowing we’re both rooting for her.” I’m so relieved Lisa’s made this effort. “Was she awake?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And pleased to see you?”

  “She didn’t talk a lot, but she smiled.” There’s a pause before she says, “By the way, did they say what’s wrong with her?”

  “Yes – pancreatitis.”

  “Is that serious?”

  “Yes, Lisa, it is. That’s why she’s in the High Dependency Unit, with her own nurse.”

  “Okay, okay,” she says, “there’s no need to get—”

  “Get what?”

  “Like you’re the only one who knows anything. I mean, I am your sister. Plus I’m older.”

  There’s a lot I could say in reply to that. Instead, I say, “Sorry, Lisa, it’s been a difficult day.” I pause. “And don’t forget, if anyone brings it up – you live here with Mum and me.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Amy—”

  “It’s important.”

  “Okay.”

  And that’s the end of the conversation. I wait for a second, then she turns off her phone.

  I stand in the kitchen, listening to the silence. It’s strange. Eerie. Usually at this time I’d be sorting out Mum’s medication, making sure her pills and capsules are in order. But I haven’t got them; the doctor wanted them taken with her to the hospital. I go upstairs to her room. I tidy stuff lying about and put her nightie from yesterday in the bathroom wash basket.

  I go back to her room. Sit on her bed. Worry about her. And about Robbie. And the dreadful sadness of Mum not knowing she has a grandson. Of her and Mrs Kelly, sat in our kitchen – neither of them realizing the baby in the buggy has a mum and granny in the same room. Tears trickle down my face.

  I’m still sat here – miserable – wishing for all sorts of things that can’t come true, when the phone rings in the kitchen.

  I spring off the bed and dash downstairs. Oh God – is it the hospital?

  I snatch up the phone. “Hello?”

  I wait, listening to the sound of breathing. I know who it is before he speaks: “This is Shaun Baxter.”

  Shaun Baxter. How many Shauns do I know? “Hi, Shaun—”

  “Are we taking your mum to the beach tomorrow?”

  “Listen, Shaun. She’s in hospital.”

  He says nothing, but I can tell he’s still there. I say, “She was sick and I had to get the doctor. Next thing I know, he calls an ambulance and she’s in the General.”

  “I’d best tell Mrs Kelly.” The phone goes down on a hard surface. I hear a baby crying in the background. Is it Robbie?

  Mr Kelly comes to the phone. “Hello, Amy. What’s all this then?”

  “It’s Mum, she’s got…pancreatitis.”

  “She’s got what?”

  “Pancreatitis – it’s an inflamed pancreas. And she probably has gallstones.” I’m starting to cry again, but try to hold it in. “It’s serious.”

  “Don’t upset yourself, love… Is your Lisa there? Can you get her to the phone?”

  Hating myself for lying, I take a deep breath.

  “Lisa’s with our mum at the hospital. She’ll be back later.” I wipe my eyes with a corner of the tea towel. “Can I speak to Kirsty?”

  “She’s at the cinema with Jordan. Let me get Susie for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “She won’t be a second,” he says, “she’s just cooling young Robbie down.”

  “He’s not poorly, is he?”

  “No – just a slight temperature.”

  I long to be two people at once: one holding Mum’s hand, one with Robbie.

  It’s a huge comfort hearing Mrs Kelly’s voice. “Amy, sweetie, tell me everything. When did all this start?”

  I tell her most things, including taking Mum down to the sea – which I’m sure Shaun will have mentioned. And he has.

  Repeating my lie, I feel sick. “Lisa should be back any minute. She’s been visiting Mum.” (At least that bit’s true.)

  Mrs Kelly asks which ward Mum is on. When I tell her about the High Dependency Unit there’s a short pause before she says, “I think that means it’ll be family visiting only… I’ll call in to see her the minute she’s moved onto a general ward.”

  I say, “Thank you,” and she says she’ll call me tomorrow, but that I must promise to call if there’s anything they can do. Day or night. She repeats that: day or night. And I’m to tell Lisa the same. It’s so good to have her at the end of the phone. I know how lucky I am.

  I say, “I’d better go, in case the hospital calls.”

  “Of course. Now listen, you’re not to worry. Mum will be all right. She’s in a marvellous hospital – we know that, don’t we?” she says.

  I say yes we do, and ask if I can come round tomorrow to see Kirsty.

  She says, “Of course. We’d love to see you.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  I’m thankful yesterday is over. I don’t want another day like that. Thank God exams have finished. I walk up the Kellys’ path. Kirsty’s waiting; she opens the door wide. “Hi. How are things?”

  I step inside. “Mum’s still poorly, but they’re wonderful at the hospital. So kind.”

  When Mrs Kelly comes out of the kitchen carrying Robbie, I have to cross my arms to keep myself from reaching out to him.

  My heart sinks. Suppose in the future it’s not me and Robbie together, but Mrs Smith who’ll kiss and cuddle him; brush the top of his head with her lips? It’s unbearable – the thought of Robbie being adopted: the finality of not being able to run along the sand to see him whenever I want to.

  Mrs Kelly tickles him under the chin. “Say hello to Amy!” Looking at me, his mouth changes from a mint-with-a-hole to a quivering smile. It’s amazing, it’s like he understands.

  Mrs Kelly says, “And how’s Mum today?”

  But I’m staring at Robbie, transfixed. “
Oh, sorry. Yes, they say there’s not a lot of change and she’s comfortable.”

  Mrs Kelly says, “That sounds very encouraging.”

  Kirsty draws attention to Robbie. “Look at him, Amy. There’s no doubt he knows you.”

  I touch his cheek and Mrs Kelly says, “Don’t you think he’s filling out?”

  I look into his forget-me-not eyes. “Oh yes, definitely.” I take his tiny hand. “You are, aren’t you?” He pokes out the tip of his little pink tongue – and my heart nearly breaks.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  It’s a week before they move Mum. She’s on Castle Ward now, in a side room on her own. After such a serious illness she needs as much care as possible. But the fact she’s no longer in the HDU is helping me – knowing she’s making progress.

  Mrs Kelly has been to see her. She took magazines and grapes. Mum says grapes might sound boring, a bit of a joke because it’s what visitors usually bring, but they’re exactly what you want, sweet and juicy.

  Though the staff say Mum’s improving, it seems very slow to me. Mrs Wickham visited. I hope she doesn’t feel she ought to visit me too. Mum says there’s no reason why anyone from the Social should turn up. They think Lisa and I are very capable. Telling me this, Mum had given my hand an extra squeeze. When I leaned over to kiss her goodbye she whispered, “We’ll make it through the rain.”

  As soon as they moved Mum I called Lisa, urging her to visit again soon. It would be good if the nurses on Castle Ward got to know her. If she does visit, everyone’s more likely to believe she actually lives on Dune Terrace.

  There’s still the possibility Mum might have to face a gall-bladder operation if, like Mr Dorrington said, the stones continue to cause trouble.

  Being on my own, except for Toffee, gives me too much time to think. Day or night, even watching telly, I think about Mum. And Robbie – and about Mr and Mrs Smith wanting to adopt him. I see him often, but I do wish I didn’t see Liam each time I look into those blue eyes. Kirsty asks me round and Mrs Kelly’s being very kind. Which she always is, but right now she’s going out of her way. Mr Kelly too. And Shaun, he’d do anything for me, though I don’t think he totally understands how I feel about Mum. I think his strangeness might be to do with not having been loved by a parent, and not having one to love. Poor Shaun – it doesn’t help that he doesn’t see what effect he has on people. It can be something quite ordinary, like standing too close, not realizing he’s crowding you; or giving that explosive laugh when there’s nothing funny to laugh at. Perhaps it’s the result of having folk play pass-the-parcel with him all his life. Being Shaun – great big Shaun – must be like living on an emotional roller-coaster. Still, maybe the way he can’t quite connect gives him some sort of protective shell.

  This afternoon I walk Toffee over to Kirsty’s. It turns out she’s not in – she’s gone into town with Jordan to help him choose a suit for a cousin’s wedding – but I stay behind to help Mrs Kelly with the children. Mr Kelly’s at home – on duty in the garden with the little ones. Clean sand has been delivered and they’re “helping” him refill the sandpit. There’s an awful lot of squealing and shouting. Looking out of the window, I can see Toffee, lying down, not too close to the activity. He likes the kids but he’s sensible about keeping his distance.

  This leaves Mrs Kelly and me with Robbie, who’s lying on a changing mat on the kitchen table. I’m dealing with his nappy. I’ve already wiped him with baby wipes and wrapped up the very dirty nappy. Now his little bottom’s pink and clean and the only smell is baby. Fresh and sweet. Mrs Kelly hands me a new disposable nappy, which I smooth out. It has teddy bears on the front so you know which way to fasten it. I shift it under Robbie, while he kicks his feet in the air. I have to hold his ankles together with one hand while I fasten the front with the other.

  Mrs Kelly says, “Well done, Amy. It’s not easy when he’s this lively. Wait till I tell your mum, she’ll be proud of you!” It’s great, the way she’s so positive about Mum. She never lets on she was worried, which I know she must have been.

  I tickle Robbie and he gurgles. It’s funny that such a messy chore has made me feel so happy, and I love it that Mrs Kelly lets me change him. After I’ve washed my hands, she asks if I’d like to make up his bottle. I’ve done this a few times before, and though I feel stabs of sadness – thinking that if things were different I could still be breastfeeding him – I’m glad I can help with the next best thing.

  To keep pace with his healthy growth, Mrs Kelly has upped his number of powdered formula scoops. First I put the cooled, boiled water in his bottle, then measure out the number of scoops and add them to the water before screwing the lid on the bottle. If it wasn’t for this – doing small things for Robbie, and keeping my hopes up for Mum – I don’t think I’d be coping at all right now.

  Mrs Kelly finishes folding a pile of towels she brought in from the line. Checking the kitchen clock, she says, “Is that really the time? Andrew and Gina Smith should be here soon.”

  I didn’t know they were expected and my heart thuds uncomfortably. My hand feels sweaty on the bottle as I give it a shake. I clear my throat. “They seem rather interested in Robbie.”

  “What makes you say that, Amy?”

  I mustn’t drop Kirsty in it. “Well – haven’t they been round before?” I dribble a little of the milk on the inside of my wrist to check the temperature.

  “They have, yes.” She adds a towel to the growing pile. “Actually,” she says, like it’s not a big deal, “Mrs Smith is interested in knowing how fostering works.”

  Though I can’t imagine Mrs Kelly telling me a fib, I’m not sure I believe Mrs Smith can be that interested in fostering. I keep my voice light. “Well,” I say, “you’re the expert. You’ve had loads of experience.”

  Mrs Kelly chuckles. “You can say that again.” She puts Robbie’s tiny vests neatly together. “As a matter of fact,” she says, as she pulls a sleepsuit out of the wash basket, “Mr and Mrs Smith have been approved as adoptive parents.”

  I wait for a moment. “You mean, so they could adopt Robbie?”

  “Well – not necessarily. At this stage, it’s just general approval.”

  “They must be glad.” I wait a few more moments. “How do people get to adopt?”

  She sits down and reaches out to stroke Robbie’s feet. “With a fair amount of difficulty.” She looks thoughtful. “Though I admit I’ve been tempted myself a couple of times.”

  I ask, “What makes it difficult?”

  “For a start,” she says, “it takes months to be approved. Sometimes more – what with counselling and visits to a child’s possible future home. And reliable folk providing references.”

  “It all sounds very businesslike.”

  “Well actually, it needs to be.” Then she adds, “The adoption authorities call on people who are prepared to recommend the potential parents. Friends of the couple, for example. Though it’s not always a couple, of course – sometimes it’s a single person hoping to adopt.”

  I say, “Lots to think about then.”

  “My word, yes.” She pauses. “A reference might also be given by a person respected in the community.”

  “You mean like a vicar?”

  “Yes, possibly.” She looks serious. “It’s a big responsibility – saying you believe someone is fit to take on a child for life.”

  I think of Mr Smith filling out forms because he wants a child. “Sounds like a whole lot of hoops to jump through.”

  “There certainly are.” She pauses. “It’s also pretty rigorous with fostering.”

  There’s a louder than usual squeal from the garden, followed by a yap from Toffee. Mrs Kelly stands to look out of the window.

  I say, “What are they doing out there?”

  She chuckles. “It’s okay – just excitement at so much sand.”

  I’m shaking the bottle again – every movement clocked by Robbie’s bright eyes. I decide to scare myself: “Do you think Mr
and Mrs Smith would like to adopt Robbie?”

  Like I hadn’t asked something so specific, she says, “Someone’s going to want to.” She pauses. “I’m hoping for good things where the Smiths are concerned. They haven’t had it easy.”

  The doorbell rings. “Ah!” says Mrs Kelly. “Talk of the devil!”

  I have to sort myself out. The minute Mrs Kelly is out of the room – opening the front door and chatting – I sit down ready to give my baby his bottle. My arms tighten round him for a moment and I kiss the tip of his ear. Such a natural thing to do, yet fear hits me in the stomach: how would I bear it if he was adopted, and these little ears weren’t mine to kiss? Footsteps come along the hallway and I push the teat into his eager mouth.

  Before they reach the kitchen door, I hear Mr Smith’s soft laugh. As the three of them come into the room, I look up, efficient and confident. You know what they say about swans – all calm above the water but their feet paddling like crazy underneath? That’s me.

  Mrs Smith is tall, nearly as tall as her husband. I suppose at first glance she could fall into Kirsty’s “Ice Queen” category: elegant, and kind of beautiful. She doesn’t seem cold or aloof though. She’s quite freckled and I wonder if Mr Smith likes this. Her chin-length hair is mid-brown and shiny. I bet she washed it this morning. Her eyes are the lightest blue. The brown eyeshadow and carefully smudged eyeliner make me think of moths. Her jeans show off her narrow waist, and her bright-white T-shirt reveals a dip of cleavage. Round her neck there’s a little gold charm. It’s one of those that, if you spin it, says I love you. I used to wish Liam would give me one.

  Mr Smith says, “Hello, Amy.”

  I say hello, leaving off the “sir” because it might sound out of place in this situation.