Days Like These

by Sue Margolis

  “Daddy, is Mummy going to die?”

  He started laughing. “Not unless she gets run over by a bus. I know there’s not much of her and she doesn’t look very strong, but your mother manages to cart huge bags of groceries back from the store every day. She cooks. She keeps the house spotless. Take it from me, the woman is as strong as an ox. Stop worrying.”

  “But she’s ill all the time and I get scared.”

  “She’s not ill exactly. She gets a bit under the weather sometimes. And then she needs to lie down. That’s all it is. So just be kind.”

  “I am kind.”

  “I know you are, sweetheart,” he said, cupping my chin. “It’s hard for both of us. But we have to remember what she went through.”

  Those words have been the sound track to my life.

  • • •

  As I fill the kettle, I can hear squabbling coming from the living room.

  Rosie: “You always get to choose what to watch. Now it’s my turn. I want the remote.”

  Sam: “No. I’m the oldest. I’m choosing.”

  Rosie: “That’s not fair. You’re a big fat bully and I hate you.”

  It would appear that Wallace and Gromit has finished. Rosie starts wailing. I leave the kettle on the drainer and head into the living room. Abby says I make life hard for myself, wading in every time the kids squabble. She says she only goes to Sam and Rosie: “In the event of a heavy thud, loud crash, bloodcurdling screams that last longer than a minute … or they’ve been quiet for more than half an hour and have access to matches.”

  I’ve told Abby that if she’s happy to ignore her kids when they start squabbling, that’s fine by me. But she mustn’t expect me to follow her example. Sam and Rosie aren’t my children. I have an obligation to hand them back without dents, scuffs or missing body parts.

  In the living room the kids are squaring up to each other. Rosie lands the first blow. She kicks her brother in the shin. “I hate you!”

  Sam slaps her arm. Soon they’re on the floor, arms and legs flailing. Since I would rather not get hurt, I decide against wading in to try to separate them. Instead I yell, “Right, that’s enough! This ends now or there’s no chocolate cake.”

  My mother’s homemade chocolate cake—moist, thick, with buttercream filling and frosting—is one of their favorite treats. But they don’t react to the threat.

  “OK … If you stop right now you can have ice cream with it.”

  They’re crimson-faced and scowling but standing still.

  “Right … that’s better.”

  “Gran’ma,” Sam pipes up. “You just bribed us.” His smarty-pants grin exposes his new teeth, which are too big for his nine-year-old face.

  “Did I?”

  “Yes. Plus you’re rewarding our bad behavior. Mum tells Dad off when he does that. She says that if you bribe children or reward bad behavior, they turn into monsters.”

  “I don’t want to turn into a monster,” Rosie said.

  “Shut up, Rosie. It doesn’t mean actual monsters. It means you get to be horrible and spoiled.”

  I want to tell them that I bribed their mother from the moment she could grasp the concept and she hadn’t turned into a monster. Back in the day—before the sanctimonious child experts put in their two pence’ worth—besieged, dog-tired mothers like me may have thought twice about bribing their kids. But when they were out of options, they rarely thought a third time.

  “Put your damn seat belt on! I said, put it on … OK, put it on and I’ll take you to the park later… . Eat your cauliflower, and I’ll let you watch The Flintstones.”

  When Abby refused to get dressed for school, I’d bribe her with sweets. I lost count of the times she left the house and the only thing in her stomach was a handful of red Skittles—she didn’t like the other colors. As she got older and smarter, she demanded cash.

  Abby didn’t turn into a monster. She turned into a doctor—not that doctors can’t be monsters. My mother insists she knows several: the ones who dare to tell her there’s not much wrong with her.

  People say that with a nurse for a mother, it’s not surprising Abby decided to study medicine. But she could have followed her dad into teaching. I think there was more to her decision. Growing up, she worried to the point of obsession about any kind of suffering, be it animal or human. If she wasn’t fretting about the badgers and the moles being left out in the winter cold, it was the starving children in Africa. Abby’s need to bring aid to the afflicted seemed to be hard-wired into her DNA. She was fifteen when she started reading books about Mother Teresa. When she decided to become a doctor, her father and I were delighted. “Thank the Lord for that,” Brian said. “For a few years there I thought the kid was going to become a nun and bugger off to a leper colony.”

  After Abby qualified, she went into general practice. She also volunteered with the medical aid charity MediGlobal. Somehow she managed to sweet-talk the practice partners into allowing her six weeks’ unpaid leave each year to do this.

  Even as a medical student, when she couldn’t work as a doctor, she would spend her vacations in the Congo or Malawi, going from one impoverished village to another giving talks about HIV or breast-feeding.

  She met Tom shortly after she became a GP. She was doing a stint in Bangladesh after floods had devastated crops, destroyed homes and left thousands starving and injured. Abby was helping out at the maternity hospital. After a complicated delivery, a baby boy had been left with a broken arm. Tom was a fellow volunteer and the young orthopedic surgeon who mended him.

  I tell the kids that one bribe probably won’t turn them into monsters. “Right, I think that in order to keep the peace, I should choose what you watch next.”

  “’K.” Neither of them seems overjoyed at the prospect.

  But Kung Fu Panda seems to do the trick. I head off to the kitchen, telling them I’ll give them a shout when the ice cream has defrosted.

  It’s almost four. Abby will be back from the hairdresser’s anytime now. Mum shouldn’t be far behind. She rarely stays out past teatime. I put the kettle on and take a tub of Ben & Jerry’s out of the deep freeze. While I’m pottering I switch on the radio and catch the end of a heated debate about fracking. This segues into the news. After four days, they’re still leading with the earthquake in Nicaragua. I turn up the volume.

  “The quake, which has devastated several suburban areas around the country’s capital, Managua, is being compared to the one that hit Haiti in 2010. So far it is thought to have claimed hundreds of lives. The number of injured hasn’t been confirmed but is expected to be in the thousands. As they wait for aid to arrive, those who have lost their homes will be spending another night on the streets amid the destruction and devastation… .”

  I can still remember the TV images from Haiti—frantic parents, their clothes ripped apart in searching for children in the rubble. Bewildered kids, some little more than toddlers, wandering the streets. But the news is always full of tragedy and catastrophe. People become immune. We shut off. Others, like Abby and Tom, don’t do that. They find it impossible. Tom went to Haiti. Abby wanted to go, but Sam was only two and she couldn’t bear to leave him. In fact, she hasn’t been on an assignment for MediGlobal since well before the children were born.

  Abby told me the other day that Tom wanted to go to Nicaragua. But it depended on whether the hospital was prepared to release him. Right now they’re short of doctors. I would have asked her for an update when she dropped off the kids, but she was running late and didn’t get out of the car.

  Sam interrupts my thoughts. “Gran’ma, please, can me and Rosie have some OJ or apple juice?” My grandson likes to try his luck. Abby and Tom only allow the kids to have fruit juice as a special treat.

  “No. It has to be water. Fruit juice rots your teeth. You know that.” I start running the tap.

  “Did you know that Dad’s going to the earthquake place to help all the hurt people?”

  “I didn’t. But your
mum said he might be going. How do you feel about that?”

  “Good. He’s making people better. If he didn’t go they might die.”

  “That’s right. You should be very proud of him.”

  “I am. I’ll miss him, but me and Mum and Rosie can manage without him for a bit. Other people need him more.”

  I tell my grandson what a generous, kind and very grown-up young man he is. He blushes.

  I know that Abby is more than capable of managing without Tom. But when she told me that he was hoping to go to Nicaragua, she didn’t seem too happy about it. She looked weary and preoccupied. It occurred to me that she was angry about being left alone to cope with her job and the kids. It wasn’t like Abby, but maybe she’d accused him of abandoning her and they’d had a fight.

  I hand my grandson two glasses of water. “Please try not to spill it.”

  “’K.”

  He disappears into the living room. When the doorbell rings, I’m in the middle of trying to get my mother’s chocolate cake out of the storage container. I’ve been clumsy and my fingers are covered in frosting. “Can one of you get that?” I call out to the kids. “It’ll be your mum.”

  A moment later Abby appears. “OK, be honest,” she says, putting her keys and handbag down on the kitchen table. “Have I had too much taken off? Is it a total disaster?”

  My daughter’s straight fair hair, which used to come halfway down her back, now skims her collarbone. The heavy, blunt fringe touches her eyebrows. With her thick black eyeliner that flicks at the corners, she looks like an Egyptian princess—only more Aryan.

  “It’s fab. Honestly. Makes you look more sophisticated—more grown-up.”

  “You mean old.”

  “No. I mean sophisticated. I love it.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Now stop being so needy and go and get some plates and lay the table.”

  She’s about to hang her coat on the back of the chair and she stops. “Is that really how you see me? As needy?”

  I’m caught off guard. “What? No. Of course not. It was an off-the-cuff comment. Why are you being so sensitive?”

  She hangs up her coat. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to jump down your throat. Things are a bit fraught, that’s all.”

  “I can imagine. Sam just told me Tom was going to Nicaragua.”

  “Yeah, the hospital just gave the OK.”

  “When does he leave?”

  “Day after tomorrow. They’re flying him out on a military transport.” She asks me to make an extra cup of tea, since Tom’s on his way over to say cheerio.

  “Are you worried about him going?”

  “They’re talking about the possibility of aftershocks. Then there’s the usual danger of typhoid and cholera. But Tom’s had all his vaccinations. He doesn’t drink the water. There’s not much else you can do.”

  The bell goes again. Thundering child hooves down the hall. “Hey, Dad. I’ve been telling Gran’ma how shrimps have their hearts in their heads and butterflies smell with their feet.”

  “Wow. I bet she found that fascinating.”

  “We’re in the kitchen,” Abby calls out.

  Tom is wearing a puffer jacket and beanie hat. He’s blowing on his hands, which are red from the cold. I ask why he’s not wearing gloves.

  “Lost them.”

  “Again?” Abby says. “You’re worse than the kids. I’m going to buy you a pair of mittens on a string.”

  “OK, but they have to be SpongeBob.”

  “You got it.”

  As Tom takes off his hat and coat, he notices Abby’s hair. “Wow.”

  “You hate it.”

  “Since when did ‘wow’ mean ‘I hate it’? I love it shorter. Makes you look older.”

  “Older?”

  “Sophisticated,” I hiss. “Tell her it’s sophisticated.”

  “I heard that,” Abby says, doing her best to look offended.

  “Yeah, very sophisticated,” Tom parrots. He sits himself down at the table. Under his breath he’s singing “You’re So Vain.”

  Abby slaps his arm. “I hate you.”

  “No, you don’t. You adore me.” He’s looking up at her, grinning.

  Abby snorts and fetches the mugs of tea, which I’ve left next to the kettle. As I sit down, I find myself wondering what’s going on between these two. They’re joking around, but Abby’s being touchy. She’s definitely got something on her mind. I get the feeling there’s more to it than her being worried about Tom going to Nicaragua.

  “By the way,” I say, handing Tom a slice of cake, “Sam just told me how proud of you he is.”

  “Yeah, he told me, too. But he’s making the most of it. He’s made me promise to give a talk to the school when I get back, so he can show off.”

  Abby pulls out a chair. I catch her and Tom exchanging what I can only describe as a “purposeful” look.

  “What?” I say.

  They look at each other again—clearly trying to decide which of them is going to explain whatever it is that needs explaining.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I say, handing Abby some cake. “You’re like a couple of kids. Will one of you please tell me what’s going on?” I hold Abby’s plate of cake in midair, refusing to hand it over until somebody speaks.

  Abby takes a breath. “Right … So, here’s the thing. I’ve been doing a lot of mulling over the last few days. In fact, I’ve hardly slept …”

  “Why? What’s the matter?”

  “I think I want to go to Nicaragua with Tom.” She relieves me of the plate, but my hand stays where it is.

  “Wow … OK … So, when you say think …”

  “I mean I want to go. I’m needed. You’ve seen the pictures on TV. The place has been practically reduced to rubble. They’re crying out for doctors. I can’t just sit here—”

  “But what about the kids?”

  “OK … I know I’ve said I’d never leave them, but I’ve been thinking about it… . I’m pretty sure they could cope …” She pauses. “So … how would you feel about having them?”

  She doesn’t let me answer.

  “I know it’s a huge favor to ask …” Another glance at Tom. “… particularly right now with everything you’re going through. You absolutely have to tell me if you’re not up to it.”

  “How long would you be gone?”

  “Six weeks is the minimum commitment MediGlobal will accept. Tom plans to stay longer.”

  “We thought about asking my mum and dad to come down from Scotland,” Tom says. “But they’re not fit enough. Mum’s in constant pain from her arthritis. Dad’s back is playing up again. It would be too much for them.”

  Sam and Rosie have been coming to stay since they were babies. This house is their second home. Even now, without Brian around to help, I’m keeping up the tradition of having the kids for the occasional weekend to give their mum and dad a break. But six weeks … Abby’s right. It is a huge thing to ask. I’m just not sure I’ll be able to cope.

  “Wow. You’ve certainly put me on the spot.”

  Abby turns on Tom. “See? I told you it would be too much for her.”

  “Don’t have a go at me. It was your idea to ask her.”

  “Er, hello. I am here, you know. You don’t have to talk about me in the third person.” I wrap my hands around my mug of tea and turn to Abby. “So you’ve arranged time off from the practice?”

  “Mum, honestly. It doesn’t matter. Please … forget I said anything.”

  “Just answer my question.”

  “Yes … I’ve arranged time off. The practice partners are happy to give me unpaid leave. They’ll get in a locum to cover for me.”

  “Right … So, the new school term starts next week, which means the kids would be off my hands during the day.”

  “Mum, leave it. I don’t want you talking yourself into this.”

  “I agree,” Tom says. “Don’t worry. There will be other disasters.” He finishes with a quiet,
poignant laugh.

  “How long do I have to think about it?”

  “That’s the thing,” Abby says. “I need an answer pretty much right away. I called MediGlobal. There’s a spare seat on Tom’s transport. They’re putting pressure on me to let them know if I’m taking it. Otherwise they’ll give it to somebody else.”

  If Abby goes to Nicaragua she will save lives. Without wishing to sound too noble, I believe that I have a moral duty to support her. But I say nothing. Instead I sit staring into my tea, thoughts careering around my head. Abby breaks the silence.

  “Look, it’s fine. It was just a whim on my part. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” I ask her if she remembers the conversation we had the other day. “You told me it was time I started living again.”

  “And you told me you’re not ready.”

  “Nana thinks I’m ready. She’s even been at me to start dating.”

  “And what did you tell her?”

  “I told her she’s crazy.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have a point. I dunno … perhaps I’ve become addicted to grief.”

  “Will you listen to yourself? I’ve made a mistake. This is all way too fast. You can’t just snap out of grief.”

  “Who’s talking about snapping out of it? All I’m suggesting is that the children might give me a new focus and help me reconnect with the world a bit quicker.”

  “Sounds good in theory,” Tom says. “But what if you can’t cope?”

  “So one of you would get on a plane and come home. It wouldn’t be the end of the world.”

  Abby shrugs. “I guess not.”

  It’s fast becoming a no-brainer. “I want to give this a go. Please let me.”

  “But what about Nana? I didn’t even think about her. You’ve got her to worry about, too. The kids would just be adding to your stress.”

  “Maybe not. Your nana might be a moaner, but she’s also a feeder. She’s not going to miss out on a catering opportunity. Believe me, she’ll be in her element. I’m thinking that having the kids here could do her a power of good, too.”