Hope Nicely's Lessons for Life

by Caroline Day

  ‘Let me have a look.’ That’s my mum. She says it as she’s standing up, but she only stands up for, like, a tiny moment, like counting only one, two and not even three. Then she sits back down again. And she’s making a noise that is a bit like a sigh or like when you’ve been running. And I say is she OK, and she says yes, yes.

  And she stands up again and she is walking towards me, saying, surely that’s the same pizza menu, and I’m saying no, because the other one had a picture of a man with a big spoon on the front. And she says but maybe it’s the same place just with a different … And she stops. And she puts her hand on the corner of the table. It’s like she’s slapping it, because the noise of her hand on the wood is very loud. She puts her hand onto her neck.

  ‘What are you doing?’ This is me.

  She looks at me. Her mouth is open but she’s not saying anything. And it’s like she’s trying to tell me something with her eyes.

  ‘Mum?’

  She is bending forward, like there’s something on the floor she needs to look at more closely. She drops down, onto her knees.

  ‘Mum.’ This is me. I am shouting. ‘Stand up.’

  And then she falls. Like from kneeling, her body goes down to the side. There is a thump.

  ‘Stand up.’ That’s me. I’m shouting other things too that are not words but just sounds. And I’m kneeling down and putting my hands around my mum’s cheeks to turn her to look at me but her eyes are closed and she doesn’t wake up.

  9

  I’m crying now and I’m rocking and I’m pressing my hands on my mum’s shoulders and I’m rubbing my hands on her face.

  ‘Wake up.’

  There are thoughts in my head that I do not want to be there. Because I want my mum to open her eyes. I want her to stand up. And I don’t even mind if it’s not the same pizza. Or even no pizza.

  ‘Please wake up.’

  There is a thing. A thing that you are meant to do. If this happens, this – this which is a – I’m trying to think, but in my head there is just shouting and screaming and not wanting my mum to be lying down. And I’m banging my head a bit now, against my mum, on her shoulder – not so hard to hurt her. And still she’s not awake. And I’m telling myself it is important that I make my brain work better. But my brain just feels more muddled, like it’s a jumble sale in a fog, and I can’t even see the pile of things. And I’m crying so hard that my shoulders are shaking. But if my brain doesn’t work then I can’t make my mum wake up. I hate it. I hate my brain.

  And it’s like there are two of me – one me who is yelling and screaming and pressing my head on my mum, Jenny Nicely’s, chest – and one me who is in my head and shouting because of how rubbish I am. Rubbish No-Brain Nicely. Stupid.

  There is something. There is a thing. There is the thing I should be doing. I do know it. I know what I should do.

  But my head is yelling too loud. My head can’t think.

  I’m looking at my mum. She’s not moving. She’s not doing anything. I am the only one who can do the thing. So I stand up. And I punch my hand on the table. And I hit my head on the table. And I’m still shouting. And what I’m shouting is: ‘Stop, stop, stop.’ Because if I can stop my brain doing this, then maybe the thing will come to me. The right thing. And I want to keep on screaming, but this is important. It is so important. So I sit on a chair. I want to kick and punch. But I sit. I put my hands under my bottom. I can feel the plastic under me and it’s cold. And I do a thing with my brain like making it be as strong as it can. And I tell it no more shouting. I tell it stop. I tell it, count. I tell it, stop and count – for your mum.

  One-two-three.

  I am sitting on my hands and I’m squeezing my eyes so they’re shut and I’m telling myself to breathe slowly, even though I want to breathe as fast as I can and to be screaming all at the same time.

  One-two-three.

  I have to think about the thing. I have to think about the thing that will be for my mum. And make it not be too late.

  One, two, three.

  If my brain was better, it would remember. But one, two, three – that’s so easy even I can remember. And there’s another thing …

  One. Two. Three.

  A number. There’s a number to ring. In an … In an …

  I can remember. I can remember.

  Emergency. Bingo!

  The word comes to my head. And I do a big breath out. Because – of course – that is the thing. That is the thing I should have thought. That’s the thing I was trying so hard to remember. And also an ambulance. And both of the words have been dropped in my head at the same time, like twins. It is an emergency. I just have to ring the number for an ambulance. And my bag is still on the table and I open it. There is a little smell of my knickers when I unzip the zip. I take out my phone and I put in the numbers. And they are right there in my head.

  It rings. A woman answers. I say hello this is an emergency. I say I need an ambulance. ‘Please,’ I say. ‘Quickly.’

  ‘At the third stroke the time will be seven forty-four and twenty seconds.’ She sounds a bit like the Queen. I don’t think she’s understanding and so I tell her again.

  ‘Send an ambulance for my mum. She’s on the floor.’

  But she’s not listening. Because, flip a pancake, she’s still talking about the time. And I’m shouting now, because even if it’s rude, it is very, very important. ‘I don’t care about that. Just the ambulance. It is for my mum, Jenny Nicely.’

  ‘… seven forty-five precisely.’

  ‘I don’t want the time.’ This is me and I’m holding the phone in front of me and I’m yelling as loud as I can. ‘I just want you to come and make my mum OK.’

  But the woman is stupid. I press the stop button. And I’m shouting: ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid.’ And in my lungs, it’s like something heavy is pressing on me. I’m crying but it’s even hard to cry because of the heavy pressing in my lungs. And I’m making noises like a car when it’s squeaking as it stops because of needing oil. And I’m banging on the table.

  And then there is another noise. More banging. And I’m looking at my hands, because I’m thinking maybe it’s me. But even when I stop hitting the table, the banging is still there. And my brain is a bit confused until it realises that it is the door. Because of our bell being broken but there is still a knocker. It is shaped like a lion.

  This is very strange. Because it must be the ambulance. But the woman didn’t even ask where our house was. She only told me the time. But I know that I have to hurry and that it is important. And I’m thinking maybe because of me telling her my mum’s name, maybe that was how she knew where to send the ambulance. And maybe I shouldn’t have shouted at her for being stupid. And I’m hurrying, but my legs are feeling clumsy, and I knock a photograph off the table in the hallway as I run past. And it’s the photo of me in my school uniform with clouds and sky behind but they aren’t really real, actually. And I hear it smash but there is no time to pick it up.

  Now I’m opening the door. I’m saying thank the Lord, and I’m saying it’s incredible how fast you came and I’m saying I didn’t even think …

  But it is not an ambulance. It is Danny Flynn and he is holding up a book which is called The Nightmare Project. And he is smiling.

  ‘Why are you here?’ This is me. I can’t help it. I’m shouting. ‘I didn’t ask for you. I asked for an ambulance.’

  And he’s saying, I thought I’d run back with the book for your mum, while it was in my mind. He’s saying, otherwise I’d only forget again. And he’s saying, why are you crying? And what’s that about an ambulance? And Hope, are you all right? Hope, what’s happened?

  And I can almost not say the words from my mouth, because of the crying and because of my chest still having the heavy pressing. But I manage to say it – ‘My mum’ – but it’s like not one word, but four or seven or eight, because of my voice not being right. And Danny Flynn is asking if something has happened to my mum and I’m nodding
and crying and he’s coming inside. And I shouldn’t let people into the house if I don’t know them. But I think it must be absolutely fine. Because of him walking me home. And because of the emergency.

  When he sees my mum, he runs to her and kneels down. ‘Is she breathing?’ he asks. He’s bending very close to her face, like he’s going to kiss her. And he’s lifting up her hand, like he’s holding it, but higher than her hand, nearly her arm. ‘Shit.’ This is Danny Flynn. It’s swearing. It’s a word we shouldn’t say. But I don’t tell him. I just stand watching. ‘Hope. You said you’ve called 999 already?’

  I’m looking at him. And I’m thinking about what I called. On my telephone. And I’m thinking that I did know that. 999. Of course. Like, call 999, this is an emergency. But the number I called was 123. Maybe because of all the counting.

  ‘Hope?’ Danny Flynn is moving my mum’s head, so that now she’s staring up at the ceiling. And he’s putting his fingers over her nose, like he’s pinching her.

  I don’t want to tell him about calling the wrong number. Because he will think I’m stupid.

  ‘Hope?’ his voice is loud now. Like maybe he’s cross. Or scared. ‘Have you phoned an ambulance?’

  And I say no. And my voice feels very little.

  He pulls his phone out from his pocket and he presses the number and he puts it on the floor. And it must be on the loudspeaker because of me being able to hear the ringing. And a man’s voice says which service does he require and he says ambulance. And while he’s talking, he’s also pushing down on my mum, in between her boobs, with her lying on her back now. And he’s saying something under his breath that sounds like counting and then there’s the woman who says, ambulance, what’s the problem, and he’s saying, woman unconscious, not breathing and he’s saying 23a Station Close, that’s right, isn’t it, Hope …? And I’m not crying and I’m not shouting and I just say yes, but it’s like all my feelings are hiding and I don’t know where they’ve gone.

  The woman has an accent, and it’s maybe Scottish like Marnie Shale, and she’s saying does he know how to administer CPR, and he’s saying, yes, he has had first aid training and she’s saying, OK, so he knows thirty compressions, then two rescue breaths, and he says yes, that’s exactly what he’s doing. And in between speaking to the woman, he reaches down to my mum’s face with his head and he puts his mouth on her mouth.

  I’m thinking that maybe I should shout and push him off, because of keeping our hands to ourselves and not kissing people we don’t know or even touching them, but I’m also thinking I’ve seen this on Coronation Street, or maybe that other programme that my mum likes, which is in a hospital and everybody is a doctor or a person in a bed and they’re all saving lives and talking about sad things and relationships.

  The woman is asking Danny if he can give her the postcode and he looks at me and he says: ‘Hope, what’s your postcode?’ And I don’t know it – or, in fact, I think I do know it, but my memory doesn’t want to tell me it. But if I say that, then Danny Flynn will think I’m stupid, so I just say some numbers. The numbers that I say are 7-6-9-4-3-20.

  Danny Flynn puts his eyebrows close together but he doesn’t reply. Instead he says to the phone woman: ‘My house is literally around the corner, so only the last letter will be different, and mine is …’ And he gives her letters, too, not just numbers. Maybe that’s why his postcode was better than mine. One of the letters was A – like my flat. Like 23a. I don’t know why I didn’t say that.

  ‘That’s fine. I’ve found it. And the patient is still unconscious?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How long has she been unconscious for?’

  He looks at me. I’m thinking about crying and I want to go away. And I want my mum to be back awake. I don’t say anything. I feel like it’s all my fault for having a brain that can’t answer all these questions.

  ‘It can’t be more than five minutes’ – this is Danny Flynn – ‘because I spoke to her when I dropped Hope off, and I came straight back. Hope, did your mum collapse as soon as I’d left, or was it nearer to when I came back?’

  I’m thinking about the pizza and the prawn crackers and the picture being different because of not having the man with the spoon, and I’m thinking about my mum being alive and talking and I don’t want this. I. Don’t. Want. This.

  ‘Hope? It’s important. It could help your mum.’

  I put my hands on my head and I pull my hair until it hurts. ‘She was coming to see about the pizza. And then she fell down.’

  The woman on the phone can hear this because of the loudspeaker thing.

  ‘Patient’s name?’

  Danny Flynn and I tell her at the same time but I can hear his voice mostly because of mine feeling so small.

  ‘Her age?’

  I don’t like numbers. Numbers are like a thing I can’t hold in my head. But I’m thinking my mum, Jenny Nicely, is fifty-four, because of her having had a birthday not very long ago. Or maybe thirty-four. But I say fifty-four because of it being the first one in my head. And I think it’s right.

  ‘Any medical conditions? Is she taking any medication?’

  They want me to tell them more things because of Danny Flynn looking at me again. But my brain is telling me that it has done enough talking. And I’m putting my hands over my mouth and I’m breathing fast and it’s noisy because of the air coming out of my nose. Danny’s saying, Hope, darling, why don’t you sit down. I know this is hard. And he’s saying to the woman that my mum has told him she has cholesterol issues and high blood pressure too, and then he says – to me again – perhaps Hope knows where her pills are. I do of course, because they are all in her duck bag in the bathroom. It’s a duck bag because of having little ducks all over it. But how can I sit down, like Danny Flynn said to do, and go and get her pills, like he’s saying now?

  And he’s bending over again and giving my mum, Jenny, two more blow kisses. And I want her to open her eyes and give me a big, happy smile, and say: hello my Hope. But she’s just lying there, with Danny Flynn pressing on her body and the woman on the phone saying about ‘any history of …?’

  I’m not very good at knowing what I’m feeling. But this is not like sad or angry, or it’s not like anxious. It’s like the worst thing that I’ve ever felt. And I can’t find a word, and I can’t make my nose stop making the loud noise of breathing on my hand, and it’s very fast, like I’m blowing hard too, although not into my mum’s mouth, like Danny did, but just into the world. And Danny Flynn is asking, Hope, are you all right, and he’s saying, Hope, you really should sit down. But I still don’t know about the pills in the duck bag. And I don’t even know if my mum is going to wake up. And I don’t want the things in my head that are feeling like this. And I …

  I don’t want this.

  ‘Hope, where are you going?’ This is Danny Flynn. He’s shouting because of me walking to the door. And I can still hear him shouting as I’m out of the door, and the door is still open. And even when I’m two or three houses away, running past the house of Mr Khan, I can hear Danny Flynn shouting my name.

  I’ve never been a good runner, because of being very clumsy, because of being a Stupid No-Brain, but I’m running fast as I can. I’m not even thinking where I’m going, but at the end of Station Close I turn right – or maybe left – but I don’t know because of running too fast to put up my hand to see the L thing. But I’m running and running. And a couple of people say am I OK, because of the crying and the loud noise of my breathing. And one car beeps its horn, and that’s because of me crossing the road with running and without looking. But I’m still running and when an ambulance goes past, with its lights all blue and loud, I think maybe that it is for my mum and it’s going to our postcode, or Danny Flynn’s with the letters too. But I’m still running and I don’t turn back.

  4

  FINDING YOUR VOICE

  10

  My name is Hope Nicely. I am twenty-five years old and my brain is a bit unique becau
se of being made this way. I am sitting behind a bench, between the bench and a wall. The wall is of the café in the park, and it is of the toilets of the café. It smells like stale wee, like my knickers in my bag. But I don’t want to move, because of being here, with my knees pulled up to under my chin and my head down on them with my hands on top. And because of it raining and being dark and cold. And because of having already tried to go away from the park one time but not being able to because of the chain on the gates and the big lock.

  I wish I had my umbrella. The yellow one. I left it on a bench when I was picking up a dog poo, and I forgot to take it again after. That was quite a long time ago. I do have another umbrella now, but it’s not yellow, only black, and I don’t have that one here either. And I wish I had my anorak with the hood. But I didn’t wear it today, because of it not being rainy then. Usually, when I come home, I take off my anorak and my shoes and I put my slippers on, but I didn’t do that today. I didn’t take off my anorak because of not wearing it. And I didn’t take off my trainers because of hurrying so much for the loo. And my mum, Jenny, didn’t ask me why I was wearing my shoes and not my slippers, maybe because of not feeling so well. But maybe it’s for the best, actually, because my feet are a little bit wet, but they’d be even wetter if I’d had my slippers on instead of my trainers, probably.