by Caroline Day
‘Are you a nurse?’ This is me, and it’s because of the uniform and the putting the thing in my ear and telling me better – which I know even in the accent – and now a tight thing going whoosh around my arm and squeeze squeeze squeeze. It makes me have to bite my teeth together and squeeze my hands.
She says yes. She says nurse again and something something hospital.
I’m thinking hospital, of course. But I still can’t remember. Stupid head. Stupid brain. Did I run into a car? Did I have a G&T and vodka, and did I run into the road and forget about the car? But I look down and there is no big, hard bandage on my arm, just the scratchy, touchy plastic band, and the other arm is being squeezed by the tight pressure thing, but not quite so much now. And where is my mum? Because even then, with the car and the broken arm, my mum was there with me in the hospital, sleeping in the chair beside me.
‘Where is my mum?’ This is me. ‘Do you know where she is?’
‘I see you.’
‘No. Not me. My mum. Her name is Jenny Nicely. Where is she?’
‘I see you.’
I don’t think the nurse can be very clever. And, really, that’s not good for a nurse because when I was little, like twelve or fourteen, I used to say about when I was grown up that’s what I would be. Because of liking plasters and uniforms and because of nurses being nice to me when I was doing games and being measured. But it wasn’t such a good idea, in the end. Because of having a brain a bit like a jumble sale. And because of the forgetting. And because of not liking needles or blood. And because of walking dogs being a much better job for me, in fact, because of liking animals more than anything, and especially Tinie and all the puppies. And maybe this nurse has a brain which is a bit of a jumble too. So I try again, talking slowly.
‘My mum is called Jenny Nicely. She’s a poet and she works in the bookshop. Do you know where she is please?’ And I look at her and I’m making my face that says this is important. And I say please again, because of that being polite.
‘I see you.’ Again. Silly woman. I’m right here. Of course she sees me. She’s just been putting her plastic thing in my ear and holding my wrist. And I even have my name written on it just there, on the plastic thing.
‘Doctor here soon. Talk to you. Know more about then.’
And then she’s gone. And she’s talking to someone else. And it’s only now I’m really thinking about being in a room with other people and other beds. I don’t know any of them. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want this thing on my wrist, this touchy thing, but when I try to pull it, it’s too tight to come off, so I keep my fingers under it, so it’s not touching my skin. And when another nurse, but with a different colour uniform, brings me some toast, she doesn’t put the butter on and anyway the butter isn’t butter, it’s margarine, and it’s in a little tub that is tiny and the margarine is too yellow. If I was showing it and not telling it, I would say it is the same colour as a daffodil. Or a buttercup, or a dandelion. And it is hard to spread it with one hand, and with my fingers underneath the plastic band. And the margarine doesn’t melt and there is jam but it’s strawberry so I don’t want it. And the toast is not nice. It’s cold and brown, not white – which is telling, not showing and I don’t even care. I want Nutella. I want my mum.
‘Bathroom?’ This is not the same nurse although she’s wearing the same uniform, which is blue too, just with different hair and different skin and a different face and long hair not short hair. ‘You’ve come too far. Here darling. It’s back here.’
I wasn’t looking for the loo because of mostly wanting to go away and not be here anymore, but I do need a wee, actually. In fact, a lot. I can’t even shut the door because of it being confusing how to do it, and because of being in a hurry. And then, after my wee, I try to go away again, but I can’t because of the door not opening and because of another nurse telling me, come on, sweetheart, let’s get you back to bed and saying, what’s happened to your wrist, and it’s because of the loo paper, which is inside the touchy band, to stop it touching my skin, which was a very bingo idea, actually. And the nurse is telling me, the doctors will be along soon and do I want another cup of tea because, look, mine’s gone cold and I haven’t even drunk it.
‘I don’t understand. Why are you here? Where’s my mum?’ This is me.
There is a box of chocolates on the plastic table over my bed. It’s Roses. And I like Roses, the strawberry ones mostly, despite not liking strawberry jam or even strawberries in real life. And the ones like Dairy Milks but teeny-tiny. Or maybe that’s the different ones which are even more purple. But not the coffee ones. Not ever. But I’m not even opening it. I’m not even saying thank you. Because of my brain being a bit stuck in thinking, ‘Where is my mum?’
‘Surely you remember?’ That’s Danny Flynn. And I don’t understand. Remember what? Why is he here? Is he my boyfriend now, maybe? Maybe he is, because of walking me home and bringing me chocolates? There was another thing? Yesterday, maybe. A thing … Something happened. He held my hand. Bingo! So maybe he is my boyfriend now. And I’ve never had a boyfriend before. But I can’t remember. Because of the jumble sale. And still the fog. And Julie Clarke is with him and that is making my brain even more stuck. Because Julie is my social worker, or not anymore because of being quite old. And Danny Flynn is in my writing group. So why are they even together? And now it’s Julie Clarke talking and she’s asking don’t I remember, and saying about my mum and an emergency and me being in the park in the night and it being cold and wet.
I’m looking at her. I’m even forgetting to count. Because I don’t remember, and I should. She’s saying it was an emergency – and that’s an important thing. But my stupid brain can’t even remember. I know it’s not a lie, because of it being Julie and my mum who used to do the role plays with me, and the rules, and the one about lying being bad, and because of Julie being one of my core workers, but not anymore because of me being grown up now and her being so old. But in my head there is a feeling now, and I’m thinking I would like to throw my pillow – which isn’t my real pillow because of not being soft like my real one – right at them and shout at them to go right away. And I would like to go right away too.
13
Now I am going to try very hard to show and not to tell. And what I am not going to tell is about my mum, who is Jenny Nicely, and about her being here in front of me and all these tubes and big boxes making beeps and things. And I am not going to tell about me crying, or me saying wake up Mum and shouting a bit too. But I’m going to show that there are lovely long eyelashes, because my mum, Jenny, has really long eyelashes that don’t even need any make-up, they’re just natural, but they are not moving, not up and down at all. Her eyes are not open and looking at me.
If they were open they would be big and very dark, like coffee with only the tiniest bit of milk in it. And they would be kind and always looking at me to make sure I am smiling and nothing is wrong.
My mum, Jenny Nicely, says that when we’re sad or we’re scared or when people are being mean to us, sometimes those are the times when it helps to smile, even if we don’t feel like doing it. Smile brightly, Hope Nicely, that’s what she says. And maybe I should smile now. Maybe this is one of those times. But I can’t do it. I can’t smile. And I know it is my mum, with her lovely eyelashes, even with her eyes still closed, but on her nose and mouth it’s a bit like an elephant, because of it being covered with a thing and a long tube like a trunk.
All around her are televisions on feet, but not with the news or EastEnders or Coronation Street but just with numbers and lines like graphs. And her pyjamas are not the ones with the squares and colours which are Scottish, like on men’s skirts called tartan kilts, but it’s a nightie that’s not a nightie because of it not having any buttons. Like mine that I wore until I was allowed to put my clothes back on again, my real dry ones that Julie Clarke and Danny Flynn brought me, which are my white hoodie and my leggings that don’t have my bottom showing. But her
arms are wrapped in blue wrappers. And the doctor is saying, sshh, you can’t be so noisy in here. Not in I See You. Because of me telling my mum that I love her and that I want her to wake up.
And I’m trying not to shout but then it’s time for me to go, because I have to talk to the doctor outside. Julie Clarke and Danny Flynn are saying, come on then, your mum’s in the best hands. But in the room there is a sound like a scream – and I can’t say it’s me making the noise, because of not telling, only showing, but my mouth is open and my hand is on my mum’s arm, but not on the bit with the needle going in. And she is cold, like when you take a cucumber out from the fridge.
The doctor is saying, I’m very sorry but we really must leave. And I don’t understand. Because my mum loves me, and adopting me was the best thing she ever did in her whole entire life, better than all her poems put together. So why won’t she wake up to talk to me? I’m telling her and telling her and telling her to wake up, but still she keeps her eyes closed.
‘You do understand, Hope?’ This is the doctor. We’re in the different room now, with no beds, only a desk and some chairs and tissues on the desk. I wasn’t allowed to stay in the other room. Because of the patients needing it to be calm and quiet when they’re so poorly.
‘My mum’s not awake because of being kept asleep, and being kept really cold to look after her brain. So she’s having a long sleep. Then she’ll wake up. But when will …?’
‘Hope.’ Like he thinks I don’t know my name already. I’m sitting on my hands and I’m telling my brain to listen. I’m not humming. I’m not shouting. Not anymore. I’m listening so hard it’s giving me a headache. ‘That’s what everybody hopes will happen. That your mother will wake up. Unfortunately, we can’t know yet that she will wake up and, if she does, we don’t know what long-term effects there will be. When somebody’s heart stops and they stop breathing, the brain is starved of oxygen and that can cause damage which can be permanent. It’s impossible to predict what sort of recovery that person will make, if indeed they do recover …’
Sometimes people talk to me as if I am a very little girl and as if I don’t understand anything. They talk like I’m stupid, like I’m a Nicely No-Brain, rather than grown up now, with a real job and writing a book, which is a Big Achievement. This doctor is talking to me now, but he’s talking very slowly, and he’s asking do I understand, and I’m thinking he’s saying to himself in his head that I don’t really understand. And I do understand. Because I know about brains that get damaged. But what I say is, and I say it slowly, too, and not even shouting at all, just very quiet: ‘In fact, I think my mum will recover. Actually. I think she will wake up and her brain will be good as new.’
‘Do you understand what I’m asking you, Hope, darling?’ Julie Clarke is saying this to me, and leaning towards me with her hands out and a big expecting smile, and this because of me still not replying to her question, which is because I’m thinking about it in my head still. But her big smiling and big nodding is like a cue, and with her looking at me too. And I’m thinking it’s because of her wanting me to say something.
‘You’re asking me if I want to go to a place like a hotel or like a hospital but nicer, and with my own room and people for making food and taking me in a minibus to work and also there’s a television in the room where all the other people sit.’
She’s nodding and she’s telling me, exactly, yes. It’s a lovely centre and also has a pool table and video games and it …
I don’t want to go there. Because of not knowing it or where it is. And never having been before. And because of not knowing the other people or whether they will call me No-Brain or Spaz, or whether they will wee in their trousers or want to talk all the time when I don’t want to. Or they might want to watch Question Time or football. Then Julie says, OK, well if I’m not so keen on the respite centre, she might be able to find out about if there’s a foster family. And then I would … But I don’t want a foster family. I say no and I think it’s quite loud because the old woman on the table next to me stops eating her soup and turns her head to look at me when I say it.
We are not in the room with the doctor anymore. We are in the café downstairs, and it smells like carrots and maybe curry and washing-up. And also a bit like ice cream though I think that’s in my head. And all around us are old people and nurses, or maybe doctors, who are wearing the uniforms a bit like pyjamas, but in all different colours. Some are light blue and some are blue but more dark, and some are green. And the light above me is doing a funny thing where it keeps going lighter, and not so light, and lighter again, and I wish someone would turn it off. It’s making my head buzz.
I haven’t finished my pizza and that’s maybe because of eating my whole box of Roses, except for the coffee ones, because yuck yuck yuck. But it’s also because of the pizza not being like the ones my mum buys, which have cheese on the top and cheese inside the crust, and also pepperoni, but this one is only cheese on top and it’s not so nice. It’s more prickly, in my mouth. And ham. But I have picked off all the ham and I’m eating the very last bit of it, I’m still chewing, and I’m saying to Julie that I don’t want to live with a family that I don’t even know and haven’t even met before. And fostering is for children, not grown-up people like me who have real jobs and who are even writing a book. Not even if they’re a very nice family. And I’m saying no thank you, not even live with them for one night or two nights. And I’m saying that I can live in my home, even without my mum there. Because of me being grown up now, and independent. And it would be perfectly fine, actually. And anyway, she’ll be back home very soon. My mum, Jenny. Just as soon as she wakes up.
And while I’m saying this, Danny Flynn is walking up to the table and he’s carrying a tray and he’s saying one latte for Julie and a white tea for Hope – although actually it’s a brown tea, just one with milk in it, and no sugar – and this one’s his. And he’s putting the cups in front of us and he’s listening to Julie saying, yes, Hope, she knows I’m very independent and of course she understands about me not wanting to stay with strangers, but let’s think about the practicalities, and have I ever actually lived – even just for a night – on my own. And she’s saying that it’s a shame that her grandson is staying with her right now as it means that her sofa’s already taken at the moment, and that Katya – that’s another social worker, but one who is younger and not retired – is away on her honeymoon this week, because she might have had other suggestions. But, seriously, Hope, do I really think that being alone would be such a …
The light is still doing the thing, of going bright and then not bright, like it’s shouting and then doing quiet talking, but in light not in talking. And my head is saying stop it. And I put my hand in front of my eyes because of not liking the light. And it’s like it’s making my brain blink.
Danny Flynn says actually he has a suggestion and it’s about his home, which is with his mother and his brother. They have a spare room, and I’d be very welcome to it. And it’s only round the corner from my place, so it wouldn’t feel like I was miles away and it would be easy as anything to nip home whenever there was something I needed. I’m looking at him through my fingers. Because of the light, going bright, not bright, bright. When he smiles there are little dips in his cheeks, just on the side of his mouth. And I know there’s a name for them. It’s not pimples. It’s something …
‘… not sure what the regulations are.’ This is Danny. ‘But my mum is a trained paediatric nurse, although she’s not working right now, and she’s also registered as my brother’s carer, because of his Asperger’s. And, I mean, I’m CRB-checked, we have to be if we work in the children’s library at any point, but I’m not sure if we even meet your …’
And Julie is saying, well, that’s extremely kind, and actually, no, there are no official regulations because of my age and the unusual situation, but what does he think his mother would say. And Danny Flynn is saying, oh, actually, he already asked her, because he’d been
thinking about what would happen to me when I came out of hospital. He says his mum would be delighted to have me there. And he’s saying that I could have my own en suite shower room. And I ask what that means – my silly head, I’m thinking they’re talking about a sweet shower room, not like chocolate and sweeties sweet, of course, but like it’s very little and pretty and like a maybe very furry pink carpet and pictures of puppies and baby rabbits everywhere. But actually in fact it means that it’s in the same room as the bedroom and just for me and nobody else, with my own door, so you don’t have to go out into the corridor in the middle of the night for a wee. And there’s a desk, for writing my book, and, in fact, there’s a telly in the bedroom too. So even if Danny Flynn or his mum or his brother wanted to watch Question Time or football, that would be OK. Because it would be my own space, only there would be somebody there to make food and give me some company if I wanted it. And Danny Flynn could even …
He stops talking now but that’s only because of me shouting out the word, because of remembering it, because of course they are dimples, not pimples. And it’s a bit funny, because pimples are spots, like they’re also called zits and crater face. But then I say sorry for interrupting. I say my silly mouth. And he smiles some more dimples into his face, and it’s a little bit pink in his cheeks like he’s warm in here, and he says that’s OK. Anyway, as he was saying, he could even walk me to work in the morning, on his way to the station, and he’s sure I’d like his mum’s cooking because she’s amazing, and his brother is funny, once you get to know …
