A Pocketful of Stars, page 13
I see a bunch of doctors and nurses surrounding Mum’s bed, including Amanda and the doctor that always chats to Dad.
My heart leaps. What’s wrong? What are they doing?
I watch as they talk. They seem serious, very serious.
The machine is making all sorts of noises, and they’re mumbling things I can’t hear.
Amanda sees me. She mutters something to the doctor, who looks over at me before turning back to Amanda with a curt nod, and jogs towards me.
‘Safiya?’ Amanda says. ‘Shouldn’t you be in school?’ She glances in the direction of the empty reception desk with a frown. I suppose someone should have been there to stop me getting in.
I ignore her question. ‘Why are they sticking things in her mouth . . . and . . .’ My voice breaks.
‘All right,’ Amanda says soothingly. ‘Let’s go over here, shall we?’ She talks to me like I’m a scared animal, and leads me to an empty office down the hall.
‘What’s happening?’ I ask as soon as the door shuts behind us.
I try to settle into the giant armchair that sits across from Amanda. The size of it makes me feel like I’m little again.
Last year me and Elle went back to our old primary school, where her mum works. We helped her set up her classroom for World Book Day. All the desks seemed tiny, the rooms too.
‘I think it’s best for the doctor to discuss it with your father . . .’ Amanda says cautiously. ‘Sometimes there are just –’ she sighs – ‘complications . . .’ Her sentence fizzles out. It seems she’s stuck for words, like she’s holding something back.
We talk for a while, but it doesn’t help. My chest feels like it’s weighed down by rocks and I’m sinking down, down, down towards the bottom of the ocean.
A cleaner comes in just then, interrupting our chat. ‘Sorry,’ he says, looking between us, before shutting the door behind him.
‘Are you OK now, Safiya?’ Amanda asks, eyeing up my uniform. ‘Do you think it might be a good idea to go to school? Get your mind off things?’ She looks troubled. ‘Your dad does know you’re here, doesn’t he?’
No.
I nod. ‘Can I see her?’
‘Not right now, love. But we’ll be chatting to your dad soon. Maybe you can come in with him and see her later?’
Another nod.
As I leave, it takes everything I have to concentrate on walking. Left and right, my legs feel tingly and weak. Eventually I make it out of the hospital, but I don’t walk in the direction of school.
Ten minutes later I’m letting myself into Mum’s flat. I dump my stuff down, collapse on to the sofa, and burst into tears.
I dream that the house is filling up with water. I’m at one end of it and Mum’s at the other. She’s awake, and we try to swim towards each other. But just as we are about to grab each other’s hands, seaweed wraps round my feet, like slimy fingers, and pulls me back.
I try again and again. Each time I get a little bit closer and I grab on to her tighter, but I can never get close enough.
Eventually the seaweed has wrapped itself round my entire body, like a caterpillar’s cocoon, and I can barely see Mum any more, barely see anything.
I call out her name, but no sound comes out. My voice is lost in the bubbles.
We’re in Dr Oriji’s office later in the day, the same office Amanda took me to just a few hours ago. I sit in the same chair, but it doesn’t seem big this time. It seems just right, like I’ve grown up far more than I should have in the last few hours. Like I’m growing as the conversation ticks on.
I feel groggy from the events of the morning and my eyes are still swollen from crying.
‘We’re going to run some tests,’ Dr Oriji explains.
The doctor sounds like she’s speaking in slow motion. I watch her lips form the words that make my stomach twist in knots. And when she’s done it’s like everything is moving in double speed to catch up.
‘What sort of tests?’ Dad asks, frowning. We agreed that I would come in today, that I needed to know, but Dr Oriji looks at me nervously, like she doesn’t want to say the next words in front of me. She opens her mouth, then closes it, rubbing her chin with her forefinger and thumb. Eventually she settles, arms resting on her desk.
‘We’re testing for brain stem death,’ she explains.
Death. Death. Death.
The word thumps in my mind like something slamming hard against my skull until I bury my face in my hands. It doesn’t go away, and I want to scratch at my skin, my hair, to get it out. But it’s too rooted inside me to simply pluck out, and all I can do is cry.
There’s a bit of fumbling while Dr Oriji gets me a tissue, and Dad pulls his chair closer to mine. He holds my hand while the doctor continues to explain.
Apparently Mum is no longer in a normal coma – the one where you think the person might wake up. The complications mean that they have to check her brain function to make sure that everything’s working. And they’ve put Mum on the ventilator again, so she’s not breathing on her own any more.
But I know her brain is working. I’ve been swimming in her memories as I’ve played the game. How could all this be happening if she isn’t alive?
Because you spilled the perfume. You ruined the game.
I push the thoughts aside and focus instead on what I can do to fix things.
I tried to look up the perfume, but nothing came up in my search. I suppose there are no ‘magical perfume’ shops online.
All that’s left in the bottle is the oily residue, barely enough for a drop.
What if I dilute it? That way it can last a bit longer.
Yes! I think. Just enough to finish the game.
I’m getting closer, I can feel it.
Dr Oriji’s voice shatters through my thoughts of the past and catapults me back to the present moment with the force of an elastic band.
The doctors will run a series of tests. They’re a bit weird and oddly simplistic, like those science experiments you do in primary school, but on a human. They do each of the tests twice with two different doctors. The doctors then meet to discuss the results.
When I ask Dr Oriji how often this happens she says it’s standard procedure for this sort of thing. When I ask her what happens if Mum fails all the tests, she doesn’t give me a straight answer, just looks at Dad.
But that tells me everything I need to know. If Mum fails the tests, then it’s GAME OVER.
My limbs feel heavy whenever I move, like someone’s tied rocks to them to weigh me down. It’s like everything happening in my life is a bad dream, and I have to shake myself awake every few moments. Somehow it’s the memories that feel most real to me now.
‘Do you want to visit your mum?’ Dad asks, but his voice sounds far away.
I nod, even though I don’t have the book of fairy tales to unlock the next memory. Elle has it, but I’m not ready to face her just yet.
Today I want to see Mum and spend time with her without worrying about having to solve puzzles. So, I forget about memories and games and tests; I just sit by her bedside, pull The Wizard of Oz from my bag, and read.
I ring Elle’s doorbell three times before someone answers.
While I wait I’m not quite sure what to do with my hands so I swap from clasping my hips, to crossing them in front of me. It looks like I’m doing a weird version of the hokey-cokey.
Eventually I stick my hands in my jacket pocket and play with the perfume bottle. I brought it and the bracelet with me. They’re my weapon and armour as I face the next challenge of the game.
Years ago, on my tenth birthday, Mum gave me a book of fairy tales. Except I wasn’t really into that sort of thing. I had just started playing video games and all I wanted was a new console. I never even looked in it, just gave it to Elle, because she was obsessed with princesses at the time.
If I had bothered to read it, maybe I would have asked Mum who ‘R’ was, and I would have known everything I know about her now sooner.
I hope Elle hasn’t given the book away. What’ll I do if I can’t get the next object?
‘Safiya!’ Elle’s mum says when she opens the door, obviously startled to see me. I wonder if Elle told her we don’t sit together at school any more. ‘I . . . Elle’s around somewhere. Let me get her.’
‘Hey,’ Elle says, equally surprised, when she sees me.
I want to ask for the book and leave as soon as I can, but I don’t think that’s the point of the challenge. When I found the cats I ended up talking to Dad about Mum; when I found the flyer for the play I started emailing Rawan; and after I spoke to Aunt Zaina she agreed to visit. So, I know today I have to do this properly.
‘Can I come in?’ I ask.
When we get to Elle’s room it’s like travelling back in time. She has pink and white striped wallpaper and pink glittery curtains to match. Her room’s been like this since she was seven.
‘Mum’s going to redecorate,’ Elle says, as if she’s embarrassed, when she sees me looking around. I realize I haven’t been here in a while.
‘Really?’ I frown. ‘I like it how it is.’
Elle shrugs and flops on to her bed. ‘Want a drink?’ she asks like nothing’s changed.
I shake my head. Silent Saff is back again, and I’m not quite sure how to start the conversation. I don’t feel awkward, though, not this time. I just wait for Elle to speak because I think she owes me that.
Eventually she does.
‘How’s your mum?’ she asks, looking concerned. ‘Is she still in a coma?’
I can feel my blood boil as the words leave her mouth. Even though she looks like she cares, she asked about Mum in the same way you’d ask someone if they watched a popular programme on TV, or finished their homework on time.
‘Yes, she is,’ I snap. ‘What kind of question is that?’
‘Sorry,’ Elle answers, eyes wide. She’s not used to me being mad at her.
‘She’s going to be fine,’ I add, though I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince.
There might’ve been a time when I would’ve told Elle about Aminah and Rawan and the challenges I’ve had to face. For some reason, though, I don’t, even though she’s acting like things are normal.
Maybe because I’m not sure she would believe me. Maybe because I’m not sure she’s special enough to share this with any more. Seeing Rawan and Mum together makes it clear how much things have changed between Elle and me.
Elle says nothing in response.
‘Anyway,’ I carry on, taking charge now, ‘do you remember that book of fairy tales I gave you?’ I describe it for her when she looks confused.
I watch Elle’s brain tick, my heart pounding. She doesn’t have it, I knew it!
‘Oh!’ Elle finally says. ‘Do you mean this?’ She rummages at the very back of her cupboard. She doesn’t even have it on her bookshelf.
It’s dusty, and there’s a mark on the cover that didn’t exist when Mum gave it to me. It might just be a book to Elle, like all the other ones she has, but it’s special to me. It means something. And right now I wish I had never given it away.
‘You can have it back,’ Elle says, like I let her use my hairbrush. ‘That reminds me! Can I borrow your boots this weekend? Matty’s taking me to a trampoline park, so I need something comfy.’
‘Um . . . I guess,’ I say.
‘Awesome. Sit next to each other on Monday, yeah? Then I can tell you all about it.’
I don’t respond or say that I quite like sitting next to Izzy and spending lunch with Gini and Charlotte. This always happens with Elle. She gets annoyed at me and I wait for her to stop being mad. But things are different this time, I just don’t know how to say that.
I say my goodbyes then, and Elle waves me off from her bed. As I make my way into the hallway I notice the stained-glass window that looks out into Elle’s perfect garden. But instead of grass and apple trees and sun, it transforms into sand and palm trees and stars.
Mum and Rawan are sitting together. They’re laughing about something I can’t hear, sharing sugar sweets and drinking tea like they always do. The two cats loiter around them, probably hoping for scraps. Eventually the cats settle, the heart-shaped markings on their backs align, tails twisting together.
Come on, Saff, I whisper to myself. You can do this.
And that’s when I turn back to Elle.
I take a deep breath and, for the first time in our entire friendship, I speak my mind.
‘Things changed this year,’ I begin, pausing while I gather my thoughts. ‘I thought it was my fault at first, and that I was being a bad friend.
‘I thought I wasn’t growing up quick enough. I couldn’t understand why I didn’t care about boys. I thought it meant I was being selfish and jealous and silly . . . then I realized I’m not the problem,’ I say with certainty.
‘OK,’ Elle eventually says, stretching out her vowels. ‘I mean, I sort of get it.’
‘You do?’ I raise my eyebrows, not convinced.
Elle nods. ‘Me and Abir were talking about this actually. We think that maybe we’re the ones who are growing up a bit quicker. But we can’t really help it, you know? It’s just . . . we’re more mature, I guess. You’ll get there eventually.’ She smiles, like she’s being helpful and not mega patronizing. ‘Like the games and cartoons. Maybe when you grow out of all that, other things will replace it. But you’re right. It’s not your fault. It’s just . . .’ She shrugs, not finishing her thought.
It’s just that I’m better than you. I know it’s what she’s thinking.
Elle’s wrong, so wrong. Liking games and animated films doesn’t make me immature – it means I have interests. But letting your friends get picked on by means boys is. And anyway, who says being mature has anything to do with fancying people? Not everyone has to fancy someone. Not ever, if they don’t want to.
But I don’t say any of that – I just say the one thing that needs to be said. ‘I don’t think we can be friends any more,’ I announce, and it’s like butterflies are swarming in my belly. But then they fly out of my mouth and out of the window to where Rawan and Aminah are sitting in the garden. And that’s when I leave Elle’s room for good, the monster trailing behind me.
It followed me home the day Aminah and Mama had their argument. It sits in the corner of my room and follows me around, waiting for the right moment to strike. Except it’s not a monster at all: it’s a shapeshifter. And today it’s a fairy.
Sometimes the shapeshifter is angry and hurtful, but other times it’s kind and passionate. That’s the thing about having fire inside you the way Mum and I do: once you learn to control it, it’s like having the best superpower around.
As I walk out of Elle’s house towards the hospital I put the perfume bottle back in my bag for safe-keeping. I take a glance back towards Elle’s garden, but the desert oasis has disappeared, replaced by neat hedgerows and flowers.
I think back to primary school, Elle in front, me following, as we formed a snake in the playground. Today I finally broke the link.
I don’t need Elle to lead me any more. Because I can lead myself.
Before I enter Mum’s hospital room, I stop by the water filter, and pull the perfume bottle from my bag. My hands start shaking as I fill it with a drop of water, then two. Just enough.
I give the bottle a sniff. It’s diluted, but the smell is still there.
One drop. Two drops. Three.
They slide and sink into her skin like always. And it’s as if, in that moment, the magic has been unlocked.
The room starts to fade. I can no longer feel the hard chair I’m sitting on, or the hospital floor beneath my feet. I can no longer hear the ventilator, or the nurses chatting in the corridor. For a moment it’s as if I don’t exist. And then all at once I’m back there, in the house.
An enormous rug stretches across the living room, embroidered in blues and greens, but it’s worn, half the thread spilling out of it, resembling an tumultuous ocean. A diamond chandelier hangs over the rug, cracked, its ends jagged, like stars twinkling in the sky.
This is the room where I first met Aminah. I think back to her argument with Zaina and Mama, and then I think about how much their lives have changed, how much my life has changed.
The room is the size of my entire house put together. The furniture is covered in all sorts of patterns, and there are antique cabinets with items made of gold that glisten. But a layer of dust has settled over everything like it’s been empty for years, waiting to be found. Waiting to be searched.
I cross the rug and look up at the chandelier. One of the cracked diamonds winks at me, like it’s asking me to choose it. I drag an ornate chair across the room, though its arm is now hanging off, broken, and place it just beneath the diamond. I climb the chair and prise it off. As soon as my fingers clasp round it, the room erupts into chatter.
Dozens of women wearing colourful Kuwaiti-style dresses – pink, orange and green – stand around the room talking. The men wear traditional clothes too as they huddle together in one corner around a hookah, a cloud of smoke enveloping them. Children rush from one side of the room to the other, chasing one another.
A great big platter of food stands at the centre of the room – it holds melon, tea, dates, and elaborate sugar sweets piled up in a great big tower.
It must be Eid. Mum told me about it once and it sounded exactly like this.
I scan the crowd, trying to spot her. Then I see her dashing down a hallway that leads out from the living room to an exit I haven’t seen before.
I fling myself off the chair and follow. As I cross the room my brain tunes in to all the different conversations spoken in both Arabic and English. The smell of even more food travels up from the kitchen; it makes my mouth water. But everything else fades into the background as I follow Aminah through a narrow archway. This one is lined with green plants, just like the others, the yellow flowers blooming. But they’re not drooping this time; they’re very much alive.
