A Pocketful of Stars, page 15
‘It’s OK, Saff,’ Dad says, my steady rock in a choppy ocean. ‘It’s going to be OK.’
When I was little my parents took me to horse riding club. I think they were worried because I was really shy back then, and they wanted me to learn to talk to people. I would clean the stables and feed the horses and help fetch equipment for lessons.
I loved the club for a while, until one day a horse bucked me off its back. I fell, splat, into the mud and broke my arm. After it healed Mum took me back and told me I had to get on the horse again. The same one. But my legs wobbled like jelly, and I cried and screamed and clung on to her shirt.
‘Safiya,’ she said, bending to my height, ‘you and me, we’re the same. We have fire in our belly and we can do anything. Being brave is about doing something even when it scares you.’
I sniffed, my face covered in tears, and I got on the horse.
Nothing bad happened that time.
On the way home Mum bought me an ice cream. ‘I’m proud of you, my little girl,’ she said. ‘You’re the bravest.’
I’ve been hiding from the world for the last week now. We met with the doctors and they’ve diagnosed Mum with ‘brain stem death’. They’re switching off her ventilator next week, which means she’ll stay asleep forever. Like a real princess in a tower.
Dad talked to the school and they agreed to let me have a couple of weeks off. I’ve spent most of my days casting spells and defeating wizards in the world of Fairy Hunters, and living off cheese and Marmite toasties. Lady’s thrilled because she has a friend with her at all times, and she follows me around like a shadow. But I’m glad for it, because I don’t know what I would do without her.
I keep crying over random things. Like the other day I went to make a toastie, but we were out of Marmite, so I burst into tears. Dad rushed in and, as soon as he saw what was wrong, he went to the shop and bought three jars and an extra big tub of hot chocolate.
The girls have been messaging me non-stop, but I’ve been ignoring them. Then, Izzy sends me the most special message I’ve ever received.
Izzy: I know things are hard for you at the moment, but we just want you to know we’re here for you. You don’t have to talk about it or anything, but we thought you might like to see this . . .
I open the attachment and, as I look at what she’s sent, my heart stirs, like a bear on the first day of spring.
Staring at me, from my computer screen, is a drawing of Aminah. She’s dressed in a hybrid princess-pirate outfit, sword in hand. And she’s standing in front of the ruined house. A darkness, like tar, tries to reach for her. It looks like a shadow dragon barricading the door to stop her from going in, but she’s ready to fight. The two cats position themselves behind her, her accomplices, ready to help.
My eyes fill up with tears, happy tears. But they’re also sad, because it’s Mum.
Lady scratches at my bedroom door, whining for me to let her in because I accidentally locked her out. When I do she sniffs round my feet excitedly, like she can sense the change in me.
I suddenly have the urge to be closer to Mum. I’m not ready to visit her at the hospital again, but I have another place I can go. The place where this all started: Mum’s flat.
Fifteen minutes later I have my coat on and Lady is bouncing up and down next to me. ‘Going for a w-a-l-k,’ I say, peering into the living room, where Dad’s busy working. I have to spell the word because Lady understands when I say ‘walk’, but I’m pretty sure she knows how to spell since she’s now glued to my side, almost tripping me up whenever I try to move. There’s also the fact that I’m holding her lead, ready to clip it on to her. That might’ve given it away.
Dad looks up, his reading glasses magnifying his eyes. ‘With Lady?’
I nod. ‘I need the fresh air.’ I almost leave it at that, but I decide to tell him. ‘And I’m going to Mum’s flat.’
‘OK,’ Dad says, his eyes lingering on me as I turn on my heel. ‘Love you.’
I turn back. ‘Love you too,’ I say, because I don’t want to ever forget those words again.
When I get to Mum’s flat I let Lady off her lead so she can explore.
There’s a load of post by the door, official-looking envelopes that I put aside for Dad. I add the rest to the existing pile. That’s when I notice the delivery note again, the one I saw on my very first visit. The note says a package has been left with the next-door neighbour.
Curious, I run across the hall and knock. And I can’t help but think how the old Safiya would never be brave enough to do this.
The woman who lives in this flat is much older than Mum. She’s friendly, even though we don’t know her very well.
‘Oh yes! I’ve got it out back,’ she says, when I show her the delivery note. Then she retreats into her flat, the door wide open. She’s wearing a kaftan-style dress and a headband.
I peer over her shoulder to see a burst of colour and patterns. Fabric lines the walls and the faint smell of cat litter lingers, masked by incense.
As if it knows its cue a three-legged fluffy grey cat jogs to the door. It lets out a small sharp miaow. I can’t tell if it’s greeting me or telling me to leave, but soon it rubs its body all over my legs and I know I’m welcome.
The incense wafts towards me and I’m reminded of the monthly ritual Mum performed with her bakhoor, and the bird in the game that led me to Aminah’s bedroom.
‘Sorry about her,’ the woman says, nodding at her cat, as she returns with a package.
I smile. ‘Oh, that’s fine. Thank you.’
When I get back to the flat Lady sniffs at me suspiciously. She looks up at me all upset, and I can read the words in her eyes: traitor, she says.
Eventually she lets out a sound between a snuffle and a snort, and trots back to the foot of the armchair. That was always Mum’s seat; she would settle in it cross-legged, while I lay sprawled on the sofa. I look at it now and imagine Mum there, Lady by her feet, while I open the package.
It’s a small wooden box, with my name carved into it in Arabic. It takes me a moment to recognize the letters, but when I do my heart starts drumming. I trace them with my fingers. I open it, knowing what I’ll find, because I can smell it already.
It’s a perfume bottle, identical to the one Mum had. Purple, glass cut like a diamond, with a heart-shaped stopper. I untwist it and apply a drop of perfume to my skin.
I close my eyes and I get a glimpse of something. Mum’s bedroom door. I know she’s still there waiting for me. And I realize, in that moment, that it’s not over yet. I still have a chance to finish the game, to save Mum.
When I go into the game things are different. I’m outside, right across the street by the limits of the game, while a sandstorm rages around me. The wind whips me to and fro, pulling at my clothes, tearing at my hair. It wants to spin me around, to take me for a dance like it’s doing with the leaves on the trees. It’s so fierce it feels like it might shatter my bones. It clings to my clothes, gets into my mouth and nose. I can taste it, feel it crunch between my teeth.
I take one step, then two, but it’s pulling me back away from the house.
I break my steps down.
One. Two. Three.
Just like that first day in hospital when I crossed the hall to get to Mum. I think about that and how far I’ve come. She’s so close now. I might even be talking to her in a few minutes. And then, when I leave the game, she’ll wake up.
I know she will. I can feel it.
Four. Five. Six.
We’ll get to the next stage of the competition and I can tell Mum all about the game and how I saved her. She’ll see that gaming is important, that it’s not just a waste of time.
We’ll celebrate Mother’s Day at her flat, and then her birthday.
I’ll ask her all about her life in Kuwait and what it was like moving to England when she was so young.
Seven. Eight. Nine.
I’m through the gate now. I’m getting closer. The silver branches surround the house entirely, sneaking through the cracks in the walls. They watch me as I walk, wriggling their bodies and hissing my name like a thousand snakes.
‘Safiya,’ they say, as if they were right next to me. ‘Turn back. You’re not ready.’
‘No!’ I yell, gritting my teeth.
I pick up my pace, jogging now. And I finally make it through the front door.
The house is in ruins. There are no longer cracks in the walls, because there aren’t any walls to begin with. The plants are all dead, the chandeliers are just shards of glass, and the bathroom is an empty pit. I glance in it, see the sink has fallen through the floor, and realize that the memory where Zaina spies on Aminah and Rawan is lost to me forever. The heartbeat of the house has slowed to a dull thud.
I rush upstairs, afraid of what I might find. What if the room is no longer there? What if Mum is gone?
But it’s still there, and so is Mum.
Looking up I can see gaps in the ceiling where the roof has caved in. The stars shine down at me, winking, and the moon waves. It’s like they’re here to help me.
The sandstorm has disappeared now, replaced by a gentle breeze sailing through the cracks in the walls. It howls like a sad puppy waiting for its owner to return.
I stand in front of the door, memory box in hand, and wait, half expecting the door to fly open.
I wait.
And wait.
Nothing happens.
I try twisting the doorknob but it’s still locked.
This can’t be right. There are no more memories, I’m sure of it.
I try to say something instead. ‘Mum? I have the memory box . . . I finished the challenges . . . I –’ I falter. I feel silly.
Something on the other side of the house thuds against the floor, hard.
I turn, afraid. That’s when the ceiling above me starts to tumble, concrete showering me in dust. I scream, and glance between the door and the crumbling house. And I make my choice: I run.
I dash down the stairs, memory box in hand. Is it too late? Was I too late?
I try not to think of it as the banister crumbles to ash beneath my fingers. It’s dying, the house is dying, just like Mum.
Tears stream down my face as I run out of the door, pull the gate open and dash across the street. When I finally reach the limits of the game I turn to see the world, Mum’s world, crumble behind me like a sandcastle destroyed by the waves of an angry ocean.
But in one blink I’m back in the hospital, Mum sleeping peacefully next to me. The gates are replaced with curtains, the dying house with Mum’s monitor, its steady beep and rhythm the only indication that she’s still alive.
Nothing has changed. I didn’t save her. I was wrong.
And the realization slaps me hard in the face, so hard I wish I had tumbled down, down, down with the house. I wish I had been washed away to sea like a sandcastle, or swept away by the wind.
‘How did it go, Saff?’ Dad asks when I get into the car. He knows I was taking the memory box in today to show Mum. He doesn’t know the real reason why.
‘That’s OK, if you couldn’t show her the box today. There’s more time until . . .’ He can’t finish the sentence, so I finish it for him. In my mind, at least.
Until we switch off Mum’s ventilator.
‘We can try again,’ Dad says determinedly instead.
I bristle at his words. We don’t have any more time. But he doesn’t know that, because he doesn’t know about the game.
When we get home Dad asks if I want to walk Lady with him. I say yes because, if I go up to my room, I’m not sure I’d ever want to leave it again.
It’s dark out now and, as we walk, I relish the feeling of the frosty night air. I breathe it in, like I’m drinking a cloud. It’s so different to the hot sticky air in Kuwait, which is like eating honey. Lately it’s felt more suffocating than sweet, like it might swallow me whole and spit out my bones.
We walk round the neighbourhood without speaking, Dad humming a tune quietly. Lady’s occasional sniffs and snorts break the silence, but it’s comforting. As I tread the familiar route with them both my attention shifts to the sky.
It’s something I’ve done since I was a child. Some people make shapes with clouds, Mum and I used to do it with stars. But I never knew, until the last memory, that this game came from my grandmother.
‘What can you see?’ Mum asked, our heads touching as we lay side by side on her balcony. She had a blow-up mattress and on warm summer nights she would get it out and we would lay there with a blanket, some popcorn and milkshakes.
‘It kind of looks like a turtle.’
Mum lay silent while she considered this.
‘Come on?’ I said. ‘So? What does it mean?’
‘Well, this is an interesting one . . .’ She paused for effect. ‘Did you know some breeds of turtle travel for over 10,000 miles a year?’
‘Nerd,’ I said, grinning.
‘How very rude!’ Mum retorted. ‘But also true. Anyway, do you want to know the rest, or do you want to interrupt me again?’
‘Sorry, go on.’
‘So, as I was saying, they travel very far each year, and that means you’ll make waves in whatever you want to do. You won’t give up, you’ll push. And you’ll win in the end.’
‘I like that,’ I said, satisfied.
‘But –’ Mum held a finger up to show she had more to say – ‘you will always carry your loved ones with you, because the turtle’s shell represents comfort and home. Do you think you can carry me around everywhere on your back? Shall we try it?’
I snorted. ‘You made that last bit up.’
‘Maybe,’ she admitted. ‘But I don’t want you to grow up and leave me.’ I could hear the pout in her voice.
‘I won’t,’ I said. She must have been thinking about how she had left her own mum.
‘Even when you’re thirty?’
‘Even when I’m thirty. We’ll meet up for brunch or whatever it is grown-ups do.’
Mum laughed. ‘And we’ll talk about our annoying colleagues.’
‘What else do grown-ups do?’
Mum sighed. ‘Boring things like taxes and food shopping. I miss being your age. Life felt . . . endless back then, so full of hope.’
‘Depressing much.’
‘True, true. More popcorn?’ she asked. ‘And a film? You can choose this time.’
‘Yeah!’ I said, and I could have sworn that I saw the turtle swim across the galaxy, its body made up of stars.
I look up at the stars now. I can’t see many, but a few stand out. The longer I stare and the further I walk, the smaller I feel. They’re spectacular.
Mum once told me that when we look at stars we are actually looking at the past. Maybe there’s a star out there somewhere from the exact year that Mum was my age. Maybe it’s seen her grow up, and it’ll watch me too, like our fairy godmother.
I want to hold the stars, to see them up close. I want to reach out my hand and grab them. Keep them in my pocket with the perfume, wear them round my wrist like the bracelet. Maybe then I’ll be closer to her.
I think back to the memory with Aminah and her mum, and try to find the exact stars they were charting. Then I see it. The tiger, and, right next to it, the heart.
They weren’t seeing different things at all, but looking at a different cluster of stars right next to one another. Tigerheart.
‘What constellation is that?’ I ask Dad, breaking the silence.
He squints to where I’m pointing. ‘I’m not sure,’ Dad admits. ‘Your mum is always better at this sort of thing than I am.’
He says it naturally, but I can sense him glancing at me, second-guessing his words.
‘Yeah,’ I eventually say. ‘She is, isn’t she?’
And, just like that, I know what I need to do to unlock the door.
The silver branches were right: I wasn’t ready. But I am now.
It’s not too late.
Memories are strange.
Some blur into nothing but a haze of colour.
Some blend into others until all you can remember is the memory of a memory of a memory, and you don’t quite know where your imagination takes over.
And then there are other memories that are stark. It doesn’t matter how long ago they happened; you remember them as clearly as if you were reliving them each time.
That’s how I remember the day Mum was taken into hospital. But that’s a bad memory. Good memories have that effect too.
Charlotte: GIRLS!!!
Gini: . . .
Charlotte: We did it! Our entry made it to the final!
Izzy: :0
Gini: OMG! RING ME NOW.
It’s Saturday morning and Dad and I are about to go to the hospital to say goodbye to Mum.
Losing someone you love is weird. You think you’ll feel sad all the time, but sometimes that’s not how it is. You can find moments of happiness in between, like rays of light shining through on a cloudy day.
Saff: TEAM TIGERHEART TO WIN <3
Charlotte’s news gives me strength on a day that feels like my world is ending.
The next step is for us to make a demo of the game. Then we go to London in August and present it to the Fairy Hunters team. And I’ll be leading the presentation! Before everything that happened with Mum I wouldn’t have considered it, but now I feel like I can do anything. I’m not afraid any more, like that time I got back on the horse.
‘Ready?’ Dad asks soon after, knocking on my open door. His voice is soft.
I remember, when I was little, screaming all the way to the hospital to get my jabs. I was terrified of the chemical smells, white walls and uniforms. Then, when we had to get our vaccinations at school, Mum would usually come to hold my hand for five minutes before returning to work.
I feel like that now. I want to scream and cry and have someone hold my hand. Dad hovers just beyond the threshold of my room, but something on my face must make him cross that line. He comes in and wraps me in his arms.
