A Pocketful of Stars, page 16
I breathe in and out, and I feel OK. Just for a moment.
‘I need a few more minutes, if that’s all right?’
Dad nods, retreating back out of my room, to be replaced by Lady. She doesn’t do anything, just settles her head on my lap while I sit cross-legged on my floor and add the final object to the memory box.
It’s a certificate with a star named after Mum. When I got home the other night I researched the constellation and found which one it was.
Luckily I had the money saved up from when I planned to book tickets to the gaming convention.
So, from now on, whenever I look at the tiger and the heart, I know that the point of the heart is called Aminah. It’s sharp and full of passion, just like her.
Dad lets me go up alone when we get to the hospital. He says he’ll be in the cafe.
I get to the desk and there’s the nice nurse from the other night. I’m glad it’s not Sue. ‘She’s ready for you.’ She tries for a smile, but I can see her eyes are watery.
‘It’s OK,’ I say, smiling back. And even though it isn’t, I know it will be one day.
When I walk into the room I do the same thing I’ve always done. I unscrew the perfume and place three drops on Mum. I watch them sink, sink, sink and, with the box in my arms, so do I.
The house is more broken-down than ever, the stairs barely standing. But I just about manage to make it to Mum’s room.
The door is there, standing tall. And then I say the words I know will open it.
‘I’m ready.’ My voice shakes as I speak. ‘I’m ready to say goodbye.’
The door swings open, and a strong wind swoops past, as if the house is letting out its last breath. It’s almost like it’s sighing in relief, like it’s been waiting for this moment for days, even weeks. And all at once the house is restored. That’s how I know I’m in a memory again.
Mum’s bedroom is so different to mine. Mine’s much tidier, and I don’t have many things. In Mum’s room piles and piles of objects line the walls. Books, jewellery, boxes; photos and posters fill every gap.
The moon shines through the window, and the light falls on Mum’s face, illuminating her. Her hair fans out around her, just like it does where she lies on the hospital bed. Her hands are clasped in front of her, and her face looks peaceful. I rush over to her, just as I have done countless times over the weeks.
‘Mum?’ I call tentatively, brushing the hair from her face.
She doesn’t respond. I think back to all the fairy tales I’ve ever read and watched. I lean down and kiss her forehead, but she still doesn’t wake.
I try something a little different. I take the perfume from my pocket. My perfume this time. I place a drop on Mum’s forehead, two by each ear, and one on her neck.
The droplets sink into her skin, and the smell floats upwards, engulfing me. Wood. Rose. Orange.
All my memories with Mum and all her memories float above me like birds swooping around the room. They’re as powerful as the sandstorm I walked through before. I close my eyes and remember it all.
When I next open them Mum is looking up at me, smiling. And seeing her look at me with all the love in the world makes me crumble.
‘Safiya, habibti,’ she says, pulling me in for a hug. ‘Safiya, what’s wrong?’
I let myself fall on top of Mum like I’m little again and we’re tucked up in bed watching cartoons on a Sunday morning. I pull back, our hair intertwined so tightly it’s not clear whose is whose, our tears blending together.
I rest my head on Mum’s chest, and I tell her all about the game and the memories. Mum fills in the gaps with new information, and I piece her life together like all the different squares of a patchwork quilt. The stars wake up and watch over us as we talk.
‘I see a tiger,’ I tell her. ‘And a heart.’
She looks at me surprised, and I show her the certificate, and the rest of the objects in the memory box.
‘What does it mean, Mum?’ I ask when we’re finished. ‘To have a tigerheart?’
‘It means you’re passionate,’ Mum explains. ‘Sometimes it can go too far, and you can lose your way. But you will always find it again, because you are brave and strong and you’ll never give up. Even when things are difficult.’
That’s when I tell her about the competition. Mum’s face lights up as she listens. ‘That’s wonderful, Safiya, so wonderful.’ She pauses. ‘I’m so sorry I didn’t listen before. I was wrong to judge your interests . . . It’s what my mother did before she understood, and I made the same mistake.’
I shake my head. ‘No, I’m sorry,’ I say, sitting up and holding her hands in mine. ‘I shouldn’t have said what I did about Dad and not wanting to see you. It’s not true, I promise.’ Then I say the words I’ve been waiting to say for weeks. ‘I love you.’
Mum laughs, and she pulls me in for another hug. ‘I know, silly. No matter how much we argue I always know that you love me.’
Dad was right.
And in that moment it feels like something lifts from my chest, like a weight had been holding my heart down in the weeks since our argument.
‘I want you to come with me,’ I say truthfully, while Mum plays with my hair.
‘I will,’ Mum says. ‘From now on I’ll always be there, just like my mum was with me.’
I frown. ‘When did she pass away?’ I ask. I know Mum’s mother isn’t alive, but I never knew when she died.
‘When I was your age.’ Mum’s voice falters then. ‘She passed away soon after the play. She was sick, but she didn’t tell us for a while. Her final words to me were: “Aminah, you get on that plane and you grab the world with both hands”.’ Mum sighs. ‘I’m not sure I quite succeeded, but I tried my best.’
‘You did,’ I insist passionately, sitting up and facing her now. ‘You’re the best mum ever!’
Mum smiles, but it’s sad. ‘While my mum was sick, before I left for England, I used to sleep with her at night, in case there was anything she needed. She used to put a drop of perfume on her pillow before bed. That’s when I had the strangest dreams of Mama at my age, except it was like I was watching a play.’ Mum shakes her head, as if trying to unmuddle her thoughts. ‘I thought they were just dreams but now . . .’
‘You know it was magic?’ I finish in a whisper, wondering whether these memories are a gift or a curse. Mum lost her mum and so have I. If that never happened, would the magic have existed at all?
We sit together for a while, and think about all that has happened, and try not to think about what is to come.
‘Shall we watch some of the play?’ Mum asks eventually. ‘We’ve missed most of it now, but the next scene is my favourite.’
Mum walks me over to the window and points at her secret hideaway.
It’s full of people sitting cross-legged on a great big rug. Aminah stands in front of them in her mermaid dress, Rawan by her side.
Mama and Zaina watch the play together. I see it now: the way Mama leans on Zaina for support, like she can’t hold herself up.
‘I remember it all so clearly,’ Mum says, and then she mouths the final lines as Aminah and Rawan speak them.
When the scene is done I ask Mum how much longer we have left.
‘Not long,’ she admits. ‘Only until the play ends.’ She ushers me over to the bed. ‘Let’s lay together, and you can tell me all about school.’
I lie next to Mum and nuzzle up against her as we talk, eyes closed, like best friends at a sleepover. I tell her about Elle, and the book of fairy tales, and I try not to let the worry of time stop me from savouring the moment. Even though it feels like it’s slipping through my fingers like sand. Because these are the final moments we have together.
‘It’s time, now, Safiya,’ Mum says after we’ve chatted for a while. ‘Keep your eyes closed and count to ten.’
One. Two. Three. Mum kisses me on the forehead, brushing my hair aside.
Four. Five. Six. She squeezes my hand tight, before stepping off the bed. I do as she says and keep my eyes shut.
Seven. Eight. Nine. ‘Goodbye, habibti. I love you.’
Ten. I open my eyes. I’m in Mum’s room alone.
I run to the window and see Aminah and Rawan in their hideaway. Everyone else has gone. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but their laughter floats upwards through the open window, surrounding me like a hug.
I watch Aminah and how happy she is in this moment, wild curly hair blowing in the wind, eyes alight. ‘I love you,’ I say. ‘I’ll love you forever.’
The house crumbles for good, and I let it take me down with it. But I know I’ll rise again, like a phoenix rises from its ashes. Just maybe not today.
I’m back at Mum’s hospital bedside now, and I know it’s time. I don’t need to make a grand speech, don’t need to say anything. I stroke the hair on her face, the bracelet dangling from my wrist, and breathe in the scent of het perfume.
I look at my mother for the last time. We’ll never have the chance to make new memories together, or make up for the bad ones. But we have our old memories – good and bad – and I know they’ll be imprinted in my heart for the rest of my life.
I kiss Mum on the forehead, my tears seeping into her skin.
Winning the game was never going to save Mum. I realize that now. But maybe – just maybe – it saved me.
Lady doesn’t bark when the bell rings, like she knows what’s coming.
When I open the door I see them standing there: Rawan and Aunt Zaina.
‘Hi, Safiya,’ Rawan says, smiling, though there are tears in her eyes. Her accent is just as pronounced as I remember, and it sounds like coming home.
Aunt Zaina pulls me in for a hug. ‘We’re very excited to meet you,’ she says, sounding exactly as she did on the phone.
Rawan has short hair, styled curly. Aunt Zaina wears a headscarf.
I smile up at my aunt and Mum’s best friend. ‘Hello,’ I say, with confidence. ‘I’m so happy to finally meet you both.’
Thank you to The Society of Authors for supporting this book with their Authors’ Foundation grant.
Thank you to all of the people who helped answer my research questions; Hammad Al Najjar, for teaching me about theatre culture in Kuwait and Mark Clayton, Matthew Nichols, and Dr Andrew D Sampson for your professional medical insight. Any inaccuracies in the book are entirely my own.
A huge thank you to Claire, super-agent extraordinaire (that rhymes, which makes it official). I’m fairly certain you own a time turner because there’s no other way you can possibly do everything you do. You are lovely and wise, and I want to be like you when I grow up (if that ever happens). Thank you to the rest of the RCW team: Sam for your foreign rights prowess, and Miriam for being so lovely about my silly emails.
Ali and Liz, you are dream team. You both trusted in me at a time when I needed it most, and it is getting past that wobble (remember?) that made this book something to be proud of. Ali, thank you for your kindness and guidance; Liz, thank you for working so tirelessly on STARS and moulding my thoughts into something that made sense. Sarah L, thank you for coming in when we all needed you the most. This book would not be the same without you. Soraya, Jennie, Amy, Melissa, Lucy and everyone else in Editorial, I am so grateful for you.
Thank you to the marketing team: Jas, Sarah G, Siobhan, Hilary, Rebecca, Olivia and everyone else – you’re such wonderful champions. Heather and Lizzie, thank you for designing the proof, it is so magical. Ray, Janene and Laura, I can’t thank you enough for the perfect cover. I squealed when I saw it. Before signing with an agent and getting a book deal, there was Yasmin. Everyone needs a Yasmin in their lives (preferably not mine, though). We met when our stories were picked for A Change is Gonna Come and have been lucky enough to see the rest of this crazy journey through together. Thank you for being my unofficial mentor and for holding my hand through this process. You are my hero. And then came Lucy. You complete our coven and I am forever in awe of your drive and talent. Thank you for inspiring Izzy’s guinea pig obsession.
I have such wonderful friends, including Holly (my publishing and agency sister), Katya, Joseph, Sarah, Sam C, and the rest of the debut group – you know who you are. Then there’s Rachel and Annabel, my first readers, Mariam, my first champion, and Rebecca, my first mentee. Thank you, Steph, for always being there for the cat photos and making me feel like a real-life author. Iram, thank you for listening so patiently to the plot for the failed book-we-shall-not-speak-of, and for being the best cheerleader a friend could have. Becca and Ravina, thank you for your unwavering support over the years in every way – you are both marvellous and I love that we get to watch each other stumble through life. And Danah, thank you for feeding me books in Kuwait when we were thirteen and it was difficult to find them.
Thank you to the Rentons and Co. for dealing with an unkempt, moody writer when none of this made any sense. A special thanks to Lynda and Robert for taking in a stray, and Lucy R for inspiring the crazy cat lady, designing my author signature, and keeping me (in)sane.
Dad and Diane, you believed in my dreams so completely that you were genuinely worried I was going to become too successful (before I even finished a book) and get bored of writing. Thank you for making me feel like I could do anything I set my mind to, I am utterly obnoxious because of you. Mum, thank you for my tiger heart, you’ll be in my memories forever. Dana, my sweet sister, thank you for our Kuwait adventures.
Alfie, how can I possibly thank you enough? There are not enough words in the English and Arabic language combined (which I think amounts to several million) to express my gratitude for what you have done for me. You have spent many patient hours drying my tears; cradling me when I’ve felt lost and, when I was finally ready, helping me to fix this book over and over and over again. You have lived this all with me; the sleepless nights, the deadline stress, the meltdowns. But the good things too – the exciting emails and meetings and seeing the cover and proof for the first time. And you do it all so selflessly, without question. You are the best person I know and I love you dearly.
About the Author
AISHA BUSHBY was born in the Middle East and has lived in Kuwait, England and Canada. She was the breakout star of the Stripes anthology A Change Is Gonna Come, alongside writers such as Patrice Lawrence, Tanya Byrne and Nikesh Shukla. She now lives by the sea and writes children’s books, sometimes with a little bit of magic in them. She loves cats, gloomy days, and animated films. You can most likely find her on Twitter @aishabushby, where she spends most of her time avoiding deadlines.
Aisha Bushby, A Pocketful of Stars
