M Word, page 16
Ian’s only been on the scene for about a month and already I’ve seen changes in Mum. Her diet for a start. She’s begun to eat again. Not just stuff we can afford either or the food-bank dross. No, this is weird stuff. Maybe he’s buying it, who knows. So, this big-brain Ian moseys on in and fills Mum’s head with health-food solutions and suddenly my pimped-up soup and stir-fry concoctions are booted into touch.
‘Mum, why are you having protein powder?’
‘Ian said …’
‘What the hell are soy beans?’
‘Ian said …’
‘Dry milk? God, I’d rather wazz up my own puke.’
‘Ian said …’
That’s generally how our chat has become. Almost every sentence exiting her mouth has his name attached to it. Honestly, you’d swear she’s pure loved up.
‘Oh, Ian likes this programme …’
‘Ian’s been there …’
‘Ian can do that …’
I no longer have to go thrust employment potentials down her gullet; she’s happy to batter into them herself. My hope is that she’s on a job-search mission; I can’t stomach more soup. Feel like I’m swimming in it.
They go on drives. ‘Drives’, yeah, right; who are you trying to kid? Pub lunches. Walks. Pictures. Swimming. Swimming! They do loads of things together. They’ve even been on an overnight to some Airbnb up north. And get this, when she’s due back I’m peering from behind the curtains in role-reversal fashion. She waltzes through the door, walking on this post-sex air, and I’m standing arms folded ready to give her the pure second degree. But how could I? Her face shines, eyes whiter than I’ve seen in yonks; giant skip in her step. Probably been at it morning AND night, double sessions; hard to get those images out of the head. It’s as if she’s just lost her virginity for the second time in her life. I can tell she’s dying to tell someone about her night of filth. Me? Don’t even ask.
Can’t exactly play the bitch, thump my thighs or stamp my feet, can I? This is what I wanted for her. Mission complete. I can now die a Cupid legend. If Ian had turned out to be a maladjusted maltreater female-beater I’d have gone nuts. But he isn’t. He is OK. No, better than OK, he’s a cool guy. A teacher, but I don’t hold that against him. When we speak, his chat isn’t full of all this oh-please-like-me-I’m-really-a-great-guy-when-you-get-to-know-me stuff as if he’s trying too hard. He’s calm and sorted and kind. Kindness; that’s all you can ask of a person really, isn’t it?
When we first met he didn’t even hate me for catfishing him:
‘So, you’re Maggie,’ he went. ‘Or shall I call you Cilla Black?’
‘Er, no, Maggie is fine.’
Mum laughed.
I had to Google that Cilla Black woman.
I laughed.
Me and Ian chat as normal folk would, not too boring. He’s funny without ramming joke after joke down my throat. And he knows his music. We have loads of confabs about tunes and bands. What’s good. What’s shit. What makes us want to pop our eardrums. We’re basically on the same wavelength tune-wise, which helped smash the ice. The best thing though – nails it for me – is that he loves the Smiths. A real fan as well. Not some pretend knob who likes them for ten minutes cos they’ve heard on 6 Music that the Smiths are still cool and relevant. Isn’t his style. He’s got all their original seven-inch vinyl and some rare imports. I’m like, wow! No way? Says I can borrow them anytime cos ‘the listening experience is breathtakingly different’. No turntable though.
I know I’ve done the right thing by Mum. Let’s be honest, if Ian can get on with me he can get on with anyone.
Not sure if they consider themselves to be bf and gf; maybe they’re too old for those labels. I don’t ask. Sometimes I see their hands brushing each other’s; it’s gentle. He enjoys doing things for her, making her happy, and I like knowing she’s recovering.
I can tell you one thing though: Ian’s funky dietary ideas don’t extend to my plate. No danger! Can’t see myself munching on nuts, mangoes or quinoa, whatever that is.
Visit
We don’t argue about it; nothing to argue about. Just think it’s unfair. Weird even. Not once does Mum ever ask me to accompany her to her doctor’s appointment. Whereas if it were me she’d be all over it; sniffer dog on heat.
‘You’ll be bored out of your tree, Maggie,’ she goes.
She’s not wrong.
Watching people plagued by misery isn’t exactly my bag, but I want to give her moral support and all that.
‘I don’t mind,’ I go, cos I could be that person she leans her head against afterwards. But Miss Independence is having none of it.
‘It’s just a meeting about how things are developing. It’s nothing serious.’
‘Fine.’
But it isn’t fine. I don’t want to make the same mistake I made with Moya: push her away, let her deal with it on her own, call me when things perk up. With Mum that won’t be happening.
What annoys me is that golden balls Ian’s taking her to her appointment.
‘Should you not be checking if everyone’s got their uniforms on?’ I go.
‘It’s OK, Maggie,’ he goes, and comedy-grins. ‘I have the morning off.’
‘And teachers want more dosh?’ I puff.
‘More money, less hours, that’s what this country needs.’
‘I’d be lying on the couch watching Netflix if I were you.’
He laughs.
I keep my annoyance to myself.
He gives me a lift to art school on the way to Mum’s appointment so we’re quids in. I sit in the back. No one speaks. Ian’s eyes fix on the road. Mum looks out of the window.
The atmos confuses me. Not a we’ve-just-had-a-belter-of-an-argument-and-we’re-not-talking atmos. You know, when the awkwardness becomes the very air you breathe. This is different. Sombre and serious. Maybe I’m thinking too much, trying to do an Anna job on it; which reminds me, I need to organise a sesh. Let’s be honest, though, it could be Ian’s car music that’s plunging us into a catatonic state. Are Radiohead even a thing now?
*
Intensive care is where they took Moya.
There’s a touch of the detention centre about hospitals. The reek of disinfectant, puke and food invades your nasal buds. Squeaky floors snarl at your eardrums. I remember this annoying light flickering its last goodbye when we first entered. Outside the main entrance the place was full of grotesque people smoking too many fags and munching too much grease. Scared me shitless; don’t know if Mum felt the same.
She came with me to see her.
Man, talk about shitting bricks.
There are no specific visiting hours in intensive care; they gave us a time slot and told us when to come. Tough titty if we couldn’t make it; think it’s something to do with what type of medication the patient’s being given. Everything works around their schedule. My knowledge was – and still is – zero.
We made our slot.
I pressed the buzzer below a glass window and waited. A straggly haired woman moseyed to the other side, looking as though she’d just dragged her carcass away from hours of biscuit-munching and arse-scratching. No hello. No smile. She sighed as she plonked herself down on a swivel chair. Her expression barked, ‘I hate my life.’ For a split I thought that maybe she was an ex-con; you know, given the responsibility of dealing with real people, being shunted slowly into society again. Don’t know why I thought that, maybe she just looked like she’d throw boiling sugar over you.
‘We have an appointment,’ I went.
‘Name?’
‘I’m Maggie Yates.’
‘Not your name, love,’ she went, all sarky and superior. ‘The person you’re here to see.’
‘Oh right, erm … Moya … Moya Burns … we’re here to see Moya Burns,’ I went.
She flicked some of her minging grey locks away from her forehead, scrolled her finger down a sheet of paper muttering ‘Moya Burns’ to herself over and over again. Definitely not a doctor.
Imagine giving this headbanger a stethoscope.
‘OK, I see her,’ she went. ‘So, you need to go through those doors over there, go straight down to the bottom, turn left and then someone will help you.’
We headed that direction. Towards fear. Our pace was slow and considered.
‘Don’t mind saying, but this place gives me the heebie-jeebies.’ I clung on to Mum’s arm; vulnerable and needy, scared stiff.
The corridor ahead was lifeless, eerie, as if something had just kicked off or was about to; calm before the storm. You felt it.
‘Just keep close to me, Maggie,’ Mum went, snuggling in.
By this stage we were whispering. The unknown does that to the voice.
At the bottom of the corridor we found a new locked door.
Another buzzer.
It opened as we approached.
Another window.
A smiling man lifted the little latch. I did the whole name spiel again. No finger-scrolling or muttering ‘Moya Burns’ over and over. This guy knew who we were.
‘Just take a seat over there and someone will be out to get you soon,’ he went, pointing to an excuse of a waiting room to our right. No one else was waiting.
‘There’s a tea and coffee machine.’
He closed the window.
‘I don’t drink tea or coffee,’ I whispered as we parked in the plastic chairs.
‘You don’t have to. It’s not a restaurant we’re in,’ Mum fizzed.
I was scared.
We didn’t know the state she was in yet.
The extent of the damage she’d done.
Mum rested her hand on my knee.
I put mine on top of hers.
‘What do you think you’ll say to her?’ she went.
‘Haven’t a clue. Been thinking about it though.’
‘Will you ask her why she did what she did?’
‘Don’t know. It’s bonkers.’
‘For some people it isn’t though, Maggie. For some people it’s the only thing that’ll take their pain away. The only thing that makes sense in their life.’
‘Suppose.’
I shifted in my chair. Sat forward. Scratched my calf. Sat back. Puffed out my cheeks.
‘You OK?’
‘Yeah, just hate hospitals and the waiting.’
‘It’s the worst part.’
It was Mum’s turn to sit forward. Shuffle. Extend her legs. Sit back again.
‘Are you angry with Moya?’ she went.
‘Why would I be angry?’
‘Because she didn’t speak to you about it? She didn’t tell you she was going to do … something stupid?’
‘Doubt I could’ve done anything, even if she had.’
‘You could’ve talked some sense into her.’
‘Me? Talking sense? That’s a laugh,’ I went.
‘Have you any idea why though?’
‘Shitty few weeks. Boyfriend problems. Then she found some stuff on social media.’
‘What kind of stuff?’
‘Just people trying to take the piss out of her.’
I didn’t want to hit Mum with the full bhuna in that moment.
‘And perhaps you doing better in school than her,’ Mum went, which jolted me. I took my hand off her, and seriously considered smacking it off her jaw.
‘What does that mean?’
‘Nothing … I didn’t mean that—’
‘What Moya’s done has got nothing to do with me, Mum. Nothing. Got it?’
I chilled a bit, but was too annoyed to stay chilled. I turned to her again. ‘No, tell me what you meant by saying that? Come on, I want to know.’
I thought she was going to melt into her chair.
‘Well, she might have felt abandoned a touch, neglected even. Maybe she was jealous.’
I honestly wondered if she was talking about Moya or herself.
‘That’s just life,’ I went.
‘I agree, Maggie.’
‘Mean, we can’t play rebel teenagers forever, can we?’
‘Thankfully, no.’
‘Anyway, I’ve just applied to art school – no guarantees I’ll get in. And I’m trying to study like a mad swot.’
‘I know you are.’
‘So, sorry if I’ve not been pure living in Moya’s pocket these past few weeks. Sometimes I just need space to breathe on my own, you know?’
I felt my chest throb.
She shuffled position.
‘You’ll always have me,’ she went.
‘What’re you on about?’
‘If you’re ever feeling alone or that things are stressing you out, remember that I’ll always be here for you, Maggie. You can talk to me.’ Mum’s tone changed. ‘You’ve a great future ahead of you.’ She pushed her bushy brows up and down. Clown.
If I’d held her stare longer she’d have started blubbering. The eyes were already glazing over. She cupped her hand around my four fingers, squeezed them. Talk about intense. I couldn’t be dealing with a blubbering mother as well as an unhinged bff; my head was totally wrecked.
As Mum came in for a cuddle a woman in scrubs popped her head inside the waiting room. Couldn’t tell if she was a nurse or a doctor.
‘Maggie Yates?’ she went.
‘Yes.’ I escaped Mum’s hand.
The woman scanned us.
‘I’m afraid we can only allow one visitor at a time, dear.’
I gave Mum my tough-shit eyes.
‘I’ll wait here – it’s fine,’ she went.
‘Sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure.’
‘See you in a bit then.’
I followed the woman to yet another set of doors where she extended a plastic key card from her belt, swiped it down the door’s facing. As they opened inwards a swell rushed through my body, as if I’d just been syringed with a massive dose of adrenalin.
‘Are you a relative?’ the woman went.
‘No, I’m her friend – her best friend,’ I went. ‘How is she?’
The woman paused, stopped walking. She seemed uncertain.
‘She’s still unconscious,’ she went, like I should’ve known. ‘It’s mainly because of the drugs she’s taken.’
‘Right.’
‘Don’t be alarmed when you see her – all the tubes and breathing apparatus are perfectly normal.’
‘Right.’
We walked in silence.
The place was stone, as if the walls and ceilings had been sedated too. Intensive care isn’t really like a normal ward; beds are sectioned off by rolling curtains. But Moya had a private room. Lucky.
‘How long before she wakes up?’ I asked.
‘We won’t know at this stage.’
‘Does she need an operation or anything?’ Think I was beginning to piss the woman off with all my banal questions. She didn’t answer; can’t blame her.
‘OK, here we are then.’
‘This it?’
‘This is it.’
‘Number seventeen,’ I went to myself.
‘You go on in and I’ll pop back around soon.’
‘OK.’ I watched her walk away, feet squeaking off the floor.
Swear my heart was trying to climb out of my mouth. I took a huge inhale of breath, belted out a puff before doing that knock–open simultaneous thing. Who knows why? Not as if she’d have been jumping up with a welcome hug. I even feigned a friendly smile as I entered.
Moya was on her back. Not peaceful. Mouth stuffed with a tube that was connected to some pump. Up and down. Down and up. Made a swooshing noise. Her arms were covered in drips and plasters. They’d put a wet cloth across her head and a bit of masking tape from ear to ear to hold the tubes in place. She’d a masking tape moustache. Monitors everywhere. Looked like my version of Hell. Two blue armchairs sat each side of the bed.
I almost collapsed in a heap.
This was someone else. This was a car crash lying in front of me. My eyes bunged up. Did she know I was there? A tear slid to the side of my mouth. I pulled it in with my tongue. Salty. I went to her, leaned down. Heard her.
Imagined the conversation we’d have:
Moya, it’s me – it’s Maggie.
Thanks for coming.
You OK, babe?
I’m glad you’re here, Mags.
Anything I can do, doll?
No, I’ll be fine.
I’m sorry, Moya. I’m so sorry.
Sorry for what?
I should’ve been there for you.
Sit your arse down.
Not as much as a flicker.
I sat down. Stared hard. Wanted to pure berate her.
Know what, Moya?
What?
It’s not my fault you chose to love someone who didn’t exist, is it? We were supposed to change the world together, save each other, do everything. And now look at you – you’ve fucked it all up. I’m so utterly sorry I was deaf to your cries. I love you with everything. Just wish you’d rise up from that bed and we could start again. If not, then just pin my broken heart to your back and take me with you. Totally mean it.
Please, Moya.
Please get up.
For me.
I wanted to draw her to me, lie beside her. Bawl her out. Cry for God knows how long.
And I did.
I did that.
Lots of salt.
Ankle
At art school people speak an octave louder than the average Joe. Lots of check-me-out volume. Why? I don’t know.
Also, you can’t escape the laughter; it’s everywhere, all the time, nipping at the senses – every chat loaded with fake hilarity and guffawing.
In the first few weeks I was OK, but not so much now. I think everyone was on their best behaviour then, maybe in case they got cast aside for a more interesting model; someone who’d toe the social line. I thought art school would be different from high school, but it’s the same crap chat: sex, internet, booze and bitching.
I see them looking at my clothes. Shoes. Hair. Make-up. Furtive little comments behind their hands. I’m not cool enough for them. Not costly enough. They don’t talk art with me either; I’m not on their intellectual level. I’m just one of the art school stats from the poor part of town. Social inclusive bullshit.
