‘Claire hasn’t been here all day. I thought she was with you.’
Before
Wednesday, 13th November 1991
Dear Diary,
I’ve been ten for a whole month now and I’m not sure double figures feels any different really, even though Mum said it would. There’s still loads of stuff I’m not allowed to do, I’m still quite short and I still miss Nana every day. I’m so angry with Mum for lots of reasons, but especially because of what she did at parents’ evening tonight. She went on her own because Dad had to work late. Mum said he might sleep there again; he’s been working really hard lately. Because she didn’t have Dad to talk to, she got chatting to some of the other parents at school. When she got home, she was all excited, not because of my brilliant grades like a normal human being, but because she’d met Taylor’s mum and was so pleased to find out I’d made such a good friend. She went on and on about it, asking why I hadn’t mentioned Taylor. I said I didn’t want to talk about it and we sat in silence for a while.
Once Mum understood that I was in a not-talking mood, she got up from the table and made herself a Mojito. I don’t know what’s in it, but she calls it her ‘happy drink’. She made me a lemonade with lots of ice and a bit of mint on top so that my drink looked like hers. I took the mint out when she wasn’t looking. Then she got some chicken in breadcrumbs and crinkle-cut chips out of the freezer, which is my absolute favourite dinner that she makes. She got the ketchup from the cupboard and turned it upside down, then set just two places, using Nana’s best plates. Because Dad wasn’t there, she carried the little TV into the kitchen from his study and we watched Coronation Street while we ate, rather than having to try to think of things to say to each other. We were sort of having a nice time but then, just after her third Mojito (I was only counting how many in case it’s the Mojitos that are making her fat), she ruined everything.
‘So I’ve got a surprise for you, because you’re doing so well at your new school,’ she said. Her eyes were a little bit closed, the way they are when she drinks, so that she looks really sleepy even if it’s the middle of the day. I asked if it was dessert and she said no and looked all serious, asking if I had forgotten what the dentist had said about my teeth and sugar. I hadn’t forgotten, but I didn’t really care. Nana always made something for dessert; and not from a packet, she actually made things. Chocolate cake, Victoria sponge, sticky toffee pudding, apple crumble with custard. They all tasted amazing. Now that I think about it, Nana didn’t have any teeth left at all, she had fake ones that she kept in a glass by the bed when she slept. I’d still rather eat cake, even if my teeth do fall out like Nana’s. Mum asked if I was listening, which she does when I’m thinking so hard about something that I don’t hear what she says any more. I nodded, but didn’t reply out loud as I was still a bit cross that we weren’t having afters of any description. Then she smiled, with her eyes still half closed.
‘I asked Taylor’s mum if Taylor could come here to play one night next week. And she said: “Yes.” Won’t that be nice?’ She finished her drink and put the glass back down on the table, then looked at me with a big, stupid smile on her fat face. ‘We’ll do it on a night when your dad is at work, so it’ll be just us girls. It’ll be fun, you’ll see!’ I was so mad, I couldn’t think of anything at all to say to her. I stood up from the table, without being excused, then ran up the stairs to my room, picked up the doorstop and closed the door. I even left some of my crinkle-cut chips. I thought I was going to cry, but nothing happened.
Taylor cannot come here. I haven’t decided whether we should even be proper friends yet. I’m so angry with Mum. There are so many things I hate about her but these are the three biggest reasons I can think of at the moment:
1. She drinks too much.
2. She lies all the time, like when she says we won’t have to move again.
3. She wishes I was like the other kids.
I’m not like the other kids. Mum has ruined everything. Again.
Now
Wednesday, 28th December 2016
My parents have finally arrived at the hospital – I hear their voices long before they enter the room. They’ve endured a rare breed of marriage, the kind where the love lasts over thirty years. But it’s the kind of love that makes me feel sad and empty, a love based on habit and dependence, it isn’t real. The door opens and I smell my mother’s perfume; too floral, too strong. I hear my father clear his throat in that annoying way that he does. They stand at the end of my bed, keeping their distance as always.
‘She looks bad,’ says Dad.
‘It probably looks worse than it is,’ Mum replies.
It’s been almost a year since we last spoke and there is absolutely no affection in their voices.
‘I don’t think she can hear us,’ she says.
‘We should stay a while, just in case,’ says Dad, sitting down next to the bed, and I love him for that. ‘You’ll be all right, Peanut,’ he says, holding my hand. I imagine a tear rolling down his cheek, then down to his chin, where it hangs in my imagination, before dripping down onto the white hospital sheet. I’ve never seen my father cry. The feel of his fingers wrapped around my own triggers a memory of us walking hand in hand when I was five or six. Claire had yet to enter our world back then. We were going to the bank, and he was in a hurry. He was often in a hurry. His long legs took giant steps and I ran to keep up with his walk. Just before we reached the bank, I tripped and fell. There was a bloody gash on my knee and thin ribbons of blood danced their way down my leg, then joined forces to stain my white sock red. It hurt but I didn’t cry. He looked sorry but he didn’t kiss it better and I can still hear his voice:
You’ll be all right, Peanut.
Without any further words, we hurried to the bank a little more slowly.
They took much better care of Claire when she arrived. She was like a shiny new precious doll, I was already broken and scratched. My dad’s nickname for me was Peanut. His nickname for Claire was Princess. I don’t hate my parents, I just hate that they stopped loving me.
The air in the room is thick with silence and remorse, then the door opens again and everything changes.
‘How are you?’ asks my sister. I hear Paul answer and realise he’s been in the room with us the whole time. It’s even more awkward than I thought, Paul and my parents never did get along. Dad thinks writing isn’t a real job and that a man without one of those isn’t a real man. ‘Any update?’ asks Claire.
‘They said she’s stable now, but it’s still too soon to know what will happen,’ he says.
‘We just need to stay positive,’ she says.