Looking after Mum: Chapter 7

Chapter 7

As I walked to the lunch hall one Tuesday, I was aware that heads were turning in the corridor. I noticed that people huddled in their tight little groups were pointing and whispering, frowning and giggling. I’d known that word had spread amongst my year group, obviously, because of the fact that Susannah knew about it and that she was mentoring me at the moment. But I didn’t know that my personal problems had travelled through the entire school.
I sat down at the normal table with the group of people I normally sat with. I did not have any friends, but I had to make a move at the beginning of Year Seven, to have somebody to eat lunch with. Nobody could eat lunch on their own, that was probably the worst kind of social suicide anybody could commit. Getting away with being a loner at break was hard enough. Most of the gangs didn't accept me at all in Year Seven because of the influence Kirsty Brightman had over people: if she disliked someone, that went for everyone else as well. The 'Nerd Gang', as they were cruelly stereo-typed, didn't really accept me either, but at least they normally allowed me to hover at the edge of their table and nibble nervously. Being a group of child prodigies, junior Einsteins and poets, they probably knew what being different felt like, accounting for why they did not shun me. I was not normally invited to enter the conversation, nor was I acknowledged. I didn’t mind. I was grateful enough for the fact that I had not been submitted to utter humiliation by having nowhere to eat lunch.
But as I entered the hall today, the leader of the group, Claire, approached me apprehensively, a strange look on her face. I could see the others in the group sitting at their table, avoiding my glance.
“Listen, Amelia,” she said, obviously uncomfortable. She reminded me of the male nurse at the hospital who’d had to break the news to me about Mum. “You can’t sit with us anymore. It’s because of...well...you know. We can’t afford to get any more stick than we’re already getting. And because of how much you’re, well, hated now, we can’t really...” her voice trailed off and she fixated her eyes on her shoes.
“But...” I started, my voice trembling. “But...but couldn’t I just...” I looked at her pleadingly, hoping that somehow I could change her mind. Kirsty’s hate for me had made everyone scared to be associated with me, for fear they would be victimised as well.
She shook her head at me sadly. “I’m sorry, Amelia. I wish, I wish things were different. I wish people didn’t get so prejudiced against each other and I...I wish...” she broke off and looked for a second as if she was going to change her mind. But then Kirsty, picking at a celery stick, caught her eye and a shadow passed over her face.
“I’m sorry,” she breathed, and then walked back to the table, not looking at me again.
There I stood, abandoned in the middle of the hall, feeling everyone's deriding looks like knives. As usual, a flood of frightened, sad tears surged up inside of me so I turned around and ran out of the lunch hall, my lip wobbling.
Unable to find any other means of escape, I hurried along the corridor and rushed into the bathroom. I swung open the door to the furthest toilet cubicle, locked it carefully and put the toilet seat down. Sitting there, I put my head in my hands and just cried my eyes out, my shoulders shaking with suppressed grief and frustration.
It was a bad idea though because some year eleven chavs came in, hoping to skive off their next lesson, have a fag and plaster makeup on their faces to infuriate the teachers. When they heard me weeping they banged on the door and yelled at me to "Shut the hell up."
So it was back to roaming the corridors for the next weeks. In a nutshell, I was just too scared of facing the hall again.

I sat on my dream sill one rainy Sunday, staring glumly at the raindrops spattering the window pane. I saw the young Russian prince through the gleaming light in the clear window, across the block. The female pirate seemed to be rocking him in her arms and cooing to him. They looked happy enough. I was glad for them.
I was interrupted from my contemplation by the sound of shouting. I sprang off the windowsill and rushed into the hallway. I could see Dad, fending off Mum’s slaps and saying something in a voice he was trying to control.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
Dad didn’t reply, but Mum answered my question for him.
“Go away!” she shrieked at Dad, hitting his face. “Leave me alone! I don’t know you people! I don’t know you! You’re strangers!”
“Please, Kelly,” said Dad, in a quiet, resigned voice. It still seemed like he was holding back his temper. “Please, Kelly. This is your home. This is your home and I’m your husband and Amelia here is your daughter and we just want you to come back to us.”
“No! No! NO!” she screeched. “You’re strangers! You’re strangers, strangers, strangers!”
I stared at her, dumbfounded, unable to do anything but stand and stare. I couldn’t even cry. I didn’t understand her. I didn’t know this madwoman who hated us so much.
The doorbell rang and I rushed to answer it. It was Mr Lane, the neighbour from across the floor. He peered at me over the top of his horn rimmed glasses.
“Morning,” I said in a shaky voice.
“Good morning, Amelia,” he said, looking at me suspiciously and trying to see past me into the hallway, where the screaming was continuing. “Is...is everything OK in here?”
“Um...” I started, glancing nervously at Dad. He had his own problem to face. I obviously wasn’t going to get any support. I bared my teeth at him in what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “Um, no, Mr Lane. No, nothing’s wrong in here. It’s the...um...it’s the TV. I’m sorry. We must have had it on too loud. There, do you hear, Dad’s turned it down,” I said, as the noises from the hallway subsided and I guessed Mum must have gone into her bedroom.
He smiled back at me with his mouth, though his eyes were hard and unfriendly. “If you say so,” he said, obviously disbelieving what I had just told him. I had no energy to fight the cause of a lie, though. I didn’t care what he thought. As long as he left us alone. “But, Amelia,” he said, continuing, “If there ever is anything wrong, you can tell me.”
Reassuring. Not. Mr Lane’s wife is the most irritating loud-mouth on the block and he’s like her accomplice, going around the flats, collecting pieces of gossip and pretending his motive is kindness. If I confided in him our secret would be all around the block, and then who knows? All around the town? Likely.
“Of course,” I said coldly, not bothering to put on an act anymore. “I’ll tell you. Bye.”
And before he could open his mouth and say anything more, I shut the door.
Turning around, I saw Dad, standing erect in the hallway, caught in a moment. It was like he trapped in himself and it seemed there was nothing I could do to stop him.
We stood there looking at each other and neither of us said a word. Any words would have just felt empty and too small, yet I needed one of us to say something. Anything to fill the terrifying silence. I never thought it would be this hard, never dreamed that he would feel like such a strange to me. There was something in the way. Something stopping me from stepping forwards into his embrace and acting as I had done over the past years. Everything that had been happening had built up an invisible wall that was impossible to climb over and impossible to break down. Instead of talking ,we just stood before each other with silent tears leaving sad trails laced down our cheeks.
He made no move to wipe my tears away this time. He just watched the lonely trail they made on my face with the strangest expression. As if each tear explained everything he never understood. Maybe they did, so I watched his too, desperately trying to find some answers.

That night, Dad sat with me as I lay in bed for a very long time, and I could tell he was desperate. He had un-shed tears filling his eyes, and his hand trembled slightly as it held mine in a tight grip, so tight it felt like he would never let go. And the look in his eyes. He looked so drained, so tragic, so desolate, as if he were stuck on a desert island and there was no-one to rescue him. He whispered, "Goodnight, my little girl," and opened his mouth, breathing in as if he were about to speak, but then closed it abruptly, He heaved a deep, forlorn sigh, and walked out of the room, leaving me to stare into darkness.
***
In the morning I woke up with a terrible feeling in my gut, having the usual panic attack that seized me on school mornings. Today, it was worse that usual – my palms were sweaty, my heart was thumping and I was shaking all over. Unsteadily, I swung my legs over the bed, and went to brush my teeth. Then, I knelt on Mum's bed, where she lay with a empty look in her eyes, and said, "Mum? I'll just brush your hair." I picked up a brush, but she shook her head. "No...Go and...do whatever you have to do."
"School," I said. She said nothing, but took the brush from me, and started pulling the teeth through her tangles. She managed this quite well and her hand had obviously strengthened.
"Goodbye," I said. Mum did not reply, so I left, went to my bedroom, and dressed. As I pulled on the second sock, I felt something inside, and the sound of rustling. I took it out of the sock. It was a note, painstakingly neatly folded along the creases. I unfolded it, feeling even more scared, and saw one word in familiar handwriting on the page. I made the word blur again and again on the paper until I uttered it, in a broken, hoarse voice.
I whispered the word again and then burst into tears. I fell back onto my bed and cried until my throat was raw, clawing at my soaked eyes until the lids bled, and balling up the paper, throwing it to the other end of the room where it bounded against the door, leapt up and then lay at the ground.

'Sorry’.