Looking after Mum: Chapter 3

Chapter 3
I went to the admissions immediately, and said falteringly to the middle-aged woman at reception, "Um...my name's Amelia Harper, and my dad told me to come here, um…"
This seemed to be enough. She smoothed out her little pristine bun, an action so flawless it must have been rehearsed, typed a few words on her computer, and said, "Ah, yes, Harper’s the name. Your parents were admitted just a while ago …" She peered for a moment at her computer screen, and went through the whole routing of smoothing out her hair bun, and then typing.
While I was waiting for her, I looked around the entrance for Mrs Brown, as I’d just realised how rude I’d been by rushing off. At first she was not to be seen, but then I saw her, back slightly bent, bow-legged, shuffling down the corridor in her loafers. I plucked up my courage and waved brightly, grinning so wide my jaws ached. She sucked her teeth so noisily that heads turned, but she waved her cane a little, back at me.
At that moment, the receptionist spoke.

“I’m sorry but you need an adult accompanying you to see your parents. Why are you here all on your own?”
I blushed red and stuttered, just as I’d done at the bus stop, revealing all my insecurities at once; I hated being put on the spot. A thousand thoughts rushed through my mind; mainly ones along the “what am I going to do” line.
The woman’s look softened. “Very well,” she sighed. “Seeing as you’re in a state, and everything. Your mother has been admitted to Nightingale, at A and E. It’s on the second floor, to the right.”
I looked at her blankly. She heaved a heavy sigh, and then turned away from her desk and called, “Katie!” A young, bored-looking nurse appeared from within the office. “Yes?” said Katie.
“Could you please take this young lady to Nightingale?” asked the receptionist.
Katie obviously had better things to do, as I made out from the look she gave me. “Very well,” she sighed.
She came out a private door from the office, nodded at me, made a military turn and started walking with irregular speed towards the lift.
“Come this way.”
We entered the lift, and spent a few uncomfortable seconds in silence, in the company of a woman with a broken arm, and a nervous-looking doctor.
The lift doors opened, and she started her power-walking again, her small black heels clicking on the vinyl floor. I hurried clumsily after her, weighed down by my knapsack and string PE bag banging against the back of my legs. She turned her head once, looking slightly disdainfully at me. I admit that I did look a sight.
My blouse was so sweaty it was almost transparent, and I'd rolled up the embarrassing frilly sleeves over my chubby arms as far as they would go, but it didn't stop me from looking like a roasted crab. In other words: red, hot, and sticky. I was breathless after walking along endless immaculate corridor after corridor, but Katie or whoever she was didn't stop to help me with my bags. What a cow, I thought. I didn't dare ask for help though. She would have skinned and eaten me alive.
At long last, we came to a small private ward outside of which Katie finally stopped. My heart started thumping hard again, and my sweat felt ice-cold on my forehead and arms. My damp hands started shaking like leaves in a gale, and my legs felt like they were going to buckle and give way. The nurse frowned at me, cleared her throat, and pointed to the soap dispenser.
“Wash your hands,” she said crisply, looking at me like I was the most germ-infested human on the planet. Then, she made a sharp left turn, and walked away.
I pumped at the dispenser, washing my hands with soap, and then I saw the handle on the door to the ward turn.
The door opened and Dad came out. Oh, he looked awful. It wasn't just his sore, red cheeks dripping with tears or his trembling hands. It was his eyes. His eyes looked so hopeless, so empty, as if something had drained everything out of him and left a hollow shell behind. He stared at me, and he looked so desperate and pleading. "Oh Amelia. Amelia... Amelia!"
He broke down in tears. It was awful. I'd never, ever seen Dad cry before. He took great gasps and tried to speak but kept on getting all choked up with tears. He just howled, howled like a baby, and then collapsed at the doorway, weeping and not even bothering to wipe away the tears and mucus that were coursing down his smooth tanned cheeks. I stood there, appalled, not even daring to comfort this man so overcome with grief, who didn't seem like Dad at all. He pointed with his finger at the door, stabbing the air. I supposed he wanted me to go in, but when I started to do so he clawed at my skirt, pulling me back, shaking his head with vigour. I ignored his pleas, even though they both frightened and confused me. But however frightened I felt, I had to go in.
When I entered, though, I wished I never had. My mouth dropped open. I saw my mother lying on the bed, her face white, a drip going through her arm, bruises and cuts all over her, a cast on her leg. She looked so pale and still that I almost fainted. Was Mum dead? No. I know it sounds awful, but sometimes now I wonder whether it would have been better if she had died.
Then, however, I was struck with fear and shock. This couldn’t be happening, it just couldn’t! I had enough going on, and besides…besides…
I ignored the nurses hovering around me, saying comforting words and trying to persuade me to come away. I ignored the surroundings, the stuffy air, and the typical hospital smell that would have normally revolted me. I just saw Mum, the white, wraith-like body, her arms hanging over the sides of the bed in an unnatural way. She suddenly looked thin, fragile, and papery, as if a puff of wind could sweep her away. But this couldn’t be. Mum was the steady one, the one who held everything together. Mum was the strong one, not the weak, helpless one! Trying to block out the weeping of Dad on the other side, I hesitantly held out a hand and touched her very quickly, on her shoulder, the only place that didn't look hurt. Her eyes shot open. They were blood-shot and wild.
She looked straight through me at first, and then, very slowly, turned her head to look at me, and said in a pained voice, "Who are you?"