Freia Lockhart's Summer of Awful Page 11

  “Perhaps you could invite him for dinner one night?” She turns her needles and starts knitting back the other way. “I’m sure he’ll have one night free in the next couple of weeks. I could make a nice roast for him – men love my roasts. Unless he’s one of these vegetarian types. He’s not, is he? Maisy’s grandson’s gone vegan and she says it’s hell when he comes for tea …”

  She prattles on, apparently unaware that I’ve gone into a state of shock. Grandma Thelma’s staying for at least two weeks. Two weeks of my holidays. And even when Mum comes home she won’t be able to take Gran on drives to the country or to see her old friends in their nursing homes, so she’ll just be hanging around. All. The. Time. As if Mum being sick wasn’t bad enough, now my summer’s been hijacked by a deranged old woman! Behind us, someone’s phone rings loudly.

  “That reminds me, I haven’t switched my phone back on yet.” Gran pulls out a fancy-looking smartphone that chimes when she turns it on. “Ooh, four new messages from Archie. I hope nothing’s wrong.” She chuckles as she reads the messages and then types a reply at breakneck speed. “It’s true what they say about absence making the heart grow fonder, isn’t it?” she says, pressing send.

  “Is that your boyfriend?” I ask, trying to keep my revulsion at the thought of geriatric romance out of my voice.

  Gran laughs. “It’s a long time since Archie qualified as a ‘boy’ anything, but he’s good company. I’ve told him I’m not interested in anything serious, but you know what hopeless romantics men are.”

  I don’t know, but I’m not about to tell her that.

  18

  I never thought I’d be happy to see the pink walls of the hospital again, but it’s a relief when we get to Mum’s room. Jenny is holding Mum’s hand and nodding as she speaks quietly. I hang back at the door, not wanting to interrupt – or to hear what they’re saying – but Gran marches straight in. When Mum introduces her to Jenny, Gran asks her to bring them both a cup of tea and a biscuit.

  Mum looks embarrassed but Jenny shows no sign of offence. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  As soon as she’s out of the room, Mum hisses, “Jenny’s a volunteer here, Mum, not the tea lady. Freia, go and help her, please.”

  I’m out the door before she’s finished her sentence, glad of an excuse to get away from Gran for five minutes. I find Jenny in the visitors’ lounge, waiting for the kettle to boil.

  “Sorry about my gran. I don’t think she means to be so rude.”

  Jenny smiles. She looks about Mum’s age in the face, maybe a bit older, but she dresses way more trendily and her shoulder-length hair is highlighted with honey and caramel. “Don’t worry about it. I often think that coming here is as hard for family members as it is for the patients themselves. When I had my first operation, my mother practically moved in. Your gran just wants to make sure her daughter’s okay.”

  Two words leap out at me as Jenny speaks: “operation” and “first”. I want to ask what was wrong with her, but either fear of the answer or good manners stops me.

  “There you go,” says Jenny, handing me a tray with three cups of tea and more of the shortbread. “Tell Gene I’ll pop in to say goodbye before I go home.”

  I put the tray on the trolley table and slide it over Mum’s bed. “Jenny said she’ll come and see you later.”

  “She’s lovely, isn’t she?” says Mum. “You wouldn’t think she’s had two separate mastectomies, would you?”

  “She has cancer?” I can’t quite believe it.

  “Had. She got her five-year all clear last month. You know, she was only thirty-five when she was first diagnosed, raising three kids on her own and working two jobs. Talking to her makes me realise how lucky I am.”

  “I hope she doesn’t just sit on your bed all day, telling you how much worse she’s had it than you,” says Gran.

  For the first time in my memory, Mum rolls her eyes. “Of course not. Jenny’s been a huge comfort these past couple of days. It really helps to talk to someone who’s been through the same thing.”

  Gran tsks and takes a bite of shortbread. “Well, you can ask her to bring a fresh packet of biscuits with her tomorrow. That’d be more helpful.”

  After dinner, Gran supervises Ziggy as he loads the dishwasher and washes the pots from the spaghetti bolognaise I cooked. She shook her head when she saw the price sticker on the organic mince Dad bought, but judging by the way she wiped her plate with her bread she enjoyed it. God knows what I’m going to make tomorrow, though. I can’t see Gran going for Mum’s beanbake or quinoa cutlets, and Dad’s stressed enough without having to cook, too. When I told him what Gran had said about staying for at least two weeks his left eye started twitching.

  “You mean we’ve got two weeks with that?”

  At first I thought he meant Gran, but then I realised he was glaring at Rocky. While Ziggy was showing Gran his punching bag earlier, Dad told me that when he got home from the supermarket Rocky greeted him with a stream of expletives and tipped over his food bowl. “I’m telling you, he’s evil. The whole time I was cleaning the seeds off the table he stared at me with those cold, beady eyes.”

  Over dinner, Dad tried to convince Gran that Rocky would be happier in the laundry but as soon as he suggested it, Rocky went bonkers.

  “Now you’ve upset him,” said Grandma, going to the cage and making cooing noises. “Birds are very social beings, Terry, especially parakeets. If I’m home, Rocky must be with me.”

  Rocky looked straight at Dad and clacked his beak, as if to say, Rocky: 1, Terence: 0.

  “Do me a favour,” says Dad when I excuse myself to get my stuff from upstairs, “put Boris in my room. I hate to think what’ll happen if he sees that bird.”

  Grandma Thelma unpacked while I was cooking dinner and I hardly recognise my room for all the creams and medicine bottles and random balls of knitting yarn strewn about the place. Mum definitely didn’t get her neat-freak tendencies from her mother. Rocky’s perch sits in the corner by the window, on top of some newspaper. He’d better have good aim or I’m demanding new carpet when they leave.

  Boris has made a cosy nest for himself on one of Gran’s hand-knitted cardigans. He growls when I try to pick him up, hooking his claws into the cardigan in case I’m not getting the message.

  “It’s for your own good,” I say as I unhook him and carry him to Mum and Dad’s room. The sight when I open the door shocks me. The bed is unmade and there’s a pile of dirty clothes in the corner and an assortment of plates and glasses on Dad’s bedside table. In sixteen years, I’ve never seen this room look anything but perfect. I deposit Boris on Dad’s pillow and get out of there as fast as I can, grabbing the box of stuff I’d packed earlier on my way downstairs.

  Mum’s study, at least, is still an oasis of order. On the desk, her notebook and diary sit parallel, with her favourite pen positioned above them. Her bookshelves are organised by author and topic, the hardback editions of Jane Austen on one shelf with the other Regency writers, the parenting self-help books on another. If visiting aliens based their impressions of the human race on Mum’s library, they’d go away thinking we sit around all day doing needlework while we wait to get married, and that anyone under the age of twenty shouldn’t be trusted.

  I pull the neatly folded mohair rug from the arm of the sofa, releasing a whiff of the perfumed oil Mum always wears, and throw the cushions off so that I can unfold the bed. The first time Gran came to visit, I thought it was quite exciting to stay down here. It was fun sleeping on a fold-out bed with springs that bounced every time I moved, and I got a little thrill knowing I was in Mum’s sanctuary without her, which was banned otherwise. Now, as I throw on the sheets and move the photo of Ziggy with his first footy trophy off the side table to make room for the one of me with Dan, all I think is that it smells of mouldy paper and stale air, like the university library.

  While Dad goes to his room to soothe Boris’s nerves, and Gran and Rocky and Ziggy watch Lord of the Rings
(Gran’s choice, she reckons Ian McKellen is “dishy”), I make myself a hot chocolate and check my email. There’s not much in my inbox (and nothing from Siouxsie, which I take as a sign that she’s still narked with me), just a couple of joke forwards from Steph with a note saying, “Thought you could use a laugh”, and a message from Vicky asking if I want to go to the zoo with her and the twins tomorrow. Ordinarily, I’d jump at Vicky’s invitation – I love watching the meerkats sunbake and trying to spot the animals in the nocturnal house, and Billy and Tina are hilarious when they’re in good moods – but somehow it feels wrong to do something just because I want to.

  I know if I ask Dad, he’ll say it’s fine for me to go, but the thought of leaving him alone with Gran all day gives me a guilt attack. And the idea of spending the day with Gran fills me with dread. In the end, it’s the thought of Gran moaning to Mum about me choosing a friend over my family’s needs that makes my decision. I call Vicky from the phone in the hall.

  “I was hoping it’d be you,” she says when she answers. “Are we on for tomorrow?”

  “I’d really like to, but I can’t. My gran’s here and I have to take her to see Mum.”

  “No, you don’t,” says Gran, appearing out of nowhere, even though I double-checked that the living room door was closed before I dialled Vicky’s number. “I’m perfectly capable of catching the bus to the hospital if your father can’t drive me. You go and do whatever it is you’ve got planned. Enjoy yourself – you’re only young once!” She walks to the kitchen, humming brightly.

  “Your gran sounds nice,” says Vicky, who’s obviously heard every word. “We’ll pick you up at nine.” She hangs up before I can say anything else.

  Gran comes back with her cup of tea and gives me a don’t-mention-it smile.

  I know I should be happy that I get to hang out with Vicky and the twins tomorrow, but I’m so resentful that the decision was taken out of my hands that I’m not looking forward to it at all. I lift the receiver to call Dan to vent about it but I don’t want to risk Dr Phil answering, not after the scene he made last night. Besides, if she caught on that I was talking to Dan, Gran would probably snatch the phone from me and have a good old natter to him, too.

  When I get back to the computer, my hot chocolate is cold and has a rubbery skin on it that makes me gag when I accidentally swallow a bit. I tip it down the sink and get ready for bed.

  I wake from a dream in which I’m surrounded by a flock of giant squawking seagulls with monkeys on their backs. The monkeys are dressed in jockey silks, which would be cute if they weren’t hissing at me through their razor-sharp teeth. I sit up but the noise doesn’t stop. Then there’s a crash, followed by a yowl. By the time I get upstairs Dad’s on the landing, holding Boris, who’s puffed up to twice his usual furriness and looking outraged. Before I can ask what’s happened, Gran comes out of the bathroom with Rocky perched on her shoulder. When he spots Boris he starts squawking hysterically, just like the gulls in my dream. Boris jumps from Dad’s arms and bolts downstairs.

  “There, there, Rocko. The bad kitty’s gone now,” says Gran, turning her head to kiss Rocky’s beak.

  “What’s with all the noise?” asks Ziggy, emerging from his room. “It’s a quarter past five.”

  Dad gives Rocky the death stare. “Boris and that bird had a bit of an altercation over the kitty litter.”

  “It’s not Rocky’s fault,” says Gran, indignantly. “When he heard the cat scratching around in the bathroom he wanted to investigate.”

  Dad turns the death stare on Gran; he’s becoming quite an expert at it. “I thought we agreed that Rocky was going to stay in your room. With the door closed.”

  “The door was closed. Rocky opened it by jumping up and down on the handle. It’s one of his tricks.”

  Ziggy turns towards his room. “I’m going back to bed.”

  “Good idea. Come on, clever boy.” Gran gives Rocky another kiss and nods goodnight to me and Dad, who’s still glaring murderously at them both.

  “You go to bed, too,” I tell Dad. “I’ll take Boris into the study with me.”

  “Thanks. I think he’d better stay down there until that vulture leaves.”

  I find Boris sitting on the kitchen counter next to the breadbin. His fur has unpuffed but he still looks nervous. “Come on, old man,” I say, scooping him up onto my shoulder. For once he doesn’t object.

  By the time Boris and I settle a scuffle for territory on the sofa bed and I get comfy again, I’m wide awake, my mind churning. Why didn’t Dan call last night? I’d stayed up waiting, reading Charlotte’s Web until it got to the bit where Charlotte knows that she’s going to die and I couldn’t read any more. Then I lay awake for a while with the lights out, imagining other, better endings for the book. One where Charlotte lived for so long that she became a great-great-grandmother, and one where she met a charming, handsome spider whose kiss gave her eternal life and they had hundreds of thousands of spider babies together and lived in the barn with Wilbur (who was also somehow ageless) forever.

  It seems stupid now, making up happily-ever-after endings – everyone knows that life doesn’t work like that. Which brings me back to my original question: why didn’t Dan call last night?

  19

  Vicky’s mum drops us outside the zoo with the double stroller, a picnic lunch so large it takes two backpacks to hold it and the instruction to meet her at the same spot at one-thirty. The twins are in one of their I’m-two-and-I-can-walk-by-myself moods so we chuck the backpacks into the stroller. I offer to push so that Vicky has her hands free for the twins, but Tina insists that she has to hold my hand or she won’t go anywhere. Vicky apologises eleventy times as she expertly steers the stroller with one hand and Billy with the other, but I don’t mind. It’s nice to feel wanted.

  After we get our tickets, I’m as keen as Tina to head straight to the nearest exhibit, but Vicky insists that we stop and get a map and plan our route, including regular toilet stops, which she says are inevitable since the twins have started potty-training and think that using public loos is one of life’s great adventures. Tina and I cheer when Vicky finally says, “We’ll start at the meerkats.”

  The meerkats are at their best, chasing each other and chirruping and sitting on their back legs with their bellies exposed to the morning sun. On top of the tallest rock the sentinel keeps watch, twitching its head from side to side vigilantly. Last time I was here was with Dan, about a month after we started going out. It was a cold, drizzly day in early spring, but we’d run out of places to go to get away from our families and the zoo had a free entry day in the school holidays. The rain set in about an hour after we got there and we spent most of the afternoon sheltering in a warm, secluded corner of the butterfly house, talking and … other stuff. Holding hands on the tram back to the city, I remember thinking that it had been one of the most perfect days of my life.

  “You okay?” Vicky looks concerned.

  “Sorry, I was just thinking.”

  “About your mum?” She pulls Billy from the wall that he’s about to leap off, into the meerkat pit, and we walk on, Tina’s slightly sticky little hand still clutching tightly onto mine.

  “Yeah, about Mum.” That’s who I should’ve been thinking about. I bet if Mrs Soong was in hospital, Vicky wouldn’t leave her bedside.

  “How is she? She’ll be home soon, right? I mean, everything I’ve read about breast cancer surgery says that most people only need a few days in hospital afterwards.”

  Vicky’s been reading up on breast cancer. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

  “Her surgeon says she should be home tomorrow.”

  We pull up at the baboons and Tina lets go of my hand to join Billy in pointing and laughing at their colourful bottoms.

  “Has she said anything about post-operative treatment yet?” asks Vicky.

  “Ummm, no. I don’t think so.”

  “Well, do you know if she’s going to need chemo? Or radiotherapy? Both?” />
  “Hey, check out that baboon making the other one pick fleas off her – it’s like watching Belinda and Bethanee in monkey form.”

  Vicky glances at the pair I’m pointing to but barely smiles. I know that once she gets a topic in her head she won’t stop talking about it until she’s satisfied that it’s been thoroughly discussed (this is true of everything from which Ramones album is the best to the moon-landing conspiracy theory), so I’m kind of pleased when Billy yells, “Toilet time!” and we have to hotfoot it to the nearest loos.

  When we start on our way again I keep up a steady stream of chatter with Tina to avoid Vicky asking any more questions that I should know the answers to, if I was paying attention. My ploy works until we sit down for lunch.

  “You know, your mum has a really good chance of making a full recovery,” says Vicky, handing each twin a quarter of a sandwich before offering the other half to me. “In women her age, breast cancers tend to be slow growing. In fact, the five-year survival rate for women with tumours under twenty millimetres in size is over ninety per cent. Your mum’s tumour was smaller than that, right?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Vicky looks surprised. “Well, do you know if she has one of the breast cancer genes?”

  My sandwich sticks in my throat when I swallow. I take a large swig of juice to try to push it down. “There’s a gene for it?”

  “Yeah, a couple. If you’ve got a family history of breast cancer, you might want to get tested yourself so you can … you know, make an informed decision about preventative surgery or whatever.”

  I pick up the map that’s lying on the picnic rug. “So, reptile house next?”

  The twins are tired by the time we reach the Australian animal exhibit. Tina doesn’t even want to get out of the stroller to help me spot the wombat.

  “You have to be very lucky to see one,” I explain to the twins as I scan the enclosure. “They’re nocturnal, which means they usually hide in their burrow during the day, but sometimes …”