Wishbones

‘Even if Slim Skills can help your mother… she’s going to have to do this for herself.’

Mum can’t do anything for herself. She can’t get out of her chair or put on her clothes or clean her face or walk. Dad and I work on a rota to make sure she has everything she needs. Which was what led to her not being able to get any help the other night when she collapsed on the carpet. No, Mum needs someone to help her take the first steps.

‘The philosophy of the Slim Skills programme states that a person has to want to get better.’ Mitch smiles like he’s on a TV ad.

I brush my fringe out of my eyes. I’m beginning to feel that coming here was a mistake. Mitch doesn’t understand. But it’s okay – Jake and me have got a whole list of other things to try.

‘I think we’ll go,’ I say.

‘Feather…’ Jake starts. ‘We’re here now, let’s see how it goes…’

‘It’s not working!’ I snap.

Mitch stands up and says, ‘Feather—’

‘If you can’t help Mum, I’ll find someone else. Someone who understands.’

‘I do understand, Feather. I was just trying to make clear that it’s your mother’s journey—’

‘She’s not on a journey. She’s in hospital, in a coma – and it’s our job to help her.’

Mitch definitely doesn’t get it. He’s probably just doing this because he can’t get a proper job. What kind of guy runs a weight-loss group anyway?

I peel off my name sticker, hand it to him and head out of the door. Jake runs after me.

‘Hey, what happened in there?’ he asks.

I keep walking down the corridor.

‘We’ll try something else…’ I say.

‘I think you should give Mitch a chance.’

I ignore Jake. It’s one of the ways we’re different: when things aren’t going well, he thinks it’s worth waiting things out, whereas I just cut loose. Take Amy, for example: I think he should have dumped her ages ago.

As we walk past the assembly hall, I stop and stare at a poster by the swing doors:

THE WILLINGDON WALTZ, SUNDAY 1ST OF JUNE.

June 1 is Willingdon Day and the waltz competition is like the icing on the cake. Willingdon Day isn’t that big any more but everyone still looks forward to it. It’s my birthday too.

‘Hey, it’s Mrs Zas,’ Jake says. ‘Cool.’

Everyone calls her Mrs Zas because her real name is too long for anyone to remember. She’s only been in the village for a couple of months. She set up Bewitched, the fancy dress shop next to the church. Apparently, when I was too small to remember, there was this amazing dance teacher who more or less taught the whole village to dance, only she got ill and so had to stop working. There weren’t any dance classes for years and years and then Mrs Zas stepped in. People in the village are still adjusting. Willingdon is kind of old-fashioned and Mrs Zas goes around in these loud wooden clogs and brightly coloured headscarves – and she’s always in costume, which is a good form of publicity for her shop, but still a bit out there. Today, she’s got a black-and-red dress on with a million frilly bits and she has castanets tied to her wrists and she’s darting around the dance floor, straightening people’s backs and arms and giving them instructions in her gravelly Russian voice.

‘You must flow… floooow…’ Jake imitates her, sweeping his arms through the air like he’s painting on a gigantic canvas.

We watch Mrs Zas clip-clopping around in her clogs.

Dad said the Willingdon Waltz used to be so big that, one year, the BBC came to film it for a documentary. You were too young to remember, Dad said. It’s not really fair how all the good things seem to have happened when I was too young to remember.

‘Maybe your mum will come out and watch this year…’ Jake says. ‘If she’s feeling better.’

‘Maybe…’

Mum loves watching Strictly so much, you’d think she’d be really keen to see the Willingdon Waltz, especially as she’s got the best view of the Green from the lounge window. But it’s like she’s got a thing against Willingdon Day as a whole. Every year, when it comes round, she gets antsy and tells me to draw the curtains and to turn up the TV and, once we’ve had some birthday cake and I’ve opened my presents, she goes to bed early.

I take the flier and put it into the back pocket of my jeans.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ I say.

3 (#ulink_8b24a6e2-6d1b-597a-bb4e-e57b051ae046)

They put Mum in a single room and pressed two beds together so she’d fit. Dad’s asleep in the seat next to her, wrapped up in one of those white, holey hospital blankets. While I’ve been staying at Jake’s, Dad hasn’t left Mum’s side, which is a good thing. If Mum’s going to get better she needs to see how much Dad loves her. And how we couldn’t live without her.

‘She looks so peaceful,’ Jake whispers.

Steph dropped us off. She’s waiting in the car park. I told her to come in, that after everything that’s happened Mum will have forgotten all about the row they had at Christmas, but Steph said it was best not to crowd Mum.

I’m glad I’ve got Jake with me at least.

As I look at Mum’s sleeping face, I imagine what it must be like to lie there, my heart beating, my blood pumping, my brain sending its Morse code messages from synapse to unconscious synapse, and yet to be unconscious – being there and not there. Being both at once.

Jake’s right. She does look peaceful. Though, with her hospital-phobia thing, she’s going to be anything but peaceful when she wakes up.

‘I wish someone would tell me what’s going on,’ I say.

I asked the doctor to explain and he said I should ask Dad and Dad said that it was complicated, which basically means he thinks I’m too young to handle it. If Mum weren’t in a coma, she would have stood up for me. She says I’m more mature than most of the grown-ups she’s met.

So, I grab the clipboard at the end of Mum’s bed and flip through the notes.

‘Feather…’ Jake starts. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

‘If I’m going to help Mum, I’ve got to have the facts.’

I scan down the page. It’s mostly random scribbles from the doctors and nurses who’ve been doing her obs, notes on medication and blood pressure and temperature and stuff. And then I see it.

Weight: 37st 2lb.

‘What is it?’ Jake leans in.

I drop the clipboard. It clatters to the floor.

Dad stirs in his sleep.

Jake picks up the chart and puts it back in its holder.

‘Feather?’