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“That is really not good enough!” Mum explodes. “How can your organisation function without a supervisor? I’m telling you, I won’t be fobbed off. There must be someone in charge who we can—”
“Calm down, Katherine,” Michael says, squeezing her arm. “Don’t bite the poor girl’s head off. She’s doing the best she can. It’s not her fault the hospital is under-staffed. Don’t blame the nurses, blame the Government. Having a pop isn’t going to help the situation.” Then, turning to Issey, he apologises for Mum’s behaviour and asks for some pamphlets about Dad’s condition.
“Certainly,” Issey replies coolly. “You can find some literature on the table near the exit doors.”
“Thank you.”
Muttering silent curses, my mother kisses Dad goodbye and follows Michael into the corridor. Rolling her eyes, Issey trails after them.
For a moment, I hesitate in front of the bed, my heart aching with sadness. I hate leaving my father like this.
“Sorry about that, Dad,” I whisper. “You know how Mum is. It doesn’t take much to set her off, but it’s only because she cares.”
“I-I know my dear,” he wheezes. “I-I know.”
Tucking a hair behind my ear, I lean over the bed and kiss him lightly on the cheek. “I love you.”
“Love y-you too.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow, I promise. Now get some sleep. You’ll be out of here before you know it.”
When I get outside, Mum is still ranting about the unfairness of it all. I can smell alcohol on her breath and I wonder how many whiskies she had before she left her house. An old lady in a wheelchair is gawping at her and two male nurses giggling at some private joke. In an effort to calm the situation, Michael suggests we go for a coffee before heading back. I readily agree.
We take the elevator down to the ground floor and go to the hospital cafeteria . As we approach the serving counter, I see all the nice food on display and realise that I haven’t eaten since last night. I don’t feel particularly hungry, but decide to get something small to keep my strength up. Taking a tray from the steel trolley, I peruse the assortment of cakes on offer, before settling for a large piece of chocolate gateau. At the checkout, I order a medium white coffee in a take-out cup, then join Mum and Michael at a table by the window.
As we sip our drinks, she continues to bemoan the ineptitude of the NHS and says she’s planning to make a formal complaint. It’s at this point that I switch off. I agree with some of what she’s saying, but at the end of the day, these people just saved my father’s life, so I have very little to complain about.
Picking up my fork, I break off a chunk of gateau and lift it towards my mouth. Just as I’m about to take a bite, my mother says, “Is that really such a good idea?”
Frowning, I put down my fork and glare at her. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, should you be stuffing your face with that cake? You’ve put on an awful lot of weight recently and I can’t help thinking you’ve started comfort eating again. Honestly sweetheart, you could do with shedding a few pounds. You’ve got such a beautiful face but your weight lets you down. Take my advice and—”
“Oh will you be quiet, Mum!” I snap. “I know I’ve put on weight, but do I need constant reminding? Right now, joining a gym isn’t exactly my top priority. With my father at death’s door, do you really think I give a shit about my calorie intake? I’ve had the worst day of my life and all you can think is to slate me for eating a piece of cake. For Christ’s sake, you should hear yourself! You have no tact whatsoever.” I slam my fists on the table. A couple of other diners look over. “I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment; I’m sorry I’ll never be as pretty, or as slim, or as clever as you, but I can’t change who I am, Mum. And you know what? I don’t want to!”
“Sweetheart, please,” she coos. “You’re taking this far too seriously. I didn’t mean it to come across like—”
“Like what, Mum?” She doesn’t answer. There’s plenty more I want to say, plenty Icouldsay, but I don’t have the energy or the inclination. Right now, the last thing I need is a major bust-up.
Pushing back my chair, I storm out of the cafeteria and march to the front of the building. Trembling with rage, I pat down my pockets and dig out a crumpled packet of Marlboros. As I cup my hands around a match, Michael appears beside me. Through bleary eyes, I give him the onceover. With his five o’clock shadow and tastefully grey hair, his face still bears the ghost of a ruggedly handsome man. I can certainly see why my mother was attracted to him all those years ago.
“I thought you’d quit smoking?” he laughs.
“So did I.”
“Do you have one to spare?”
Wordlessly, I pass him my freshly-lit cigarette and fumble through my pockets for another. For a while, the two of us stand side-by-side, smoking and watching the comings and goings of the hospital. Then Michael breaks the ice: “Please don’t be mad at your mother, Carly. She really can’t help herself, you know.”
“Yeah, well perhaps she should try,” I say bitterly. “Look, Michael, I know you mean well, but I’m tired of people making excuses for her; she’s old enough to know better. For crying out loud, my dad’s just had a stroke; he almost died. How can she be so insensitive?”
Michael jerks his head a little, nodding. “I totally agree with you, but perhaps this is her way of dealing with the situation. This thing with Steve has hit her hard, and maybe she’s just letting off steam.”
“No she isn’t; she’s just a bloody attention seeker. She always has to make everything about her. Even when it’s Dad in hospital, she still needs to be the centre of attention. I’m telling you Michael, I’m sick to death of it. She has no right to treat me the way she does. Doesn’t she think I’m stressed enough already?”
He regards me steadily. “Are you sure that’s all it is?”
“What do you mean?” I blow smoke through my nostrils.
