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“You need a good night’s sleep, girl. And then Kallie will walk round with you in the morning to knock on his door, won’t you lass?”
Kallie inhales noisily through her nostrils. “Yes, Mother.”
Once we’re upstairs, me in a camp bed on the floor, wearing one of Kallie’s oversized t-shirts as a nightshirt, she rolls over and looks at me—the only light in the room her floral fairy lights over the dressing-table mirror.
“You’re angry, I know, but it’s not going to help. He’s sick, Mira.”
“I am angry,” I bite out, “I’m livid. I’m furious. I’m absolutely steaming.”
So angry, I don’t know if I will sleep tonight.
“I know you’ve tried over the years, I know you’ve really, really tried at times to salvage something… but maybe he just wants to go quietly and not make a fuss. It might not be anything sinister, you know?”
I roll over the other way so she can’t see the shadows crossing my face as I speak in the dark, racked by guilt, pain, remorse, regret, sadness… everything.
“The worst thing, Kal is that I still have so many unanswered questions. That’s the truth, isn’t it? That’s why he’d leave this world without saying goodbye… and you know it.”
“Yes,” she sighs sadly. “I know.”
Chapter Seven
After a shitty night’s rest, then a session with Lewis’s punching bag in the garage, two cups of coffee and a cereal bar I struggled to get down, we walk the few streets over to my so-called family home.
Nice residential area though it is, this house was a place of pain for me growing up. Pain and loneliness. If I were to have kept count of all the hours I spent in this house, it would nowhere near equal the amount of hours I spent out of it—either at Kallie’s, or with boyfriends, down the pub when I was as young as fifteen, nicking stuff on the High Street… and the rest.
People have always looked at me and Kallie and thought that’s an odd pairing. Kallie with her diminutive frame and goth kind of style, me with an athletic figure, blonde, big bright eyes. Her with her angry face, me with my seemingly happy one. People would assume she was the tearaway having to nick sanitary towels and makeup down the local Superdrug. Not so. Kallie has always been the one roughing it with me.
When we arrive on the pavement outside his house, we both look up at the curtains on the bedroom which are still drawn. There’s his taxi still parked at the rear of the property, but there’s another car parked in front of that. Just when I’m getting wound up about the possibility of there being another woman, we spot a blue medical glove blowing in the wind. It’s been dropped by accident by a carer, no doubt.
Three bedrooms, semi-detached, you’d think I’d have wanted for nothing. Unlike in London, there’s not a rogue trash can out of place down this street, not much litter except for (it seems) the abundant use of medical supplies at this makeshift hospital of his. When the sun would shine in summer this street felt like the only place on earth, with our long, south-facing garden at the back always mowed, always trimmed… ready for garden parties while he was out at work overnight.
The sting hits me so sharply, I have to rub my chest. The agony of growing up without love still hits me now and again, but never more so than when I’m here, face to face with it.
A woman wearing a plastic apron over her uniform emerges from the house and sees us. Rather than stand out here a second longer looking like dorks, I jerk my head for us to go and speak to the woman.
“Hello,” I say to her. “Hi. Are you my dad’s nurse?”
She’s a very big, jolly black woman and beams with a smile. “Mirabelle?”
“Yes, that’s me. And this is my friend, Kallie.”
“He talks about you all the time!” she says. “Can’t believe we’ve never seen you before.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I say nothing. I expect people like her visit with lots of families and often forget the minute details.
She beckons me indoors and busies herself putting the kettle on and making toast. I expect that’s for him?
“How is he?” Kallie asks, on my behalf, because the smell of tea and toast is not masking the smell of impending death.
“He’s a bit perkier today,” says the lady. “My name’s Julie, by the way. I’m one of your dad’s carers. We just get him up and about.”
“You’re not a nurse, then?” I ask, staring around the room for what, I don’t know. Signs. Spare cash lying around. God knows what I’m seeking.
“No, he’s not…” She seems to cotton on. “He hadn’t told you, had he?”
I shake my head. “No. I—”
“Well, he’s dressed and in the living room. He was dozing when I was last in there. Why don’t you go through?”
