There’s one minute to the buzzer. My heart is pounding as I race from one end of the school gym to the other, dribbling the ball as I weave in and out through a swarm of sweaty bodies.
‘Kayla. Kayla. Kayla,’ students, teachers and parents chant from the sideline. The gym is packed to capacity and all eyes are on me.
‘If you score this basket we win,’ Aiden, my best friend, shouts as he guards me against a really tall player on the other team.
I glance at the scoreboard. Thirty seconds to go. Beads of perspiration trickle from my hairline and into my eyes. I drag a shaky arm across my forehead, stop running and steady myself in front of the basket.
‘Kayla. Kayla. Kayla,’ the cheering is ringing in my ears.
‘Shoot, Kayla. Shoot!’ Aiden shouts.
With my feet slightly apart, I focus on the hoop. I bend my knees, throw the ball and a loud scream bursts through my lips.
The gym erupts with cheering and clapping and my team are running towards me, crowding around me as I sink to the floor, unable to believe what just happened.
‘You did it, Kayla. We won,’ Aiden says, wriggling his way through the group of our teammates gathered around me. ‘What are you doing down there?’ he asks, clearly surprised as he finds me sitting, rocking on the floor. ‘Can you believe it? We’re through to the finals. It’s the first time our school has made it in twenty years.’
‘Where’s my mam?’ I ask, choking back tears.
Aiden glances over his shoulder, still smiling. ‘She’s coming but it could take her a while to get through the crowd. Everyone is going crazy!’
The excitement is electric; stomping feet, clapping hands, laughter and cheering. But all I can think about is the throbbing pain in my knee. Something is wrong! Something is so wrong with my knee. Aiden reaches his hand out to me and pulls me to my feet. I want to scream again, but I press my top teeth down onto my bottom lip and hold the noise inside.
‘You okay?’ he asks, his smile faltering. ‘Blown away by your own greatness? It almost looks as if you’re crying.’
‘I want my mam,’ I say. ‘I just want my mam.’
Finally, Mam gets close enough so my eyes can meet hers and as soon as she sees me her expression changes. She knows I’m not crying happy tears. She knows I’m hurt.
I just want my mam.
I stand outside my daughter’s bedroom door and hold my breath. My feet are slightly apart – my knees wobble less this way and my arms are folded across my chest as if I’m cross. I’m not cross. Kayla never gives me reason to be cross. She’s not a stereotypical teenager. But I guess I’m not a stereotypical mother either. Sure, Kayla and I are mother and daughter, but mostly we are best friends. I won’t say we never argue. We’re human – not perfect. But when we do disagree it’s almost always over something silly, like who ate the last slice of pizza or whether Ross really is good for Rachel as we stay up too late watching Friends reruns together. And we never, ever keep secrets from each other. Until now. Kayla has been keeping a huge secret from me. My heart hurts when I think about how different everything might be right now if she had just told me she was feeling unwell sooner.
I exhale, making myself light-headed, and raise my hand to knock. But I pause as giggling carries through the gap of the slightly ajar door. I recognise the familiar sounds of Kayla video chatting with her best friend. I smile and shake my head. I often wonder how they can spend all day in school together and come home to spend half the evening chatting more.
‘They didn’t have Snapchat back in your day, Mam,’ Kayla likes to remind me, regularly. ‘This is how people talk to each other now. It’s just normal.’
Normal, I think. Unsteady again. Suddenly normal feels like a privilege we’ve taken for granted.
As the carefree, childhood laughter grows louder and giddier I can’t bring myself to disturb Kayla. Not right now. I need to keep normal for just a little while longer.
‘I can’t go to the funfair this year,’ I hear Kayla say. ‘My mam is in a bad mood. I think she’s heard something dodgy from someone else’s mam or something.’
‘Like what?’ Aiden’s husky voice says as clear as if he’s in the room with my daughter.
‘Dunno,’ Kayla says. ‘Maybe something about kids getting drunk. Half our year were pissed off their heads last year, remember?’
‘Ha, yeah,’ Aiden laughs. ‘The state of some of them; Roisin Kelly threw up in a bush. It was the funniest thing ever, remember?’
I gasp. Mrs Kelly thinks her kids are so perfect. I wonder what she’d say if she found out what Roisin gets up to behind her back.
‘Anyway, just tell your mam you don’t drink,’ Aiden continues. ‘She’ll believe you, won’t she?’
‘She knows I don’t drink,’ Kayla replies, sounding mildly offended, and my heart swells with pride. ‘Anyway, I don’t think that’s even it. She’s totally stressed. I think this thing with my wonky knee is really freaking her out.’
‘Did you tell her we have a big game next week. You have to play. We won’t win without you,’ Aiden says.
Kayla sighs. ‘Yeah. I don’t think she’ll let me play. She’s been obsessed with me taking it easy all week. She’s acting all weird since we came back from the hospital. The tests weren’t even all that bad. Scans and X-rays. Well, except I had to get blood taken. That was a bit gross, to be honest.’
‘I still don’t get why you needed to have so many tests for a sprain,’ Aiden says.
‘Yeah. Me neither.’ Kayla sighs. ‘It’s so boring and there’s lots of waiting around.’
Aiden snorts. ‘Yeah but it’s worth it to get off school. Mr Gibbons gave us three pages of maths homework last night. He’s such a dick.’
‘Yeah, s’pose,’ Kayla says. ‘Mam and I get McDonald’s or hot chocolate after hospital stuff, so that’s cool. I think I’m done with tests now anyway. I’ll probably be back in school tomorrow or the next day.’
‘What did the tests say?’ Aiden asks.
‘Dunno,’ Kayla says. ‘Think it takes ages for results to come back or something. But my knee is grand now, so it was all a big waste of time, really.’
The springs in Kayla’s bed begin to squeak and I’ve no doubt she’s jumping on her bed, testing out her grand now knee. I’m about to walk in and tell her to stop before she falls. Or cracks the ceiling in the kitchen below her room. The landlord will go ballistic if there’s any more damage. He’s still bitching about the hair-dye stain on the carpet in my room even though I’ve told him a million times it was there before we moved in. I bought a rug to cover it. Just so I wouldn’t have to think about him every time I saw it.
Aiden’s voice suddenly becomes very serious, and I listen, concerned. ‘Tell your mam your knee is fine and come to the funfair. Unless you’re too chicken to go on the Wall Of Death again and this is just your excuse. Bawk, bawk, bawk,’ he teases.
‘Seriously,’ Kayla snaps. ‘Stop that. I told you I can’t go.’
‘Do something nice to get on her good side,’ Aiden says. ‘Empty the dishwasher. Or make her breakfast in bed. Mams love breakfast in bed.’
‘Aiden come on…’ Kayla says.
‘What?’ Aiden says. ‘You just have to know how to butter her up.’
‘All these tests are expensive and my mam’s had to miss lots of work. She’s in a pretty bad mood. So, can we just drop it, okay?’
‘Okay. Sorry. I was only joking, Kayla,’ Aiden says, sincerely. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. Mams are always acting weird. It’s no big deal.’
‘My mam isn’t,’ Kayla says, and the tears I’ve been struggling to hold back begin to fall. ‘She’s cool.’
‘Just not cool enough to let you come out this weekend,’ Aiden says.
Silence hangs in the air and for a moment I wonder if Kayla has realised I’m listening. I don’t even know what I’m doing. I never eavesdrop on my daughter. I don’t need to. We gossip together like a couple of best friends and she fills me in on all her news. I guess I’m just stalling. I know when I knock on Kayla’s door that everything will change.
‘Look,’ Aiden says, ‘tell your mam I’ll be there. Tell her I’ll keep you safe. Cause I will, you know.’
‘Don’t be creepy, you weirdo,’ Kayla laughs loudly. ‘Anyway, there’s no point even talking about this anymore.’
My heart aches as I hear the disappointment in Kayla’s voice. But, she’s right. I won’t allow her to go to the local funfair with her friends this weekend, despite going the previous two years. But Kayla doesn’t know why, and I’ve no idea how I’m possibly going to bring myself to tell her.
‘I gotta go,’ Aiden says, suddenly. ‘My dinner is ready. Call you later, yeah?’
‘Yeah. Sure,’ Kayla says. ‘Bye.’
There’s a sudden silence before Ed Sheeran’s latest single blares loud enough to rattle Kayla’s bedroom door. I jump back from it somewhat deafened and turn around to face the stairs. Thank God the banister is next to me. I grab it as my knees buckle. I sit down heavily on the top step and drop my head into my hands.
I hate myself for earwigging on Kayla like some sort of creepy spy, checking up on my teenage daughter as if she’s done something wrong – especially, when she’s such a good kid. I hate myself for being distracted the last few days and seeming distant or not myself. I thought I was doing a good job of hiding my worries in front of Kayla – obviously not. Mostly, I hate myself for answering my mobile ten minutes ago and taking a call from a doctor at the hospital. He asked me to come in tomorrow to discuss Kayla’s test results.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘Would eleven thirty suit?’ he said, as if that was an answer.
Eleven thirty definitely does not suit. I’ve missed so much work already and I have back-to-back meetings from nine until twelve tomorrow. But without hesitation I said, ‘Of course.’ And then I said, ‘Thank you.’ I actually thanked the doctor for the opportunity to break bad news to me. I know it’s bad news, because if it was anything else, he would have told me over the phone, wouldn’t he?
I’ve made my fair share of similar phone calls. I don’t talk to people about their health – just their money. Most of my clients think money is the most important thing in the world. I wonder if they saw how much weight my daughter has lost recently, or how she walks with a subtle limp, whether they would change their mind.
‘Please come into the office at your earliest convenience,’ I say, monotonically and not giving away any clues, but the person on the other end always knows the news is bad. Sometimes they ask for more details. Sometimes they don’t. But they always manage to clear their calendars, no matter how busy they protest to be, and make the appointment.
‘Mam,’ Kayla says appearing behind me and placing her hand on my shoulder.
‘Ahh,’ I screech, clutching my chest.
I didn’t hear her bedroom door open behind me over the music blaring. Kayla giggles. I laugh too and hope Kayla thinks that I’m dragging my sleeve under my eyes to dry the tears of laughter and nothing else.
Kayla squeezes between me and the banister and lowers herself to sit and share my step of the stairs. She drops her head onto my shoulders and doesn’t say a word.
‘Hey you,’ I say, concentrating hard to steady my shaking shoulders. ‘What do you fancy for dinner? I’m thinking Chinese? Or pizza?’
Kayla takes a deep breath and nuzzles closer. ‘Mam, what’s wrong? Tell me, please. I’m worried about you.’
I reach my arms around my daughter and gather her into me. And I plead with the knot in my stomach to back off for just a moment so I can enjoy the smell of Kayla’s hair and the warmth of her hug.
‘It’s a big decision,’ I puff out, remaining steady. ‘Pizza or Chinese. Could make or break the whole evening.’
Kayla straightens and I release my grip. I look into my teenage daughter’s beautiful, sky-blue eyes and I struggle to remember a day before I had her in my world.
‘I’m dying for prawn crackers,’ Kayla smiles. ‘Can we get it delivered?’
‘Good idea,’ I say. ‘That’ll give me time to whip up some brownies for after. How does that sound?’
‘Yum,’ Kayla says, standing up and bouncing down a few steps before she turns a half-circle to look back at me with a cheeky smirk. ‘And I’ll pick something on Netflix. My choice tonight. No more of that documentary crap that you’ve been watching. You have to watch Riverdale, Mam. Everyone at school loves it. You will too.’
‘Okay, sweetheart,’ I say, clinging desperately to one more day of normality. ‘Okay.’
‘Molly, honey. Where are your shoes?’
My four-year-old daughter stands by the front door with the evidence of chocolate cereal melted into the creases of her lips.
‘Dunno.’ Molly shrugs. ‘Daddy?’ She twists her chin over her shoulder and shouts towards the kitchen.
My husband hurries into the hall sporting the same sugary-breakfast residue around his mouth.
‘Shoes?’ I say, shaking my head and pointing to our daughter’s feet.
‘I know. I know. I was just on it,’ Gavin says, glancing at Molly, hoping for clues as he drags the back of his hand across his lips to wipe away the chocolate.
I shouldn’t sigh, but I can’t help it. I appreciate Gavin’s efforts to offer me a lie-in this morning, but he doesn’t know Molly’s routine the way I do. I laid in bed, staring at the ceiling for as long as I could, pretending the confusion about uniform and PE gear hadn’t worried me. I came downstairs appearing as unphased as possible with Molly’s tie tucked subtly under my arm.
‘Your shoes are where you left them last night, Molly,’ I say, slipping the tie around her neck and fixing it in place. ‘On the bathroom floor.’
‘Oh yeah.’ Molly smiles, pulling away from me to hurry up the stairs. ‘I remember now.’
‘God, that kid would forget her head if it wasn’t attached,’ Gavin says, half-laughing.
‘Yup.’ I nod, trying not to get frustrated that yesterday I asked Molly three times to put her shoes away in her room.
I walk into the kitchen. Gavin follows me and sits at the table to finish his Coco Pops.
‘Coffee?’ I ask, filling the kettle.
‘Mmm-hmm,’ Gavin says, lifting his bowl to his lips to drink the chocolatey milk.
I flick on the kettle and take the cereal bar and packet of crisps out of Molly’s lunchbox and swap them for a couple of slices of five-grain bread and an apple. I don’t bother mentioning the school’s healthy-eating policy. Gavin read the note that we got at registration, just as I did.
‘No PE today, Molly. It’s Tuesday,’ I say as my little girl skips back into the kitchen with her shoes on the wrong feet, carrying her sports kit. ‘But you do have piano after school, remember?’
‘I hate peenano,’ Molly says.
‘I know.’ I nod. ‘But that’s because you’re just starting out. It’s tricky now. But when you’re older and you can play all your favourite songs, you’ll be so happy.’
‘I won’t.’ Molly stomps her foot. ‘I hate songs. I hate all the songs.’
‘Okay,’ I sigh, trying to ignore my daughter’s ridiculous argument.
I’m tempted to point out that for someone who hates all the music in the world she hums the theme tune from a toothpaste advert every night when we’re brushing her teeth. But we’re already running late and I know the irony will be wasted on my four-year-old.
‘Daddy. Let’s go,’ Molly says, taking her lunchbox from my hand.
Gavin stands up and doesn’t notice Molly jerk her schoolbag from his hand. The zip is open and her pencil case and a plastic folder tumble to the floor.
‘Oops.’ Molly giggles and bends down to tidy up the mess.
‘Molly, really?’ I say, coming to help her. ‘You need to pay more attention.’
‘I didn’t mean to,’ Molly says, her bottom lip beginning to quiver.
‘It’s okay, princess,’ Gavin says, his eyes narrow on me. ‘We all make mistakes sometimes. Even Mammy.’
I groan inwardly and roll my eyes, scolded.
‘C’mon, Molly,’ I say, aware of precious seconds ticking by – we’re going to be late. ‘You put these things back in your bag and I’ll fix your shoes.’
‘My shoes aren’t broken.’ Molly points to her feet.
‘No,’ I sigh, losing patience. ‘But they are on the wrong feet, aren’t they?’
‘Are not.’ Molly scrunches her nose.
‘Molly they are.’
‘Are not.’ Molly flops onto her bum and tucks her feet under her. She folds her arms across her chest and stares up at me, defiantly.
‘Oh for goodness’ sake,’ I say, bending down to toss Molly’s pencil case and folder back into her bag. ‘Give me your feet. You’ll break your neck on the yard if you don’t fix your shoes.’
‘No. No. NO!’ Molly huffs.
Defeated, I stand up and look at Gavin. My expression is asking him to speak to his daughter about this. But just as my husband points his finger and opens his mouth his phone rings. His fingers quickly retract as he shoves his hand into his pocket to pull out his phone.
‘It’s Heather,’ Gavin says, gesturing at the screen.
I smile, ridiculously brightly out of sheer frustration, because I don’t know what else to do at the news that his ex-fiancée is calling.
‘Hello,’ Gavin says, raising the phone to his ear before I have time to say anything. ‘No. Of course it’s not a bad time. What’s up?’
‘No, it’s not a bad time,’ I mimic and roll my eyes as Gavin walks into another room.
Molly laughs. ‘You’re silly, Mammy,’ she says and lunges forward to wrap her arms tightly around my waist. ‘I love you.’
‘I love you too, baby,’ I say.
‘I’m not a baby,’ Molly says. She lets go of me and lowers herself onto her bum again. She stretches her legs out in front of her and slips off her shoes and switches them onto the opposite feet. ‘See. I’m a big girl.’
Result. I smile.
‘C’mon,’ I say, taking Molly’s hand in mine and helping her to her feet. ‘Let’s see if Daddy is ready. We don’t want to be late.’
I toss one strap of Molly’s sparkly pink school bag over my shoulder and tuck her even brighter pink lunchbox under my arm. Molly holds my hand and skips alongside me towards the sitting room.
The sitting room door is slightly ajar and I’m just about to push my hand against it when I hear Gavin’s voice crackle and break.
‘Oh God. Okay. Oh God,’ he says. ‘Jesus, Heather. This can’t really be happening. Tell me this can’t be happening.’
I pull my hand away from the door and, I turn, about to direct Molly back towards the kitchen but she wriggles her hand away from mine and pushes the door all the way back until it bangs against the wall.
‘Molly, for goodness’ sake, Daddy’s busy right now,’ I say.
‘Daddy, look.’ Molly skips into the room, ignoring me. ‘I fixed my shoes. All by myself. Mammy said I was a baby, but I fixed them.’
Gavin is facing the fireplace and he doesn’t turn around. Not even when Molly crosses the room and tugs on the back pocket of his suit pants. His head is low, and his shoulders are round. Gavin is six foot two and broad, he’s still carrying some muscle from playing rugby in college, but suddenly my husband seems shorter and almost frail. As if the weight of whatever Heather has said is physically crushing him.
‘Molly,’ I call. ‘Molly, honey, come here.’
Molly lets go of Gavin and spins around to look at me. Gavin is silent and nodding his head as he stands statue-like with the phone still pressed tightly against his ear. I wonder if he’s even noticed we are here.
‘Molly, will you go upstairs and brush your teeth, please?’ I ask.
‘I already did.’ Molly pulls a funny face as she parts her lips to show me her top and bottom teeth at the same time. ‘See.’
‘Can you brush them again, please?’ I say.
‘But…’
‘Remember what the tooth fairy said?’ I say.
Molly puffs out. ‘Shiny teeth are a fairy’s favourite.’
‘Exactly. So, go on. Good girl.’ I move out of the door arch to allow Molly to pass by me on her way to the stairs. ‘I can’t wait to see how sparkling you can get them.’
‘I can get them super sparkly. Sparklier than my school bag,’ Molly says, rushing up the stairs. I don’t even tell her not to run.
Molly leaves the bathroom door open and I wait until I can hear the tap running before I set her schoolbag and lunchbox down on the couch and hurry over to Gavin. I place my hand on his shoulder and I feel him shaking. This isn’t like him. Heather and Gavin have an almost annoyingly good relationship for a pair of exes. They split parenting of Kayla as evenly as they can even though they live on opposite sides of the country. Gavin pays the lion’s share of costs: school trips, braces, new shoes. And he never once complains. I think he feels guilty that Heather dropped out of college when Kayla was born, while he continued with his studies.
‘I’m the bigger earner,’ Gavin tells me when yet another dentist bill comes through the letterbox.
It’s true. But Heather is way out of line this week. She must have called Gavin ten times already, all because Kayla fell and sprained her knee. Heather is talking about some specialist that Gavin and I have never heard of, and no doubt Heather thinks the Bank of Gavin will cover the cost. It’s getting completely out of hand. I’ll have to talk to Gavin about it later.
‘Gavin,’ I say, my fingers curling a little tighter around his shoulder. ‘What is it?’
Gavin turns around and his face is pale. His eyes are meeting mine but he’s not really seeing me. He’s still holding the phone against his ear but I don’t think there’s anyone on the other end anymore. Suddenly, this doesn’t feel as if it’s about money.
Light footsteps begin to move around overhead and I know Molly will come bouncing down the stairs any second.
I reach for Gavin’s hand and lower it away from his ear. He’s clutching his phone so tightly his knuckles are as white as his face. I don’t bother attempting to prise his phone out of his hand, or even try to talk to him; instead I slide my hand around his waist and lead him to the couch. He walks, taking baby steps like a small child. A horrible weight settles in my stomach when we reach the couch and I have to reach up and physically press my hands against the tops of my husband’s shoulders to guide him to sit down.
‘Maaaaammmyyyy, I can’t find my school bag,’ Molly shouts from the top of the stairs.
I glance at her bag wedged beside and slightly under Gavin on the couch.
‘Keep looking,’ I say, moving to the door so Molly comes into view at the top of the stairs. ‘Try your room. Good girl.’
‘Okay.’ Molly shrugs, turning and skipping away.
I close my eyes for a second and exhale before I turn around to face Gavin. I know Molly won’t stay distracted alone for much longer but I really don’t want her listening to whatever Gavin is about to tell me.
I open my eyes to see Gavin sitting with his hands covering his face and he’s shaking his head.
‘What did she say, Gavin?’ I say. ‘Is it bad news?’
Gavin doesn’t make a sound. When he finally lowers his hands his eyes are bloodshot and I can see he’s struggling to hold back tears.
‘Mammy, I can’t find it,’ Molly’s shouts. ‘I’ve looked in all the places.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Molly.’ I roll my eyes and march into the hall.
Molly is standing at the top of the stairs again. Her arms are stretched out wide and she’s shaking her head. ‘I think Daddy hided it. Maybe he doesn’t want me to go to school today.’
I glance over my shoulder at my broken husband. Just minutes ago he was eating children’s breakfast cereal with the rigor of a teenager and now he’s washed out, shaking and as frail as a man three times his age.
Dammit, why can’t we have a normal day for once?
Gavin mentioned something months ago about Heather’s job being on the rocks. What if they’ve finally let her go and she’s moving? Gavin would die if Heather moved Kayla even further away. He couldn’t cope without Kayla.
‘Mammy are you listening?’ Molly juts a hip out and points a wagging finger at me.
It’s hard to keep a straight face as I stare up at the mini-me scolding me from the top of the stairs.
‘Sorry, sweetie,’ I say, making my way up the stairs, reluctant to leave Gavin alone. ‘Mammy’s being silly this morning, isn’t she?’
Molly nods. ‘And Daddy too. Daddy’s very silly. He didn’t know today is peenano day.’
‘Yes,. . .
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