Page 83 of Am I Allergic to Men?
The memory floods back to me, the blurred vision of my Meg and Dr Jacobs over me, and it’s welcome, not to relive it but to actually have a memory, to have it and be able to put the pieces all together again, not have them scattered about and not fitting together. A tear rolls down the curve of my cheek and my mum scoops it up with her finger.
‘Do you know who I am?’
‘You’re Meg.’
She stops for a moment then smiles. ‘How old are you?’
‘Thirty, fucking thirty. How did that happen?’
She sighs with relief, her breath trembling.
‘Have I been asleep for long?’ I ask.
‘It’s now 2031.’
‘Really?’
‘Not really.’
‘That’s not funny.’
‘You said I was Meg.’
‘Because that was funny.’
She does a very Mum thing of patting down the bed, studying all the monitors around my bed like she knows what all the readings mean.
‘Would you have sat there then for ten years, waiting for me to wake up?’ I ask, attempting to calm her down.
‘I’d have stopped for occasional toilet breaks. I don’t think you’d have appreciated me peeing in a bucket in the corner of the room. But yes. I’d have been here every day.’
We pause for a moment to take that in.
‘You’ve been asleep for about twelve hours. They explained what they did to your head and your dad threw up so they’ve taken him home. The sisters are doing shifts.’
I reach up to feel bandages, wires still flow out of every arm. They put that one up my pisser again, didn’t they?
‘Did the sisters all come back to London?’ I ask, slightly annoyed that I’d have disrupted their routines again.
‘Of course, they’re all crashing in various houses. I met Max, Grace’s new boyfriend.’
‘Thoughts?’
‘He’s pleasant. Possibly trying too hard to impress me because he’s scared of me. Also, so much hair.’
I smile. ‘Talking of hair… Did they shave my head again?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hair grows.’
‘That it does.’
Mum can’t seem to find the words but stands there just as I’ve asked her to do. It’s a version of Mum I’ve not seen before and it’s slightly unnerving. I can’t tell if her stoicism is strength or fear.
‘Talk, Mum. You’re scaring me.’
‘I’mscaringyou…’
