Page 54 of Surrender
So I reached out to Man U. At first, they wouldn’t take my calls. They held a grudge against my father for breaking away from them so poorly when Mum got sick. But they must have done some digging on my stats because I eventually got an invitation to train with them. Not long after, I got an offer. An offer to laugh at all other offers.
It was a life-changing amount of money.
I thought about how wonderful that kind of money would be for my family. For my sister and my brothers. I could give them anything they ever wanted. Mostly, they wouldn’t need our dad anymore. They wouldn’t need to rely on him for anything. They could count on me.
With a heavy sigh, I turn to walk down the front steps and climb into the cab. As the driver pulls away, my clothes begin to stiffen on my body. A cold sweat breaks out, so I pull at the neckline of my shirt. When I get a whiff of something sweet that the driver is eating, I’m overcome by a memory I’d rather forget.
8 Years Old
Mum’s hands are clammy as I watch her chest rise and fall with short, shaky breaths. Her entire body feels cold. I squeeze my hot palms around her hands with an apologetic half-smile because they are sticky from the cream and jam I spread on scones for Vi and my brothers a little bit ago. The kids are always asking for something. A snack, a drink, help with the telly, someone to play with. It never stops. Four kids is too many. I can’t wait for Vi to turn five in a couple of months. Maybe she can start helping in the kitchen and keep the twins out of my way.
At least she knows how to change Booker’s nappies, though. That’s one job I will never do.
On top of the kids, there’s the doorbell. The neighbour lady keeps ringing our gate, dropping off big pans of food because she thinks that’s what we need. She needs to come by with what we really need. Help.
But stupid Dad won’t let anyone in the door. The old woman has to leave the food at the gate. Then he barks at me to go get it. It makes me so mad because I need to be with Mummy. I’ve spent every single day with her since she stopped getting out of bed a few weeks ago. If I didn’t have to go to school, I would never leave her. She needs me.
I probably wouldn’t have to do so much if Dad wasn’t such an awful meanie. He won’t let anyone in. Friends, the neighbour, not even our uncle who lives in America and flew all the way here to help.
And he hardly ever lets us out. The only places we can go is the back garden, the woods behind our house, and school. That’s it.
I hate him.
But I love Mummy.
She’s my best friend.
My breath is still heavy from my sprint up the stairs to hurry back to her. I didn’t want to leave her, but I could hear Dad crying in the other room. I knew if he heard the doorbell ring again, he’d shout. He always shouts. Sometimes he even growls.
But crying…He doesn’t usually do that.
Crying makes my stomach hurt.
Crying makes me think bad things are coming.
Mum and Dad think I don’t know what’s going on. They think I don’t know Mummy is dying. But I’m eight. I’m not a baby anymore. I can understand what the doctor says around Mum even though he acts like she’s not here. Dad and the doctor always talk about her. Nobody talks to her.
Only me.
That’s my job. That’s why I spend every day with her.
I could talk to her forever.
But I know forever isn’t going to happen. Last time the doctor was here, he said one word that made everything go from bad to really bad.
“Days.”
Stupid, awful, bloody cancer.
I hate it. Mummy tried to fight it. She had the surgeries she didn’t want to have because Dad made her, but nothing worked. Now my mummy is leaving me.
The sound of a sniffle makes me look from Mum’s hands to her eyes. They flutter open and reveal the brightest blue I’ve ever seen. Maybe it’s because her skin is so white, but it looks like the blue food colouring we dye Easter eggs with. They almost hurt to look at because they are so pretty.
“How’s my best boy?” Mum’s voice croaks in the pretty Swedish accent she has that I love so much. She closes her eyes and winces beneath her smile.
“Just fine, Mummy. Do you need something? Do you want me to get out the cards?” I look over at the table where I’ve stashed a few things to pass the time. Dice, cards, and a notepad for her to write her poetry on. Sometimes I write it for her when she’s feeling poorly.
She shakes her head. “No cards today, love. I just need you.” Her chin wobbles. “We have to talk about something, Gareth. I need to ask you something.”
