Page 6 of The Flowers of Bay C
‘I hate being at Nan’s. She fusses too much.’
‘I know.’
I hated growing up with her, too, and I hate having to rely on her for Jake when I’m in hospital.
He shrugs and rams his earbuds in again, lost too soon in the world of his phone. The conversation, such as it was, has run dry. I stare at his thumbs working so frantically away, wishing he was small again, the little lad whose smile lit a room and who never stopped talking.
But that little lad was heartbroken every time I had to go into hospital. My father would wrap him in his arms and drag him kicking and screaming out of the ward. Maybe he’s still kicking and screaming inside, but just doesn’t know how to show it anymore, in his great scary brave new adolescent world. I want to kick and scream, too, to pummel my fists into someone’s chest.
Jodie shambles back through the bay, dragging an oxygen cylinder on wheels with one hand and a drip stand with the other, her tatty fleece dressing gown gaping open to reveal a T-shirt with the words ‘OK Millennial’ printed in great big black letters. She holds her curves like a proud goddess, sticking out her chest, her copious belly hanging out over her pink leopard-skin print pyjama bottoms.
‘Cool T-shirt,’ Jake says, and she stops and stares at him.
‘You her son then?’
Jake makes a noise that might mean yes in some strange alien language but sounds more like ‘duh’ in ours.
‘I’m Jodie.’
‘Jake.’
‘What you playing?’
Jake cocks a sardonic eyebrow at her.
‘Go on, let’s see.’
He shrugs and shows her his phone.
She narrows her eyes, leaning in and scratching her head. ‘That’s a rubbish score.’
Jake’s mouth twitches. ‘Actually, I’m in the top one hundred.’
‘Get you!’ Jodie sheds her dressing gown and sinks onto her bed. ‘I’ll show you what I’m on.’
Jake shifts closer to her bed, and I feel like he’s interacted more meaningfully with a stranger nearer his age in thirty seconds than he has with me in twenty minutes. I close my eyes and lie back. I’m done with this day.
I don’t hear Jake leave.
???
It’s late evening and I’m waiting for the last IV round when I hear the raspy voice. ‘Have you seen my mouse?’
I open my eyes. Try to focus. What? Is someone saying something to me? Jodie is here but she’s quiet, on her phone with headphones in. Amina snores gently across the ward.
‘You! Have you seen my mouse?’
It’s Barbara, mask-less, speaking in urgent tones, eyes flicking around the ward, her white hair wild. Is she talking to me?
‘You there. Girl. Come over here.’
She means Jodie, or maybe she wants one of the nurses.
But she’s beckoning to me. She’s sitting bolt upright with her mouth hanging open, like a baby bird waiting for dinner, her limbs like twigs, shipwrecked on a great island of cotton wool whiteness.
I drag myself up to a semi-sitting position and look at her, raising my shoulders.
‘Yes. You. Come over here, please, darling.’
