Текст книги "Someone Else's Life"

Автор книги: Katie Dale

Соавторы: Katie Dale,Katie Dale
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Chapter Four

The Christmas wreath tumbles to the floor as

shove the front door open and lean my head against the

cold glass. close my eyes, struggling to catch my breath,

to summon the strength to step inside, to face the house

that’s no longer my home.

Nearly everything had to be moved, cleared away or

locked up after the diagnosis: anything Mum could trip

over or smash into as the jerky movements– chorea—

progressed; anything she could hurt herself, or anyone

else, with when the paranoia set in; all our trinkets and

ornaments, our throw rugs and photo frames and

memories, all boxed up and stored in the garage, empty

since we’d sold the Mini.

The car was the biggest blow. By law, Mum had to

tell the DVLA her diagnosis, and they made her retest.

When she failed, that was it. They revoked her license.

“This is crazy!” Mum screamed at the test center.

“Even Jenson Button failed his driving test the first time—I demand

retake!” They refused. And without the car, in

our little rural village, she lost her independence.

So deferred Sixth Form. Despite Nana’s protests

about the importance of my education, couldn’t bear the

thought of Mum being stuck at home on her own. wanted

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to be there for her, look after her, do my best to cheer her

up. It wasn’t easy. hated the way strangers stared at her

wherever we went, nudging each other and whispering

that she was crazy or drunk. But her mood swings were

the worst.

She’d be high as kite one minute, then fly into an

uncontrollable rage over the smallest thing. She got so

angry because Neighbours was canceled one bank holiday that she started hurling things at the TV, and smashed the

screen. tried to calm her down, tried to explain, but there

was no reasoning with her—she needed her routine and

didn’t understand why she couldn’t watch her beloved

soap. In the end Sarah’s husband, Steve, had to physically

restrain her to stop her hurting herself. Then, when he

finally let go, she called the police, showed them her

bruises and had him arrested for assault.

The only thing that seemed to calm her down was

her cigarettes, but like with her temper, she didn’t seem to

know when, or how, to stop. She’d just smoke one after

another—up to fifty

day—inhaling compulsively until

they burned down to her fingers. Then, if there weren’t

another dozen full packets ready in the cupboard

(something she’d check obsessively), she’d freak out

about that too.

Other times, she’d get utterly depressed, despairing

at what was happening to her, frightened about the future,

paranoid that was going to leave. But didn’t. She was

my mother, my whole world.

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And felt so guilty. She’d been struggling for years

and I’d never twigged what was really going on, never

realized. So learned how to cope: to stick to routine, to

keep episodes of all her soaps recorded just in case, to buy

cigarettes in bulk and leave ashtrays everywhere. To stop

her burning her fingers

even bought her an old-

fashioned cigarette holder that she absolutely adored—

she said she felt like Audrey Hepburn.

Nana and Sarah helped as much as they could,

worried about me dropping out of Sixth Form, losing

touch with my friends, my future

Nana wanted me to

take the predictive test straightaway, but

wasn’t

allowed—at sixteen

was too young. Plus there were

other factors to consider.

Bex bombarded me with questions: What would

do if the test was positive? Would it be worth going to uni,

or learning to drive? Should really get married? Or have

kids, if they could get it too? Wouldn’t that be cruel, or

irresponsible, or selfish? Endless painful, impossible

questions that left me confused and sick and dizzy.

kept quiet after that, told Bex to, too—tried to be

normal, to keep up with my friends as they started Sixth

Form without me, with odd days out, phone calls,

Facebook. But all they ever seemed to do was gossip about

their new mates, giggle about guys or moan about their

course work, and it all seemed so petty suddenly. So

meaningless. It was actually

relief when they finally

stopped calling.

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And besides,

had new friends—online friends

from the Huntington’s Disease Youth Association. Teens

who understood what was going through, who’d lived

with the disease for years, watching as it slowly sapped

the independence and vitality from their loved ones day

by day. Though we now realized Mum’d had symptoms for

years before her diagnosis, we met people at her support

group in much later stages of the disease—people whose

families had deserted them because of their volatile

behavior, not realizing they had HD; families torn apart by

denial; parents whose children wouldn’t visit them for

fear of witnessing their own future; pensioners who’d

envisaged their retirements spent indulging their hobbies

and grandchildren, not visiting their formerly strong,

healthy spouses or adored grown-up children withered

and bedridden in care homes.

Mum was so frightened of becoming burden like

that. She couldn’t bear to imagine that someday she might

need someone to spoon-feed her and wipe her bum—that

wasn’t who she was Though it pains me to say it, in way, she was lucky.

And for

while she was reasonably okay. The

doctors prescribed medication that toned down her anger,

depression and chorea, and on really good days she

developed

jubilant carpe diem attitude, throwing her

worries to the wind as we went swimming in the sea,

boating on the river, and picnicking on the Downs. For her

birthday Nana, Sarah and even took her to Paris for cake

beneath the Eiffel Tower. She was even due to start

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clinical trial for new drug, which they hoped would slow

the disease’s progression.

But then,

few weeks later, she went upstairs for

something in the middle of the night, lost her balance and

tumbled all the way back down, smacking her head

against the wall, causing

brain hemorrhage. That was

the beginning of the end. Her symptoms seemed to

advance much more quickly after that. She became

completely bedridden. She struggled to swallow her food.

Then she developed pneumonia.

It was awful. Nana and Sarah both did their best,

coming over day and night, and care workers rallied

round, but

was the only one there twenty-four-seven.

The only one watching my mother slipping away. The only

one witnessing what might happen to me.

What thought might happen to me.

But she knew it never would

The thought comes like

burning scythe through

my chest as stare at the grab-bars, the child-locks, her

chair—things that have haunted my future—things that

I’ll never need– and she knew! All that time she let me believe was at risk, and all the time she knew!

grab pair of scissors from child-locked drawer

and dive at the chair, screaming as stab the sharp blades

into it again and again, slashing and hacking at its wipe-

clean surface, leaving great gashes bleeding foam. hate

this chair so much

hate its carefully padded limbs, its

folding backsupport, its urine-proof coating. So practical.

So functional. So ugly and terrifying and waiting for me—

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my destiny. Well, not anymore! shove the chair onto its

side, kicking and wrenching at it with all my might until

finally an arm snaps off, sending me slamming painfully

into the wall, but don’t care. Never again, never again

will anyone sit in it, rely on it, succumb to it.

My eyes scan the room greedily, searching for more

targets; then suddenly the front door flies open and man

bursts in, wielding cricket bat.

“All right, you—” Steve stops when he sees me.

“Rosie?”

“Rosie?!” Sarah pushes past him. “Rosie! What on

earth are you doing?” Her eyes take in the savaged chair,

the scissors. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” stare at her coolly, the scissors cold and

hard in my hand, blood pounding in my temples.

“We heard all the noise and thought”—she glances

at Steve—“I thought it was burglars!”

“Well, it’s not,” say. “So you can go.”

Sarah glances at Steve and pats his arm. “You go.”

He frowns. “You sure?”

“You too,” tell her.

“Off you go.” Sarah smiles at her husband as he

leaves. “I’m staying.”

“There’s no need.” grit my teeth. “Just go.”

She folds her arms and meets my gaze evenly.

explode. “What do you want?

“I don’t want anything.”

“Then get lost! Just get lost! This is my house, and

don’t want you here, you and your lies—you make me

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sick! You’re just

you’re just …” My eyes fill with tears.

“You’re just like her!”

“Rosie—” She reaches for my arm.

“Get off me!” wrench away. “How could you? How

could you?!” glare at her, rage pumping through me. “For eighteen months

watched my mum suffering, watched

her slipping away, watched her dying …” My eyes flood.

“Always fearing that could have it too, that someday that

could happen to me But it couldn’t, could it? It was never going to happen to me– because she wasn’t my mother!

“Rosie—”

“And all the time she knew! Eighteen months, and

she never thought to mention it, to let me off the hook? Oh, by the way, Rosie, you can’t have Huntington’s That’s all it would’ve taken—one simple sentence to erase

life

sentence. Eighteen months! And if she hadn’t got

pneumonia it could have been longer, couldn’t it? It could

have been years and years—and would she ever have told me?”

“Rosie,” Sarah begins, flustered now. “Rosie, she

didn’t know—”

“Oh,

know she didn’t know! I didn’t know. You

didn’t even know she had Huntington’s, and you’re

nurse, for God’s sake! But once she was diagnosed she

should have told me—how could she not? How could she

sit there in that hideous chair knowing I’d never inherit the disease and not tell me? What did she think I’d do? Leave her? How could she be so selfish?!

“Rosie, stop it! Rosie—she didn’t know!”

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“She did! She knew there was no chance of me ever

getting the disease, and yet—”

“No, Rosie, she didn’t!” Sarah grabs my wrists, her

eyes intense. “She didn’t know you weren’t her daughter!”

stare at her, the anger frozen in my limbs.

What?

She holds my gaze, her breath coming in gulps.

“Rosie, sit down.”

open my mouth to speak but can’t, and my legs

crumble as sink onto the sofa, my head spinning, trying

to figure out what I’ve missed, what she means—hitting

brick walls every time.

She didn’t know …?

Sarah sits down next to me, takes my hands.

“Rosie,” she says carefully, searching for the right

words. “I want you to listen to me, to let me explain—

without interrupting.” She swallows. “Okay?”

nod, not sure can speak anyway. My throat’s like

sandpaper.

“Okay,” she sighs. “Okay.” She takes deep breath.

“You know that Trudie always wanted

child so, so

desperately. But she—I don’t know if you know—she

suffered number of miscarriages …”

nod again, my chest tight.

“She and David tried to adopt, but they were too

old, too many stupid rules and red tape.” She sighs. “Then

finally she got pregnant again. David was so angry with

her, we all were, so worried she was putting herself at

risk. But she kept saying how she knew that this time it

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was going to be okay—she just knew And for ages it

seemed she was right. Everything was going so well, she’d

got to her third trimester and they were over the moon.

“But then one horrible stormy night, just as was

finishing my shift at the hospital, your nana rushed Trudie

in with stomach pains, weeks before she was due. David

wasn’t there, he was out somewhere in his cab, but they’d

called his dispatcher—he was on his way. Trudie was

frantic, terrified of losing her baby, anxious about the

storm, desperately needing David beside her, so stayed

on, determined to do everything could for her and the

child.

“But there were

complications. The baby was

born, but she wasn’t breathing properly. She was rushed

off to the Special Care Baby Unit and put on

ventilator

while they organized an urgent transfer to the Neonatal

Intensive Care Unit at Westhampton Hospital.

felt so

helpless. All

could do was watch as she struggled to

survive. She was so tiny, so frail.

“Then my friend Jamila who works in the SCBU

started sympathizing, saying how life isn’t fair—how

some babies die while others aren’t even wanted. wasn’t

really listening, but she kept on about this other

premature newborn, how her seventeen-year-old mother

was going to give her up for adoption. She was doing my

head in. wanted to tell her to shut up, as if silence would

save Trudie’s baby—with every breath she seemed to be

slipping away

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“Then Jamila asked me to cover for her. Her shift

was meant to be over, but her replacement hadn’t arrived

yet. Please Jamila begged—she was going on holiday, had to catch her flight—and as was staying anyway, told her

to go. Anything for some peace and quiet.”

Sarah swallows, takes deep breath.

“The next thing knew, an auxiliary nurse ran in,

shouting that Jamila’s teenager had done

runner.

hurried back to the labor ward and nearly ran straight

into your nana, who’d come to find me. Trudie was

desperate to see me, she said, so together we rushed back

to the delivery rooms, and sure enough, the teenage girl’s

bed was empty. Security confirmed she’d left—they’d had

no idea she was abandoning her baby. Then we heard

Trudie. She was in hysterics, I’d never seen her so

distraught. The police had arrived—there’d been

crash—David had been …” She glances at me, her face

deathly pale. “He’d been so unlucky. There was nothing

they could do …”

swallow hard.

“It was awful. Your nana tried to comfort her, but

Trudie was beside herself. Then, when she saw me, she

just wanted her baby, was desperate to know if she was all

right. She was so frightened, so upset, couldn’t tell her the truth. said I’d go and check, and hurried back to the

Unit. But her baby looked worse than ever and the

ambulance still hadn’t arrived. was desperate. The baby was going to die, just knew it. She wasn’t even crying—

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she didn’t have the strength.

couldn’t face Trudie,

couldn’t go back and tell her—not after David

“And then the other baby started to cry. The

teenager’s baby. Big, hearty sobs. looked across at her—

she was so much stronger, healthier, and about the same

size …”

Sarah’s breathing quickens.

“I didn’t think about it,” she says. “Not even for

second. There was no one else around, so

took my

chance.

switched the identity bracelets and incubator

tags. Just like that. Then the ambulance team arrived

asking for baby Kenning.

told them there’d been

mistake about the child’s name—it was Woods, not

Kenning—and they believed me—it was obvious which

child was sick, and they took her away.” She swallows. “It

was done. couldn’t have undone it if I’d wanted to. But

didn’t want to—it was the right thing, knew it was for

everyone.” She looks at me and drop my gaze, my head

reeling.

The teenager

two babies

switched?

“Then Jamila’s replacement arrived, and

rushed

straight back to Trudie.” Sarah smiles, her eyes watery.

“You should’ve seen her face when told her her baby was

okay. She couldn’t believe it, not till she finally saw her—

saw you.” She squeezes my knee, her lips trembling. “Oh, Rosie, it was love at first sight.”

stare at the cigarette burns polka-dotting the

carpet as they spin and blur, thoughts flooding my head.

“So I’m

That teenager was …”

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Sarah nods. “She was your biological mother, yes.”

swallow. “And she never knew? Mum never knew

…?”

She shakes her head. “Nobody knows. I’ve never

told anyone.”

“Not even Steve? Not Nana?”

“No.” She sighs. “I knew if did, if anyone so much

as suspected you could be taken away.” She closes her

eyes. “I’d never have forgiven myself.”

“And Mum

she never suspected?”

“Never.” Sarah looks at me. “As far as she was

concerned, you were her little girl, her baby.” Sarah

squeezes my hand. “And you were Rosie. She was your

mum, she always will be. It doesn’t matter about—”

“And the other girl?”

interrupt quietly, looking

away. “What was her name?”

“Rosie, can’t really …” Sarah trails off, sighs. “Her

name was Holly. Holly Woods.”

“Holly.” test the name on my lips. young name.

teenager’s name. “And she—my mother—she just left

me?”

“Oh, sweetie,” Sarah says gently. “There could have

been

thousand reasons why she ran away, why she’d

decided to put you up for adoption. Imagine if you had

child now, at your age, it’s hardly the best—”

“I’d keep it.”

“Yes, well

maybe she couldn’t. Maybe she thought

you’d have better life that way.” She squeezes my hand.

“The point is that Trudie did want you, more than

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anything in the world. You saved her that night. You saved

each other.”

stare at the doorframe, my height marked in

Mum’s loopy purple handwriting every birthday.

remember how stood on tiptoe each year, impatient to

reach the same height as her. How strange felt when

realized I’d outgrown her.

Suddenly

pain hits my chest so hard that

crumple. “I miss her,” gasp. “I miss her so much.”

“Oh, sweetie,

know!” Sarah wraps her arms

around me, pulling me close. “I know. Me too.”

“Why did she have to go? Why did she have to have

stupid Huntington’s? It’s not fair!”

“I know, darling.

know.” She kisses my hair

fiercely, holding me tight. “But you don’t. You’re young and healthy and everything she wanted you to be. She was

so proud of you, you know that? She loved you so much.”

nod, tears streaming down my cheeks.

“And she’ll always be your mum, no matter what.

Nothing can change that. Remember that. Remember her.”

She fumbles in her purse, pulling out photo strip. “Look

at her.”

do. It’s the photos we’d got from one of those

passport booths. In each picture we’re wearing wacky

clothes and pulling different silly expressions.

look at

Mum, dressed up in boa, her cheeks painted bright red,

fluttering her huge fake eyelashes, and smile despite

myself. It was the day she sacked her physiotherapist.

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“Poor Eileen, she barely got in the door, did she?”

Sarah smiles.

“Poor Eileen? She didn’t have clue!”

She’d come in, introduced herself, then spoke to

Mum ve-ry slo-wly and loudly. Mum had just stared at her,

looked at me and Sarah and then said, “I’m sorry, are you

quite well?”

“The look on her face!” Sarah laughs. “Priceless!”

We’d cracked up laughing but Eileen hadn’t seen

the funny side. That was the end of her. Mum said if she

only had

limited time left she wasn’t going to waste it

with ignorant idiots, thank you very much.

“Then Trudie just said, ‘Come on, if people are going

to stare, we’ll give ’em something to stare at!’ Sarah

laughs.

And we did. We donned our wildest clothes and

hired

pink stretch limo to chauffeur us down to

Brighton, where we strolled along the pier, ate ice cream

and fish and chips and candy-floss, then rode the rides till

we felt sick, all decked out in our boas and crazy hats.

And you know what? Nobody stared, nobody

gawped. We barely got second glance all day.

“God, and then it started to rain, do you

remember?”

nod. “But

couldn’t even drag her under the

shelter—she was too strong—and too busy dancing!”

“And singing!” Sarah laughs, and

giggle as

remember Mum whirling and twirling around the

lampposts singing loudly.

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“I can’t believe you convinced me to join in—what

did we look like?”

“Who cares!” Sarah smiles. “She was happy.”

She was. hadn’t seen her so happy in long time.

Singing her heart out in fancy dress in the middle of

Brighton.

“And then—” Sarah can hardly speak for laughing.

“Then when she got to the chorus of ‘It’s Raining Men,’ she

just stopped dead—”

“Yes! And just stood there, straight-faced, looking

round the seafront—”

“And said—”

‘It bloody well isn’t!’

We crack up in hysterics.

laugh till can hardly breathe, the memory of that

insane, wonderful sight dancing in my head, crazy and

hilarious. Tears of laughter stream down my face,

covering the tracks of their unhappy predecessors.

“It’s raining now.” smile, looking out the window.

“Men?” Sarah asks, and giggle, until suddenly car

pulls into the drive.

It’s Nana. pull away from Sarah, my smile gone.

Nana

“Sarah, it’s—”

“Shhh now, you’ll be fine. Everything will be okay,

promise,” she insists.

“How will it?” stare at her. “Sarah, I—I can’t. She

doesn’t know. You said she doesn’t know!”

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Sarah stands up and takes my shoulders firmly.

“She doesn’t,” she says, looking me in the eye. “But it’s

okay. Just be normal.”

stare at her. Be normal?

“She’s still your nana, and she loves you,” she tells

me, stroking my cheek. “We both do.”

The doorbell rings and freeze.

“Look, whatever happens,” Sarah says gently, “it’s

up to you. You can tell her if you want to, if it helps, if it

makes it easier for you.”

She looks at me sadly.

“Rosie, I’m so sorry. Sorry you had to find out this

way, for everything you’ve been through.” She sighs. “But

it’s your life now, and you have to make your own choices.

But no matter what, no matter what you choose to do, just

know I’m always here for you, any time, day or night,

okay?”

nod. “Okay.”

She kisses my cheek, then goes to answer the door.

take deep breath. Just be normal Be normal. It’s

just Nana Just Nana

Suddenly there she is, stepping into the room,

beaming at me.

“Hi, Nana.”

smile tentatively, feeling sick to my

stomach.

“Hello, darling!” She gives me hug, her small frame

fragile in my arms. “Steve rang—are you all right? Andrew

said he’d drop you off—”

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“Oh, Nana, I’m so sorry—Christmas dinner …”

glance at my watch. “I should’ve called …”

“Don’t be silly.” She smiles. “It’s all keeping warm,

and besides, it’s good for you to get out and see your

friends. Especially now.” She squeezes my hand. “When

think of the parties Trudie used to throw—goodness me,

she wouldn’t surface till teatime the next day!”

smile weakly. Same old Nana, always making the

best of things.

“Well, I’d better get back,” Sarah says. “Steve’s

family will think I’m avoiding them! Bye, Laura.” She hugs

Nana, then blows me kiss. “Bye, Rosie. Merry Christmas.”

Merry Christmas

watch her walk away down the gravel drive.

“Shall we?” Nana smiles. “There’s great big turkey

with our names on it at home, and want to hear all about

your wonderful party. Ooh, and Holiday is on later—I do love Cary Grant, and—Brrr!” She shivers violently as the

wind blows in. “And don’t know about you, but could do

with nice big mug of hot chocolate. Warms you from the

inside out, Trudie would always say!”

smile weakly as she takes my arm—just as

normal—and step out into the cold, dark night, lifting my

face to the falling rain.

Rain patters heavily against the window as lock

the bathroom door and hold my breath.

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Please

pray, my fingers crossed tightly as pull

down my pants.

Please, this time …

Nothing. Shit.

crumple to the floor, my fingers twisting

frantically in my hair.

Relax tell myself. It doesn’t mean anything, it’s not that late …

Six weeks …

Raindrops slide like tears down the dark

windowpane, blotting out the stars.

screw my eyes shut, concentrate on breathing.

It could just it could just be stress. It happens. You

hear about it all the time– false alarms. It doesn’t mean …

My breath catches, ragged in my throat.

Get

grip, girl. Everything’s cool, everything’s fine.

It’ll come …

bite my lip, take deep breath and force myself to

stand up and splash cold water on my face.

Everything’s fine

open my eyes and the girl in the mirror stares

back at me.

She looks as unconvinced as am.

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