Rachel Ward - Numbers

I got her back to bed. She was still upset. We both were. She tried to twist ’round, managed to get hold of one of her pillows. “Just hold it, Jem.” She tried moving it up to her face, but she couldn’t manage.

“No, Karen. Stop it.”

“Please, Jem. I’m tired.”

I took the pillow out of her hands. It would be so easy to do it, press it up against her, lean my weight in. It was what she wanted.

Then Adam came into the room.

“Mum, I’m thirsty. I want a drink.”

That snapped me out of it. I helped Karen to lean forward and propped the pillow firmly behind her back.

“I think we all do, darlin’,” I said. “Let’s make a cup of tea.”

I put some juice in a bottle for Adam and some tea in another one for Karen – like I said, it was like having two kids. I sat with her and held the bottle up to her mouth.

“That’s it,” I said, “everything seems better with a nice cup of tea.” She managed half a smile with the bit of her face that still moved.

“Do you want some biscuit?” She nodded, and I dipped a biscuit into my tea so it was nice and soggy, and fed her. And then it happened. She started choking. I put everything down and slapped her on the back. She was gasping, fighting for breath. I couldn’t do nothing to help. I ran into the hall and grabbed the phone. The ambulance was there within ten minutes, but it was too late. She’d gone.

Adam had seen it all. I should’ve kept him out of the way, but I was so busy trying to help Karen.

“What’s wrong with Nana?” he asked. I took him into the front room, and sat him on my lap.

“She’s gone, darlin’. She’s died.”

“Like Daddy?” I was always telling Adam about his dad. I wanted him to know about him, how special he was.

“Yes, just like Daddy.”

That was the other thing I’ve been doing, you see. I’ve brought Adam up, been a mum and a dad to him. I know I’m not unique doing this. There’s thousands, millions of single parents, but when it’s you, and your own childhood wasn’t exactly rosy, it feels like a big deal to look at your five-year-old son and know that he’s healthy and happy. If you’d asked me five years ago if I thought I could be someone’s mum, and be a good one at that, I’d have laughed in your face. But do you know what? It’s something that I can really do. I’m a mum. I’m Adam’s mum, and it’s something I’m proud of.

I suppose everyone thinks that their child is special. But I know that Adam really is. He’s a lot like his dad. Val says he’s the spitting image of him when he was little, and I can believe it. He’s tall, for a start, all arms and legs, even when he was a baby. And he’s always busy. You can’t keep your eyes off him for a minute – he’s into everything. That’s why I take him out so much. He’d drive me mad, cooped up inside all day. He’s the kind of boy that needs to burn off some energy on the swings or running ’round the park. That’s one of the reasons we moved out here to Weston after Karen died. Spider was right: There’s so much space here. We can spend an afternoon on the beach, and by the end of it we’ve walked for miles and miles, and Adam’s tired and ready for bed like a good boy.

He finds it difficult to sit still, not got much concentration. The teachers at school have said that, too. He’d rather be climbing something or kicking a ball than sitting looking at a book. He’s a bit behind with all that stuff, not that that bothers me – I know he’ll get there in the end. He’s not stupid.

They’ve been learning the alphabet and counting, one to ten, over and over at school. I don’t think anyone thought he was taking it all in. But just last week, we had a bit of a breakthrough. He came out of school and said his teacher wanted to see me. I thought, Oh, no, what’s he done now? but it wasn’t bad, at least not the way I was expecting: getting in a fight or being cheeky or whatever.

We went into the classroom and his teacher showed me a drawing he’d done. Beautiful, it was, in bright crayons – the colors of summer. There were two people holding hands, a big one and a little one. They were on a strip of yellow sand, with the sun in the sky above them, and big smiles on their faces.

“We’ve talked about this, haven’t we, Adam, this lovely picture?” she said.

He nodded solemnly.

“It’s you and Mummy, isn’t it?” she asked him.

“Yes,” he said. “Me and Mummy at the beach.”

“I think he’s got his numbers and letters a bit confused,” she said, “but I’m very pleased with his pencil control.” For there, above the head of the taller figure, arching over like a rainbow, was some writing. “I think you meant to write Mummy, didn’t you, Adam?”

He shook his head and frowned.

“No, Miss,” he said. “I told you. It’s not her name. It’s her number. It’s Mummy’s special number.”

I would like to thank all friends, family, and colleagues who have taken a kindly interest in my writing: Jonathan for his encouragement and comments on the first draft; Dylan and Sparky for getting me up in the morning to write; Charles for showing me ’round Bath Abbey; all the lovely literary people at the Frome Festival; and, of course, Barry, Imogen, and all staff at the Chicken House.

RACHEL WARDfirst won a writer’s award at a regional arts festival, and her prizewinning short story turned into the opening chapter of Numbers, which is her debut novel. She lives in Bath, England, with her husband and their two sons. Visit her at www.rachelwardbooks.com.