Virginia Macgregor - Wishbones

Dad has always done the cooking. It’s Tucker legend that when Mum first tasted Dad’s roast chicken, she decided he was the man she was going to marry.

Mum smiles. ‘You can’t boil an egg, love.’

‘Well, I’m going to learn. And I’ve already made a start – with this salad.’ I spear a bit of lettuce onto the fork.

Beads of sweat have gathered along Mum’s hairline. Her body’s like an old heater – either stone cold or scalding hot and nothing in between.

I hold the fork closer to Mum’s mouth, which makes me think about the stories Mum told me about when I was little and hated eating. I’d throw things off the side of the high chair and laugh.

Mum pushes the salad away. ‘I’m groggy from the hospital, Feather. I’m sure my appetite will come back later.’

I hold the fork closer to Mum’s mouth. ‘I’m not going until you’ve had a bite.’

‘Please, Feather, I just need a bit of a rest.’

When I was little, I didn’t see Mum locking herself indoors as unusual. Staying inside was just what Mum did. And then, when I got older and kids at school made comments, I always defended Mum. I said that it was Mum’s choice and that it was just as good a choice as going out and that, anyway, she was perfectly happy and busy doing things inside.

But over the years, she started eating more and more. And she got bigger. Much bigger. By the time I was in secondary school, Mum couldn’t fit through the front door any more and she’d stopped going upstairs to sleep: her legs were too weak to carry her body. And then she stopped walking altogether.

The funny thing is that Dad and me just went with it. To us, Mum was Mum: funny and kind and always there for us and beautiful too, with her long hair and her soft skin and her big, sparkly eyes. It’s only now, after Mum nearly died, that I realise that she wasn’t okay at all, and that she must have known it, and if she knew it, I want to know why she let herself get so sick.

‘You won’t be all right,’ I say. ‘Not if you don’t get to a healthy weight.’

‘I lost two stone while I was in hospital.’ Mum pats her belly and smiles. ‘It’s a start, Feather.’

I smile back at Mum because I don’t want to rain on her parade, but two stone is a drop in the ocean when you’re Mum’s size.

‘Nurse Heidi’s coming to weigh you tomorrow,’ I say. ‘So you’ve got to keep making an effort.’

Nurse Heidi is the community nurse. She works with the GP in Newton and she popped in earlier when I was sorting out the house with Steph and Jake.

‘I don’t need to be weighed,’ Mum says.

‘Losing weight at home is going to be harder than losing weight in hospital, Mum. Mitch said it has to be your journey.’

‘Who’s Mitch?’

I feel my cheeks flushing. ‘He lives next door. He helped—’ I stop. Mum doesn’t know about what happened on New Year’s Eve. ‘He runs this club.’

‘What club?’

‘A support group for people who want to get healthy.’

Mum’s smile drops.

I know Mum would find it hard to sit with a bunch of strangers talking about being overweight. I mean, she won’t even talk to me about being overweight.

‘Why don’t I get Dad and we could all eat the salad together.’

‘Your dad needs to eat more than a salad. He’s fading away.’

Mum looks out through the slit in the curtains again. Dad’s giving Houdini his tea. I take advantage of her being distracted by lifting the fork back to her lips.

She snaps her head back and knocks the fork out of my hand. A piece of lettuce catapults over Mum’s duvet and lands on the floor.

My eyes sting.

‘Darling.’ Mum touches my hand. ‘I know you mean well…’

I pull my hand away. She doesn’t get it, how serious her condition is.

‘It’ll all be fine,’ Mum says. ‘I’m fine.’

‘You’re not fine. You’re sick. Really sick. And if you don’t get healthy…’ I gulp.

They haven’t told her. Just like they tried to keep it from me. That if she doesn’t do something to get to a healthy weight, she’s going to die.

I take a breath. ‘If you don’t make an effort, you’ll have to go back to hospital, Mum.’

I know it’s mean to say that, with her hating hospitals, but she has to understand how serious this is.

I put the plate of salad back on the tray and walk to the door.

‘Feather…’

I look back at her.

‘You have to try.’ My voice trembles. ‘We need you – I do and so does Dad and Steph and all the friends you haven’t seen in years. We all want you to be well again.’ I pause. ‘It’s not fair, Mum.’

It’s the first time I feel like one of those teenage girls who yell at their mums. It’s never been like that between us. We’re friends, best friends. We understand each other. But it’s not fair, is it? To keep eating crisps, to pretend everything’s going to be okay.

I have to get through to her: if she doesn’t make changes right now, I’m going to lose the person I love more than anyone in the whole world.

I slam the door and walk out.

7

I find Dad outside scraping some earth out of one of Houdini’s hooves. Sometimes I think he loves Houdini more than he loves anyone, including me and Mum.

‘Here, Houdini may as well have this,’ I say, handing him the plate of salad I made for Mum.

Dad lets go of Houdini’s leg and Houdini hoovers up the lettuce and the bits of tomato and pepper. His bell rings out through the village.

‘Mum didn’t want it?’ Dad asks.

I shake my head.

‘Give her time, love,’ Dad says.

I ignore his comment and take a piece of paper out of my pocket. ‘I’ve made a list, Dad.’ I hold it out to him. ‘Things I think we should do to help Mum.’

Dad pulls his reading glasses out of his overall pocket and holds the paper up to the light above the front door.

I watch him scan down the items:

1. Go to Slim Skills and get tips for making Mum healthy.

2. Get Mum to go to Slim Skills.

3. Get Mum and Dad to be happy with each other again.

I notice Dad pause after this one.

4. Get Mum and Steph to make up.

5. Take Mum for a walk around The Green every day, even if it’s only a few steps.

6. Look into alternative weight-loss programmes: hypno sis, acupuncture, Chinese medicine, diet pills, reflexology and gastric bands.

Dad hands the piece of paper back to me.

‘We should leave it to the doctors, Feather.’

‘The doctors aren’t going to do anything. They just gave her a bunch of leaflets. Leaflets won’t help. We have to help her, Dad.’

‘It’s complicated with your mum, Feather.’

I’m sick of hearing that word: complicated . And I’m sick of what it implies: that because something’s hard, we shouldn’t do anything about it. Or that because something’s difficult to understand, I won’t get it.

Dad takes off his glasses and puts them away.

‘And they’re expensive, Feather. Those things you wrote down.’

‘I’ve got some money saved up. And I’ll get a job. Plus, you’ve got so many call-outs at the moment, you must be making some money.’

‘I know you mean well, Feather…’

‘Of course I mean well ,’ I say, ‘I want to help Mum. Don’t you?’

I want to shake him. Doesn’t he realise that Mum nearly died? That she might still die?

‘You’re acting like none of this has happened, Dad. Don’t you remember what it felt like to sit next to Mum while she was in a coma, not knowing whether she was going to wake up? I thought that if anyone would understand…’

He gives Houdini a pat and starts to walk up the ramp to the front door.