James Hannah - The A to Z of You and Me

‘Hiya.’

I look up suddenly, and the elastic on the oxygen mask plucks my stubble, makes me flinch and frown. Standing awkwardly in the doorway it’s Amber.

‘Oh, hello—’

And ah no, she’s caught me here in my mask. Ah, shit. I didn’t want that. Old man, old man.

‘Sorry about that,’ I say, hooking the mask back on the canister. ‘I’m trying out the laughing gas.’

‘Can I come in?’

‘Yeah, yeah, of course,’ I say. ‘Have a seat — if you’ve got time.’

She heads for the visitors’ seat and plants herself down, still in her coat. When you’re a kid you don’t think to take off your coat. You just put up with the uncomfortableness.

I realize quickly when she doesn’t say anything that she hasn’t come here for any particular purpose, she just wants to hang out. She looks tired, but she’s clearly together enough to put on a public face. Matte scarlet lipstick to offset the shimmering blue streak in her hair, still troubled to put on the eyeliner.

‘Oh, hey,’ she says, reaching down and rooting around in her bag, ‘I’ve got something I wanted to show you.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘I went into college this morning, to try and stay in touch and let them know what’s going on—’

‘Good thinking.’

‘—and I was talking to my tutor, and I’ve managed to start up with this.’

She retrieves a small, curiously familiar little shape. A scrap of oatmeal-coloured crochet, slung over a hook, and attached to a small ball of wool. ‘I wanted to try and — try and get my stitches to be even slightly as good as you’ve got on your blanket there.’

I take the shape from her and turn it about in my hands. It’s so comforting, the fledgling idea, the work in progress.

‘Oh, wow, yeah. It’s really good,’ I say. ‘Lovely tension.’ I nod at her, impressed.

‘It’s good, when you’ve got so much going on in your head, to have something for your hands to do. Something to focus on.’

It’s lovely, just these few seconds, she’s there, open-faced, setting her cares aside, completely immersed in what she’s showing me. And for a few seconds I’m swept there too.

‘So,’ I say, handing back the crochet, ‘how are things?’

She takes it from me, and looks down at it, kind of smiling. ‘Yep, pretty bad.’

‘Yeah?’

‘I’ve been trying to make some preparations. Organizing whatever bits of the funeral I can, trying to get all that sorted. Quite a lot to learn and do. Dad just sort of — he can’t do it.’

I find myself lowering my eyes to allow her to swallow down another spoonful of sorrow in some sort of privacy.

‘It’s just — I don’t know,’ she says. ‘It’s really hard, not knowing how to do this stuff.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I try to get to sleep at night, but my mind’s turning over and over. You know: what if I forget to do something, what if I forget to sign the right bit of paper, what if the coffin’s wrong, what if it’s not what she wants. What if the food doesn’t arrive for the after-party. And it’s all— she’s not even gone yet. I don’t know when all of this is supposed to kick into action. It could be tomorrow, it could be weeks away.’

‘And your dad’s not … doing anything?’

She takes in a great breath and makes an effort to pull herself together.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ she says, and laughs. ‘You don’t need all this.’

‘No, no, don’t apologize.’

She purses her mouth, does a little gulp.

I can feel now my breath getting shorter. I hung up that oxygen mask too soon. It’s no good, I’m going to have to take another hit. I sit myself up with difficulty.

‘Sorry, can I do anything?’ says Amber, standing. She makes to shift the pillows to prop me up better. ‘Or … should I … leave?’

I accept the mask from her, inexpertly rake the elastic over my head.

I look up at her and frown, and she looks a bit shocked.

‘Sorry,’ I say, muted in plastic.

‘No, no.’

‘Looks worse than it is.’

Resigned, I adjust the mask in its place and let it settle in, settle me.

She sits once more and just waits for me to reacclimatize. Look at her, her eyes are so tired and puffy.

‘I’m really sorry to see someone like you going through all this,’ I say.

She raises her eyebrows. I wonder for a moment if she’s going to cry, but she simply exhales and says, ‘Yeah. It’s a bit shit. I just don’t want her to be in pain any more.’

‘They won’t let her be in pain. Not really.’

‘That’s all that matters. But — it feels so wrong … wanting it to be over.’

‘No, no. Not wrong.’

She stares across the room, a lost expression in her eyes.

‘I mean, she’s been amazing. These last few weeks I think she’s been trying to protect me from knowing how bad she was. Didn’t want me to worry. It’s such a selfless thought, you know?’

‘Sheila told me she thought your mum was an absolutely lovely lady. Kind and uncomplaining. She really seems to like her.’

‘When Mum told me the cancer had come back, she actually said sorry.’ Amber breathes a quick, quiet little laugh. ‘I thought, how can you say sorry for something like that? But she said to me, “I’m sorry to mess up your studies and make you worry.” I think she liked to reduce it to a few little things she could be sorry about.’

‘It’s a lot to take on,’ I say. ‘She’d want you to take such care of yourself, wouldn’t she?’

Amber purses her lips and looks down.

‘I know what it’s like,’ I say. ‘Mind racing. Feeling trapped. Maybe — if you just — stick to the small stuff. Practical stuff.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Forget what-ifs. What-ifs aren’t yours to control.’

‘No, no.’

‘If you sort all the practical stuff — the big stuff tends to get done too.’

‘Yeah,’ she says, frowning down at herself.

‘What’s on this afternoon’s agenda?’

‘I’ve got to sort out flowers, and what readings there are going to be, the music. I don’t know what she liked. It feels like I don’t know anything about her, even the smallest thing.’

She looks so lost. She’s too young. She needs a dad.

She needs her mum.

‘And there’s nothing your dad can do to help?’

‘He doesn’t know anything. He didn’t know her. He spent all his time off at work and — he wouldn’t be any use.’

I can feel her anger simmering away, barely beneath the surface.

‘Do you mind if I say something?’

‘No, go on.’

‘Making all the decisions, it’s too much. I know it might seem easier—’

‘It is.’

‘But it’s not.’ I lift the mask from my face, hold it in my hand a moment. ‘I mean, say you set everything up … you have the funeral you think she wanted … what about after? You’re left angry at your dad because you let him drift through it.’

Amber glares down at her little scrap of crochet, turning it around and about.

‘You’ve got to plug him into this.’

She looks up and tautens her mouth.

‘And it’s not … it’s not fair … to ask you to do this, but … he needs guiding through it.’

I’m sure she’s listening to me.

‘He’s got — what — twenty-five years’ worth of life with your mum?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Quarter of a century. That’s a lot to ignore.’

‘Yeah,’ she says, reluctantly.

‘Even tiny little choices. Like, what music did he and she like? What—’ another pull on the oxygen ‘—what were they like before you were born?’

‘Yeah—’ I can see her eyes mulling over the possibilities.