lifted myself off the chair and went in search of Dad who was standing in front of the vending machine, looking a little hard done by.
‘Every time,’ he said. ‘You put in money and nothing comes out.’
I nudged him out of the way and grabbed both sides of the vending machine, shaking it. That didn’t work so I bent down and shoved my arm up to get hold of his packet of Maltesers that had got stuck between the Bounty and M&Ms. It was too far up for me to reach. I saw him shaking his head at me. With one last try I flung myself at the machine, hitting it with my arm, and out fell the Maltesers.
‘You’re welcome, Pops,’ I said, handing him his packet of e-numbers.
He looked at the packet, turning it around in his hands. ‘You know, sometimes your amma is a little harsh.’
‘No kidding,’ I said.
‘But it’s only because she wants the best for you girls,’ he added, shaking his Maltesers at me.
He handed them to me and said: ‘Now go and give these to Faru.’
I sighed and walked down the quiet, grey corridor, cleaning my hands at one of the hand sanitisers attached to the walls. Farah was sitting on the green leather chair, next to Mustafa’s bed, staring at him.
‘Hey,’ I said, looking around for Bubblee and Fatti.
I opened the packet of Maltesers and handed them to her. She put them on her lap.
‘How’re you doing?’ I asked.
She nodded. What did that mean?
‘You’ve got to hope for the best,’ I said, looking at Mustafa.
I wanted to prod him, just to see what reaction, if any, I’d get from him: would he twitch? Give a deeper intake of breath? Just stay motionless? But I don’t think Farah would’ve been too happy about that. I’d have been accused of not taking anything seriously. It’s just that, granted he wasn’t dead, but he wasn’t exactly alive either, was he? It was kind of fascinating – all of us watching a man in limbo.
‘Jay’s the one who calls himself Jay, isn’t it?’ I said.
She looked at me. ‘What?’
‘Mum goes on at us as if we’re the ones who’ve spoilt his name.’
She looked at me like: What the hell are you talking about? ‘Has he called?’
‘No, I mean he doesn’t like being called Jahangeer, does he?’
She looked at me, confused, but I was just trying to make conversation that didn’t have to do with Mustafa.
‘Mae – go and see if Mum and Dad are okay.’
You’ve got to wonder, don’t you? Who’s making sure I’m okay? So I took out my phone and decided to check my Twitter account – and what do you know? I got thirty-two new followers.
Oh God, oh God, oh God. Was it my fault? I looked up at the sky, in case I got a sign whether it was or not. Did I give my sister the evil eye? It’s not as if I wanted to marry her husband – just that, what would it be like to come home to someone who loves you? What’s worse is that I can never stop my tears from falling and everyone looks at me like I’m this pathetic person. How do you make yourself disappear? So you can feel what you feel without worrying about what other people see?
When we got home after the second day at the hospital Mum and Dad insisted that Farah come and stay with us – we’d all be together under one house, just like old times.
‘Apart from Jay,’ said Mae without looking up from her phone.
‘Look at this,’ said Bubblee, picking up the local newspaper. ‘Front page news.’
She skimmed through it and dropped it on the table. Mae went to read the article.
‘Car accident leaves old lady’s prize-winning poodle in need of veterinary care.’ Mae laughed. ‘The victim …’ She looked up. ‘… That’d be our bro-in-law – is in a coma. He is thought to be in a critical but stable condition.’
‘This place,’ said Bubblee, shaking her head. ‘A poodle’s disturbed and it’s front-page news.’
‘Marnie was complaining about the traffic on Bingham Road because of the branch that fell from the tree,’ added Dad.
‘That’s Mrs Lemington,’ I said. ‘She loves her dog. We should probably send her something.’
Farah stared at the page and didn’t say anything.
‘Animals matter more than humans here.’ Mum shook her head as she went straight into the kitchen and I followed her to help prepare dinner for everyone. Bubblee loomed in the doorway.
‘This is just typical.’
How does she manage to fill a room like that without being fat? I always seem to fill it in the wrong way – not knowing where to put myself – where to shift or pause. But not Bubblee. She enters a room and people have to look. You can’t not look at beauty: her brown hair, chopped and cut messily; her big eyes darting between Mum and Dad; rose-bud mouth pursed in her usual annoyed way. All this and living her independent life in London, not being tied to what people tell her; knowing what she wants and then just going out to get it. It’s almost as if she knows she has a right to it. Or at least a right to try. I suppose everyone has that right, but how do some people just feel it? I’m told she and I have the same eyes, but I don’t see it. I see nothing of myself in any of my sisters.
‘When was the last time Dad entered the kitchen?’ Bubblee added, putting down her patchwork bag that bulged at the seams.
She walked in and I had a sudden feeling of the room being too full, a need to be in my own space, within my four walls.
‘Is this how you’ll speak to your husband when you’re married?’ said Mum, looking at her. ‘You should go and borrow some clothes from Faru. I’m not letting a boy see you like that in such tight jeans and T-shirt.’
‘What boy?’ said Bubblee as I got the ghee out of the cupboard.
‘You’ll see him tomorrow,’ replied Mum.
Tomorrow! I remembered. I had a hand-modelling shoot tomorrow. When I told Mum that I’d cancel it she said: ‘No, no, no. You must still go. I want to add it to my pile.’
She opened her drawer to show the plastic wallet she has of all my hand-modelling pictures.
‘Bubblee will drive you.’ She looked over at her. ‘And you’ll wear something nice when you both come after to the hospital.’
‘No, I won’t,’ answered Bubblee.
‘Bubblee
