Cook. Eat. Live. from the mobile library and Steph took me shopping for ingredients. I’m going to make Mum the best salad in the world.
As I go back into the kitchen and pull out the chopping board and get the vegetables out of the fridge, I tell myself: It’s going to be okay. It’s all going to be okay. And I say it over and over until it begins to sound a bit true.
‘Mum?’ I knock on the lounge door.
She’s lying in bed, staring at a damp patch on the ceiling that Dad’s been going on about fixing for years. Dad must have helped her out of her armchair.
When she sees me, she smiles, which makes me think that maybe she’s forgiven me for taking out the TV.
‘It’s good to have you home, Mum.’
‘Why don’t you put that down and come and have a chat.’ Mum smiles and pats her armrest.
Our chats are the best things in my day. You two could natter for England, Dad says. And it’s true. There’s nothing we don’t talk about. But right now, getting Mum healthy is more important.
I carry over the tray with the massive salad I’ve made: a big pile of lettuce and peppers and cucumber.
‘That plate’s so green it’s giving me a headache,’ Mum says.
‘You’ll love it, Mum. It’s called The Green Goddess Salad.’
‘Quite a grand name for a few salad leaves, don’t you think?’ Mum stares at the plate and then she shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry, lovely, I’m not hungry.’
Mum’s always hungry.
I put the tray on her bedside table and then notice a scrunched-up packet of prawn cocktail crisps on the floor. I dig my nails into my palms. I did a sweep of the whole house. Dad must have given it to her.
‘I read on the internet that it takes twenty-eight days to break a habit,’ I say as I pick up the crisp packets and put them in the bin. ‘Twenty-eight days is not even a month. You can do it, Mum.’
I’ve put targets on the six-month timeline in my room. Those nurses said that if Mum doesn’t get to a healthier weight, she’ll die in six months – well, I’m going to make sure that, by the end of every month, she’s lost a whole load of weight.
‘Twenty-eight days to do what, my love?’ Mum asks.
Mum’s slouched right down in her bed so I grab her elbow, help her to sit up and wedge a pillow in her back.
I perch beside her on the edge of the bed.
‘To get you well again,’ I say.
Mum leans forward and brushes my fringe out of my eyes.
‘I am well, my love. I’ve got you, and Dad; that’s all the good health I need.’
I shake off Mum’s hand and tuck a napkin into her sweatshirt.
‘You need to get your body healthy, Mum.’
Mum grabs at her napkin and throws it onto the bed sheets.
‘What I need, is the TV back.’
I stand up. Mum never talks to me like that.
‘We could do fun things instead,’ I say. ‘We could go on walks. Little ones at first…’
‘You know I don’t like walking.’
By that, Mum means she doesn’t like walking outside, where there are people.
Mum stretches her arm out. I let her take my hand. ‘Why do we need to go out, Feather?’ She glances at the slit in the curtains, which is just wide enough to let her see out and just small enough to make sure no one can look in, not unless they’re standing right under it. ‘We’ve got everything we need right here,’ Mum adds.
I take my hand out of Mum’s and lift the tray onto her lap.
‘I just thought that a few changes might do you some good.’ I pick up the fork and the plate. ‘The salad’s organic. It’s full of good vitamins and nutrients. The book says…’
‘The book?’
‘Cook. Eat. Live. I borrowed it from the library. It’s not about dieting, it’s about eating food that’s good for you, that makes you healthy and happy.’ I pause. ‘I’ve told Dad I’m doing the cooking from now on.’
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.
