my arms around her and hold her so tight she gasps.
‘Steady on, Feather, or you’ll send me into another coma…’ She gives me a tired laugh. I can tell she’s trying to hold it in, how freaked out she is by being in hospital.
Dad sits on the other side of the bed, grinning.
‘We missed you, Josie,’ he says.
Mum’s eyes dart around the room. The drips. The white walls. The heater hissing under the window. I can feel her nerves fizzing.
‘It’s okay, Mum,’ I say and lean over and kiss her cheek.
Mum’s eyes focus on me and she seems to calm down a bit. ‘It’s good to see you, My Little Feather.’
Dad and I spend ages sitting on Mum’s bed holding her hands and stroking her hair and giving her hugs. I know Dad’s thinking the same as me: that this time we’re going to be more careful; that we’re going to grasp onto her so tight that she never slips away again.
‘What was it like?’ I ask. ‘Being in a coma?’
Mum smiles. ‘I don’t really remember much, Feather. But it felt quite nice actually – floating around in this nowhere, no-time place.’
I guess that for someone as big as Mum, feeling floaty must be quite cool.
‘I heard you calling me, Feather,’ she adds. ‘And when I woke up, I saw your photo.’ She shifts her head to the picture of me on her bedside table.
‘So you’re glad you’re back?’ I ask.
‘I’ll be glad when I’m home.’ Mum yawns. ‘I’m really tired.’
I want to make a comment about the fact that she’s been sleeping for days but maybe sleeping isn’t the same as being in a coma.
‘Come on, let’s leave Mum to have a rest,’ Dad says.
I give Mum a kiss, jump off the bed and then Dad and I head to the hospital canteen for a hot chocolate and a sandwich.
‘We’ve got to make some changes,’ I say to Dad.
He rubs his eyes. ‘Let’s take a day at a time, Feather.’
I shake my head. ‘We can’t afford to take a day at a time. Mum’s really sick.’
Dad pokes at a bit of gherkin in his sandwich and then puts it down. He hasn’t eaten properly in months.
‘I know that,’ he says.
I take a breath.
‘It was our fault, Dad.’
He doesn’t answer.
‘Dad?’
He pushes his sandwich back into its packet and scrunches it up.
‘Let’s not talk about this now, Feather.’
‘You can’t bury your head in the sand about this, Dad.’
It’s the first time I’ve been this blunt with him but I have to keep going, otherwise I’ll lose my nerve.
‘It’s our fault that Mum got sick.’
He goes quiet again.
‘Did you think we were helping her, Dad? Making her fry-ups, letting her guzzle tins of pineapple syrup, bulk-buying Galaxy bars and crisps…?’
‘It’s not just about food, Feather.’
‘Of course it’s about food, Dad. Haven’t you noticed how much she eats? That’s why she’s got so big. That’s why she’s sick.’
Dad stands up. ‘Come on, Feather, let’s go home and get things ready for Mum.’
I grab his arm and yank him back down into his chair. ‘No, Dad, you have to listen—’
He sits down slowly.
‘Everything we do for your mum is because we love her.’
‘Love her?’ I clench my jaw. ‘Feeding Mum rubbish wasn’t kind or generous – or loving: it made her sick.’
From the way people are looking over at us, I realise I’ve been shouting. But I don’t care. All that matters is Mum. We’ve got six months and I’m not going to waste a minute of it.
Dad hangs his head and looks into his calloused palms. After a long silence he says:
‘I understand what you’re saying, Feather. And I know you mean well…’
‘It’s not about meaning well, Dad—’
Dad looks up, leans forward and puts his hands over mine. He’s done this since I was little: wrapped my little fists in his big palms. Usually, it’s the best feeling in the world – like nothing can ever be wrong with the world when Dad’s holding me. But it doesn’t feel like that today.
‘This is something even you can’t fix, Feather.’
I take a breath and say:
‘We made her ill, Dad. And now it’s our job to make her better.’
Dad pulls his hands away from mine.
I grab his hands again, pull them towards me and squeeze them tight. ‘I can’t do this on my own, Dad. You have to help me.’
He doesn’t answer.
‘Dad?’
Dad stares blankly at my hands, gripping his. Very slowly, he nods. But I’m not sure it’s gone in. Not properly.
I settle Mum into her armchair. And that’s when she notices.
‘Where’s the TV?’
If the lounge is Mum’s world, the TV is her sun. A fifty-inch, flat-screen, HD, surround-sound sun which Dad got Mum for her fortieth birthday two years ago.
Steph and Jake helped me carry the TV to the garage. Jake said he’d put it on eBay, which will help my get-Mum-healthy fund.
I kiss the top of Mum’s head. ‘We thought you could have a break from it.’
Mum stares into the space where the TV used to be.
I feel kind of bad. Mum’s been looking forward to coming home and I know part of what she’s looked forward to is going back to the things that have filled her days up to now, which are basically food and TV. And me.
‘We’ll find other things to do, Mum.’
Mum closes her eyes. She
