as though he’s not slept in it.
‘Peter!’ I shout as I run down the stairs. I push open the living-room door, and there, sitting in the armchair holding Annie, is my mother.
Bobby’s sitting on the floor, eating dry Rice Krispies, and watching Picture Box on the telly. That’s not right – it can’t be after nine thirty.
‘Is this on tape?’ I ask Mum.
She looks to the heavens.
‘Course not, love. Since when have you seen me operating machinery? And shouldn’t your first question be why Bobby’s not at school?’ She doesn’t wait for me to reply. ‘He said he wasn’t feeling very well. The baby must’ve kept him up all night.’
‘What? No, that can’t be right. Where’s Peter?’ I’m still standing at the door in my nightie; she’ll tell me to get dressed any minute now. ‘Has he popped to the corner shop?’
‘He’s at work.’
‘Really? Has a week passed already? That went quickly.’
Mum’s eyes widen, and she shakes her head a little.
‘I do wonder about you sometimes,’ she says. ‘You have not been asleep for a whole week. He popped into work for an emergency – said he wanted you to catch up on your rest.’
She sits Annie up, rubbing her little back.
She knows I didn’t mean that, but she’s doing me a favour by being here, so I don’t argue with her. Part of me wishes I had slept for a week. 3.15–9.30 a.m. – that means I’ve had six hours and fifteen minutes’ sleep. A record. I haven’t slept that long since I was four months pregnant.
‘I was just joking about sleeping that long,’ I say.
I know she doesn’t believe me. She probably thinks I’m not coping. It’s family legend that the day after I was born, she was up and about doing housework, or sheafing wheat in the fields or whatever.
‘Do you know what’ll do you some good?’
I glance at the ceiling. ‘What?’
‘Getting a bit of exercise. I’ve been doing it every morning with what’s-her-name on TV-am.’
‘You mean Mad Lizzie? Have you heck been doing aerobics, Mum.’
‘Well, I watch her do it while I have a cup of tea. Her energy’s infectious.’
‘She’d make me feel worse,’ I whisper, turning to look at myself in the hall mirror. Before Mum has a chance to mention it, I say, ‘I’ll just have a quick wash and get dressed.’
As I put my foot on the first stair, she hollers, ‘Best run a bath, Deborah. You look like you could do with one.’
I stare at my face in the bathroom mirror until it becomes a boring collection of features that could belong to a stranger. My body has been hijacked for so long, it’s going to be months before I feel like it’s mine again.
Mum thought I believed I’d slept for a whole week. I have my moments, but I’m not that ditzy. She probably remembers the time I swallowed an apple seed when I was pregnant with Bobby. I telephoned her in a panic that it might harm him – everything scared me then.
‘What do you think will happen, Deborah? That an apple tree will grow inside you?’
I’ve since learned that apple seeds contain cyanide, so I’ll be sure to tell her that if she brings it up again.
The steam from the bath starts to blur the glass.
‘You know it’s not meant to be like this.’
A man’s voice. It sounded like Uncle Charlie again. But what if it’s not him – what if it’s God trying to speak to me?
I open the bathroom door.
‘Mum? Is that you?’
Silence.
There’s nobody upstairs. What’s happening to me?
I dress quickly, putting on whatever’s on the back of the chair in the bedroom.
Downstairs, Mum has dressed Bobby, and a sleeping Annie is in her pram under the window. Mum looks up at me as I loiter at the living-room door again, as though it’s not my house.
‘Are you all right?’ says Mum. ‘You look as though you’ve forgotten something.’
‘I’m fine.’
I walk straight to the kitchen without saying another word. After the sleeping for a week conversation, I can’t tell her what’s actually worrying me; she wouldn’t understand. The voice I heard sounded as though it was outside of my head, but there was no one there. I feel like someone’s watching me all the time.
I don’t know what’s real and what’s not any more.
Anna
It has been five days since I read the email and I still can’t find the right words to write back. I searched the loft for the box of Debbie’s things, but I couldn’t find it anywhere. This morning, Jack suggested it might be in the storage unit with the rest of the belongings we haven’t seen for years. I must not have looked at her things for over three years. Jack promised he would go over later to collect what he can find.
I pull up outside Dad and Monica’s to collect Sophie. I haven’t seen nor heard from Monica since last week. I should have brought her a box of chocolates or something to let her know I’m thinking of her – that I appreciate all that she’s done for me.
Growing up, neither I nor Robert called her Mum. Robert had always known her as Monica, so I must have copied him. ‘Why do you call your mum by her first name?’ friends used to ask. ‘She just likes it that way,’ I’d say, too embarrassed to tell the truth.
Monica never treated us any differently to Leo. It must have annoyed him. I haven’t heard from him in months – he’s been living in America near his dad for almost ten years. It must be so hard for Monica, Leo being so far away.
Dad opens the door before I have the chance to ring the doorbell.
‘Good day, love?’ he asks, as though it is a normal, unremarkable day.
How can he act so nonchalant? My mother is alive! Perhaps he’s worried about Monica. Leo’s been gone for so long, and now my mother might be coming back to replace her. Like she did to Debbie.
I put my head around the living-room door. Sophie raises her hand in greeting, chewing something without taking her eyes off the television. There’s a plate next to her with an unopened tangerine.
‘Not bad, thanks,’
