50 Ways to Find a Lover (47 page)

‘Did you come on the scooter?’ asks George, looking at Simon on his bike.

‘We did, mate.’ He smiles. ‘Do you want to put the helmet on and sit up here with me, see what it’s like?’

George gasps. So does Rosie.

‘Come on then, and you too, Rosie.’ Simon puts helmets on them and seats them on the bike. He holds it steady and makes loud motor-racing noises while they giggle and whoop. Gail and I watch. I can’t take my eyes off Simon and the kindness in his face. I feel last night’s kiss on my lips again. My sister turns slightly to me and takes my hand. She swallows and presses her lips together so hard they go white. She breathes deeply through her nose and then releases the breath through her mouth.

‘She said to tell you she loves you.’

My mum being opened up. I wonder if she’s told the doctors that she watches
Casualty
every week but she always closes her eyes during the surgery scenes. I think of the pain she’ll feel and the pain she went through to give birth to me. And I don’t know what to do because if ever I have a dilemma I ask Mum what to do.

I take my sister’s arm and lead her back into the hospital.

‘It’s not the best advert for marathon-running is it?’ I say to her.

She smiles and I feel her grip on my arm tighten.

Dad looks pale and drawn. He’s sitting in a room with a glass door. He’s looking into space. He gets up when he sees me.

‘Sarah, she’s gone in for an operation. They’re looking after her well. She has a very good surgeon.’ He speaks like a hostage whose captors are forcing him to say things he doesn’t mean.

‘How long will she be in theatre?’

‘At least five hours.’

I look about the hospital waiting room. It holds five plastic chairs, a small table with yesterday’s
Sun
on it and a noticeboard with advertisements for the Samaritans and the Organ Donor Register and details of how to get to the hospital chapel. It looks like the room in
Casualty
where a doctor says, ‘We did all we could.’ Five hours in here and we’ll all be wishing for death. I ask myself what Mum would tell me to do now.

‘Now I know we want to be near Mum but realistically we can’t do anything. Why don’t we go home for a couple of hours? The kids can sleep. We can have some breakfast and shower and then get all Mum’s favourite bits, her dressing gown and slippers and smellies, some books and a Walkman with some of her music. Try to make it a bit less awful for her when she comes round. We’re two seconds down the road if they need us.’

‘Yeah, and George and Rosie can make her those get-well cards,’ says Gail.

‘Make it nice for her when she comes round,’ my dad mumbles. Gail and I take one of Dad’s arms each and we leave the lifeless room.

sixty-five

My dad’s in the kitchen. He’s listening to Barry White. He doesn’t even like Barry White. It’s Mum who loves Barry White. It’s the last CD she played in the machine.

I watch Dad from the doorway for a moment. He’s sitting at the table. His head is in his hands. Gail made him a cup of tea an hour ago. It’s next to him. Cold. And my sister makes a good cup of tea too. He’s lit candles in the room. My dad never lights candles. He hates subtle lighting. He likes good, bright lighting, none of this can’t-see-what-I’m-eating stuff. But Mum likes candles.

‘Hey,’ I say quietly.

He tries to gather himself to say something. If only there was a gym you could go to for emotional strength.

‘Come here,’ I say, opening my arms. ‘You know what she’d tell us to do?’

He shakes his head.

‘She’d tell us to cry.’

My dad’s face buries itself in my shoulder. I hold his shaking shoulders.

‘She’d tell us this was pathetic and she wanted some proper wailing.’ I am speaking into his head.

He sobs. He twitches up and down. It’s like I am holding a giant beating heart.

‘She liked us to hiccup as well. Yep. She’s a big fan of hiccuping!’

‘Oh, Sarah,’ he says.

‘Come on,’ I say, squeezing him tighter in my hug.

My dad reaches for the kitchen roll and blows his nose.

‘Where’s Simon?’ he asks.

‘Making a camp in the lounge with George and Rosie. I think he’s going to put a film on and get them all comfy in the hope they might sleep. They’re knackered.’

‘He’s a good man, Sarah.’

‘Hmmm. I don’t know what I’d do without him.’

‘Oh, Sarah,’ he sighs. ‘When’s he off to Brazil?’

‘Um. In a week and a half,’ I say.

‘Being an old fool, I don’t know much about anything . . .’ says my dad.

‘That’s true,’ I smile.

‘I do know that your mum’s lying in hospital and I don’t know what I’ll do if she doesn’t come out.’

‘Oh, Dad.’

‘All I can think about is all the things that I never said.’

‘Dad.’

‘You mustn’t let him go without telling him how you feel.’

‘What?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Um.’

We are quiet for some time.

‘You know the first time I met your mum?’

‘Yeah. At the church dance. You asked Pauline to dance first because she had bigger breasts.’

‘That’s what I’ve always said. But it’s not true. I’d liked your mum for ages.’

‘Ah.’

‘I didn’t ask Pauline to dance because she had bigger breasts.’

‘Oh.’

‘I only said that because I was too proud to tell your mum that I’d liked her for years. And I only asked her friend first because I was so terrified that your mum wouldn’t say yes.’

‘You old fool.’

‘I’m saying this because I think you might have got your pride from me.’

‘Dad. The pride’s a Leo thing.’

‘Let me finish, Sarah.’

‘Sorry.’

‘I want to tell her so many things,’ he says.

‘You will, Dad.’

‘I don’t want you to be like me. If there’s something you want to say to someone you will tell them, won’t you?’

‘Of course.’

‘I’m going to tell you a little secret now. Purely because of circumstances. The people involved might not be with us much longer. Do you know who your mum thinks you’ve loved all along?’

I shake my head. My dad’s not having any of it.

‘I think you do know.’

‘Simon,’ I whisper as though someone’s torturing me.

‘Do you know, the first time she met Simon, years ago now, she said, “He’s the one. You mark my words.” I’ll never forget it. He still looked like a boy.’

‘Dad, I don’t think he likes me like that though. I think I’ve driven him away with all my stupid blog stuff.’

‘That blog was the best thing you did. It stopped you saying “Love is the route to pain and misery” all the time. You had to go out to meet a lot of men who you discovered weren’t a patch on Simon.’

‘What if he hates the thought?’

‘Oh, just bloody tell him,’ he says.

‘We should get ready to go to the hospital.’

The Barry White CD finishes and is replaced by the phone ringing. My sister races into the kitchen. We look at the phone as though it has never rung before. Then Gail darts bravely to the receiver.

‘Hello . . . yes. Oh, oh, oh, oh.’ She starts crying and nodding. She turns to us.

‘She’s come through the worst!’ she cries.

sixty-six

I don’t want to sleep. If I sleep someone could wake me with terrible news. I want everyone I know to be close to me. I want to hear them breathe. I want to hear their healthy hearts beat.

The doctors said that Mum is amazing. That she’s one of the healthiest and fittest women of her age they’ve ever seen. Apart from the heart that nearly stopped, that is. She needs to rest in hospital for a few weeks and then as long as she takes it easy she should be fine.

We spent the day sitting by her bed. She wasn’t really conscious but I think she knew we were there. I hope she did.

Exactly twenty-four hours ago I was hysterical because an unsuitable man blew me out by citing painful wisdom teeth. I want to slap that Sarah Sargeant. She must have been the stupidest being in the biosphere. She had all that she needed to be happy. Yet, like the lady who can’t find her glasses because they’re on her head, she searched sadly for something she already possessed. The other bourbon biscuit was there all the time. And now he’s lying next to me in this single bed in Mum and Dad’s spare room.