The Baking Life of Amelie Day (16 page)

This is Harry. MY Harry. My big, cheerful, red-cheeked, floppy-haired Harry.

He’s not going anywhere while I’ve got a say in the matter.

‘I’ve got to go,’ I whisper. Harry’s mother is hovering outside the door looking anguished. ‘Your mum’s coming to sit with you now. But I’ll be back tomorrow.’

I give him a kiss on the forehead and go outside to where my parents are sitting in the corridor on orange plastic chairs.

They spring up when I come out.

‘Not easy for you, love,’ says Mum. She puts her arms around me. ‘But we need to go and get you checked out now. The last thing we all need is you getting sicker again.’

I bury my head into her chest and sob dry, painful sobs mixed with retching coughs. Dad rubs my back in silence. These have been the worst two days of my life, apart from that bit where I did my recipes for the competition. That bit felt good. But it’s not real life. Real life is Mum, Dad, Harry and me.

And CF.

***

Turns out I’m actually quite ill.

I see another consultant at the CF centre because Mr Rogers is on holiday and as soon as she’s examined me and listened to my cough she tells Mum that to be safe, they’re going to admit me until this infection clears.

I try to protest but I’ve got a fever and I’m all shivery and super-tired so I don’t argue all that much. It’s kind of a relief to be tucked up in the soft white hospital bed. I’ve got antibiotics being pumped into my system and I’m quite dehydrated after London, so I’m hooked up on a fluid drip as well.

The only thing I hate about it is that I’m not allowed out of bed to go and see Harry.

On the third day I have an operation to put the gastrostomy into my stomach.

I have to be put to sleep for that so when I wake up I’m groggy and a bit sore, but the first thing I ask Mum is if there is any news of Harry and she shakes her head.

‘No change,’ she says. ‘Sorry. I know that’s not what you want to hear.’

I lie on my thick hospital pillows and let the tears trickle down my face with my eyes closed. Mum sits next to me and holds my hand until I go to sleep.

The next time I wake up Dad is sitting by the bed.

‘What day is it?’ I say, confused. The blinds in the room are drawn so I can’t tell.

‘Same day you had your op,’ says Dad. ‘Evening. They’ve said you can go home tomorrow, Mel. That’s great news, isn’t it?’

I smile because it’s what he wants me to do, but underneath I feel sad and hollow. I can’t imagine what going home and not being with Harry is going to feel like. All I can see stretching out ahead of me is grief and loneliness and the continuing burden of my CF as it gets worse and worse.

‘I feel rubbish,’ I say to Dad. He nods.

‘Your mum will have you feeling right as rain,’ he says. ‘Oh, and she’s got some news for you. I’ll let her tell you herself.’

I prop myself up into a sitting position with a grimace. I’ve got a small scar where the gastrostomy and the button which closes it off are and it tugs and pulls when I bend.

Mum comes in smiling with a bunch of yellow daffodils. She arranges these in the vase by my bed and then perches on it, her eyes twinkling.

‘What?’ I say. ‘Is it Harry? Has he woken up?’

Mum chews her lip.

‘Oh, sorry, no,’ she says. ‘I wish I could tell you that. But it’s something you might quite like to hear anyway.’

‘Are you getting back with Dad?’ I say. That would be weird, but good.

‘Oh, sorry, no,’ says Mum again. ‘We’re getting on fine, which is a good reason not to live with one another again.’

‘Well, what then?’ I say. This is turning into a tiring question-and-answer game.

Then she tells me.

She’s heard from the TV company who make
Best Teen Baker
. They said that the judges were so impressed with the three dishes I left behind when I rushed off that they’ve put me through to the semi-finals.

‘They said that you had managed to pull off the perfect chocolate fondant,’ says Mum. ‘When they cut into it you could hear gasps of delight from the other judges when the chocolate oozed out of the middle!’

She’s nearly bouncing up and down on the bed. My wound feels hot and sore. I have to put out a hand and stop her with a pained look.

‘Oh,’ I say, cautious. ‘But haven’t I missed the filming for the semi-finals?’

‘Nope,’ says Mum, all smug. ‘They’ve said they’ll postpone it until you’re fit to travel. And this time I can come with you.’

I force out a small smile but my insides are aching with love and pain for Harry so it’s a bit difficult to look too excited.

‘I can’t go,’ I say. ‘How can I leave Harry? I just can’t go.’

Mum’s smile fades, but then she nods and takes my hand.

‘Never mind, love,’ she says. ‘It was great to be praised by the judges in that way. You should be proud.’

We chat on about the competition a bit, but underneath I feel anything but proud.

I made my sweet, kind, boyfriend rush up to London to rescue me and then he got run over.

How can I ever feel proud of myself again?

Chapter Sixteen

When I get out of hospital I rest at home for a couple of days.

Trish comes to the house and shows me and Mum how to hook a tube to my gastrostomy so that I can be given night feeds of extra calories while I’m asleep. At first I can’t sleep because I swear I can feel the liquid going into me. The tube feed always has to be switched off at four in the morning and flushed through and disconnected, and the tubes from the oxygen canister feel uncomfortable as well, so I guess that’s it for ever getting a decent night’s sleep again. But I get used to the gastrostomy quite fast, so I don’t feel quite as depressed about that, at least. Even after two days I weigh a bit more on the scales, so I’m really pleased, and so is Mum, but this horrid sadness drags me down every waking moment of the day.

I go back to school and Gemma makes sure that I don’t get over-tired and she tells anybody who says anything nasty about me to back off and for once they do. Everybody knows about Harry. He was one of the most popular boys in his year, so I get a fair few people coming up to me and asking how he’s doing.

I always tell them the same thing: ‘He’s alive, which is the main thing.’

But he hasn’t come out of the coma.

I go out every lunch break and sit with Gemma under the old oak tree where I used to sit with Harry and sometimes we chat and at other times I’m silent and don’t feel much like talking and she’s fine with that. I feel guilty for feeling resentful of her health. She’s a good friend – the best. And she’s always there for me. So I tell her how I’m feeling and she nods and holds my hand.

And then.

***

I’m back working in Karim’s shop.

He’s agreed to start paying me my wages in money. Every time I think about baking (which let’s face it, used to be pretty much 24/7), I get a big pang of sadness and anxiety in the pit of my stomach and I picture Harry’s pale face on the hospital pillow and I know that it’s all my fault he’s there.

So I stop baking.

I stop reading cookery books and watching cookery programmes. I empty out all my ingredients cupboards at home and chuck a lot of it away.

Mum watches me with a sad look in her eye but doesn’t dare speak. I’m on a short fuse, what with the worry about Harry and the plunge in my own health.

I no longer fill my basket with flour, eggs and sugar in Karim’s shop. He counts out the notes at the end of the day and puts them into my hand with a sad look in his eyes.

‘It’s no good, Little Girl Who Bakes not baking,’ he says. ‘No good at all.’

‘You’re just saying that because it costs you more to pay me money,’ I say with a sad smile, but he’s not having any of it and goes back to the cash till shaking his head and making a noise which sounds like ‘I, I, I’ so I pocket the money and head towards home. Not sure what I’m going to do with my wages yet. Maybe I’ll have to go clothes shopping with Gemma more often.

When I get in after my third day back at the shop, Mum’s right on me the second I open the front door.

‘Hospital rang,’ she says, all out of breath. She shoves a coat in my direction and grabs her keys from the hall table. ‘We’ve got to get there. Now.’

***

Mum won’t say anything on the way. She drives quite fast and I swear she makes a speed camera flash but she just mutters a rude word, pulls a face and carries on at the same speed.

‘He’s not – he’s not…’ I say, unable to get the words out. I look at Mum’s face. She doesn’t look as if anybody has died. Then again it’s sometimes hard to tell with Mum.

‘Oh – no,’ she says. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.’

We pull into the hospital car park and Mum grabs my hand and almost pulls me at a run towards the entrance foyer and then remembers that I find it kind of hard to breathe and I’ve just got out of hospital myself, so she slows down to a pounding walk.

I’m still really panting and coughing by the time we get up to the fifth floor.

Mum propels me past a smiling nurse and a smiling consultant in a white coat. Another smiling nurse comes out of Harry’s room and almost claps her hands when she sees me. Everybody seems to have gone into slow motion for some reason. I have time to notice the gold filling in her front tooth when she smiles and the white name badge with black lettering on her blue uniform.

Harry’s parents leap up when they see me come in. They’re both smiling too. His mother looks about twenty years younger and quite pretty.

‘Oh, Amelie,’ she says. ‘He’s woken up! Quick – come and see.’

I’m already in tears.

Adam vacates his chair for me and I sit down and find myself staring straight into Harry’s deep brown eyes.

‘Hi,’ I croak. I turn away and cough for a moment. Mum offers a bowl but I shake my head and turn back to Harry. He blinks at me and a slow smile spreads over his face. He’s still wired up to machines and tubes, but this time his grip on my hand is strong and warm.

‘He won’t be able to say much,’ warns his mother. ‘But he’s back with us. That’s what counts.’

She blows her nose and rests her cheek on Adam’s shoulder. I can hear my own mother sniffling behind me.

‘Cup…’ says Harry, or at least something that sounds like that. ‘Cup…’

He reaches up with his right hand and removes the oxygen mask from his face.

I frown and bend right down so that my head is near his mouth.

‘Try it again,’ I say. ‘I’m listening.’

Harry summons up all his strength.

‘Cupcakes,’ he says.

‘What did he say?’ says his mother. ‘I swear he just said “cupcakes”! But that can’t be right.’

I laugh through my tears.

‘Yeah, it is,’ I say. ‘My chocolate cupcakes. They’re kind of like his favourites?’

‘Oh,’ says his mother, relaxing. ‘That’s OK then. For a moment there I thought he’d lost his mind in the accident.’

Later on they go out and leave me alone with Harry. He goes to sleep, but it’s kind of nice listening to him breathe and knowing that he’s going to wake up again. The doctors say that his recovery is going to take a long, long time and that he might have to learn how to walk all over again, but at least he’s heading in the right direction now.

***

On the way home I’m quiet, chewing it all over in my head.

‘I might do that competition after all,’ I say from the passenger seat, where I’m eating a Mars Bar and a packet of crisps. ‘I think that Harry would want me to do it.’

‘You’re right there,’ says Mum. ‘But I’m coming with you this time, Amelie. No more running away to London and giving me a heart attack.’

I turn to look at my mum. I see her tired face and the lines underneath her eyes that have come from worrying about and caring for me every single day of my CF life. I realise something else, too. She’s scared. One day she’s going to have to face losing me for good and she’s scared.

‘I’m really sorry, Mum,’ I say. ‘I shouldn’t have put my own stupid obsession ahead of how you’re feeling. I promise I won’t let it happen again.’

Mum laughs.

‘You’re a teenager!’ she says. ‘Of course it will happen again.’

***

When I get home I log onto my blog for the first time in a while.

Loads of people have caught on to what I was planning to do and have wished me good luck for the competition. Part of me wants to give a spoon-by-spoon account of the competition and what I cooked and how it turned out, but that seems a bit insensitive given that my boyfriend is in hospital and my parents are going to have to learn to trust me all over again. So instead I write a short paragraph explaining that I went to the competition, but my boyfriend was in an accident. Then I write this:

Thanks for all your nice posts and recipes. There seem to be a load of big hurdles ahead of me. I’ve got loads of schoolwork to catch up on for exams next year. Anyway, Harry’s going to take a very long time to get better. The doctors say that he will be in a wheelchair and have to miss a lot of school. I reckon he’ll get really down now he can’t play sports any longer. He’s spent years being my support system and now I’m going to have to learn to be his. It seems kind of ironic that he’s now going to be sick too and I’ll have to take care of him. I get the feeling that this is going to take a lot more than just a box of cakes. And behind all this is the threat of my lung transplant. I could be waiting for years, or I could get a call any day now. Nobody really knows. And even if I did get new lungs, the doctors have warned me that my body might reject them and I’d be back to square one. And while I’m waiting to get the new lungs I could go downhill fast and end up in hospital for good. I might even die if my lung function drops any further.