Someone Else's Life (5 page)

Mum
.

Sarah’s words scream back at me as the room begins to sway.

Trudie was not your mother
.

I clutch the edge of the sink, my stomach lurching as the nightmare flashes back, starker, more painful, more terrifyingly real in the cold light of day.

Trudie was not … she was never my mother …

And she never told me. How … 
how
could she keep something like that a secret, after everything we’d been through with the disease?

Especially when she found out about the disease …

The room spins, and I plunge my face down, down into the icy water, trying to drown the questions, the pain, the images flooding my head …

After Bex called that night, I took a taxi straight back to school—if Mum was angry about me staying at Andy’s, he’d be the last person she’d want to see—but by the time I got there she’d gone.

Mum’d turned up at the prom looking for me, Bex said. Apparently she’d forgotten I’d told her I was staying at Bex’s, then, when I wasn’t at school, she’d gone mental. She’d stormed into the school hall, tottering around in her favorite heels and nightdress in front of everyone, searching for me, screaming at the top of her lungs. Bex tried to explain, tried calling me, but of course I hadn’t answered my mobile …

Then Mum’d headed back to the car. The teachers tried to stop her, said she was in no state to drive, but Mum just shoved them out of the way.

Then she walked into a tree, fell over and broke her ankle. One of the teachers took her to hospital, and it was there that they noticed that she wasn’t drunk. That there was something else wrong, really wrong, with her. And her life changed forever.

And so did mine.

Andy’s bedroom door flies open.

“I have got better things to do on Christmas Day than wait around for you, you know?” he snaps.

“I bet,” I say, dropping the photo at his feet.

He stares at it, surprised.

“Rosie, I … It’s not what you think.”

“Whatever.” I look away.

“That was just a fling—
ages
ago—”

“About eighteen months ago, in fact.”

“Rosie …” He falters. “She’s not … We’re not … It didn’t mean anything.”

“Whatever.” I swallow, try to move past him.

“Rose—” He grabs my arm, his touch like ice.

“Let me go.”

“Rosie, I—”

“Andy
—”

“What did you
expect
me to do?”

I stop short, my breath stuck in my throat.

“What did you expect me to do, Rose? Just wait around for eighteen months on the off chance that you might finally call? That we might get back together?”

My throat is paralyzed.

“Tell me, Rosie, what was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know,” I mumble helplessly. “I thought you loved me.”

“I did,” Andy says sadly. “But you shut me out.” He snaps his fingers. “Just like that! I didn’t know why, you wouldn’t tell me, wouldn’t even answer your phone the fifty times I called to find out why you weren’t at the station like we’d arranged. I was standing there on the platform like an idiot, Rosie—I almost missed my train!”

“But you didn’t,” I say quietly. “You left.”

“Yes, I left. I was hurt, I was angry, and I’d used all my savings on a Eurail ticket that was about to go to waste. You wouldn’t tell me why you wouldn’t come, didn’t give me a reason to stay, you just sent me a text—a
text
—saying sorry, you couldn’t come anymore. No explanation, nothing!”

I look away.

“It’s a pretty shitty way to dump someone, Rose.”

I stare at him. “I wasn’t
dumping
you! I just … had a lot to deal with. I couldn’t—”

“Couldn’t talk to me about it? Couldn’t tell me?”

“I couldn’t!” I protest. “Not then.”

“Why?” he explodes. “What could be so terrible that you couldn’t tell me?”

I struggle to breathe, even now it’s impossible to find words to describe the horrible uncertainty and confusion and terror of that awful, life-changing day when Mum was finally diagnosed.

He sighs. “As if I don’t know.”

“What?”

He looks away. “It was pretty obvious, Rose. The timing … what happened … or didn’t …” He shuffles his feet, his cheeks coloring. “I’m sorry if I did something wrong, if I pushed you into nearly doing something you didn’t want to …”

I stare at him, stunned.

He looks at me, his eyes pained. “But you could’ve just talked to me, you know? I was happy to wait.”

“What? No!” I protest, my own cheeks burning. He thinks
I
dumped
him
because of that night? “No—no, it wasn’t …” I take a deep breath, trying to get my words straight. “Andy, it wasn’t you, anything to do with you. It was Mum—”

“Then why couldn’t you tell me that? Why couldn’t you call?”

“I was at the hospital, my phone was off, I couldn’t.”

“You could’ve if you’d tried, Rose. You could’ve called me, could’ve explained, could’ve let me know what was going on so I didn’t keep
hoping
 …”

I stare at him, speechless.

“Every city, every station—in Rome, in Athens, Barcelona—I prayed you’d changed your mind, that you’d be there waiting to explain, to join me for the rest of our trip, the adventure we’d planned for so long.” He shrugs. “But you didn’t come. You didn’t come, and it became obvious you never would.” He sighs. “I got tired of waiting for you.”

“But you didn’t wait very long, did you?” I gesture to the photo. “What? A few weeks? You couldn’t have loved me that much.”

He falters.

“
I
was waiting for
you
,” I tell him. “I couldn’t believe you’d gone without me. All summer I was waiting for you to call, to come and see me when you got back. I needed you.” I swallow hard. “But you never did.”

He looks away. “I thought … I thought you’d dumped me.”

“And I thought
you’d
dumped me,” I say sadly. “But I didn’t jump into bed with the next guy who came along!”

“She wasn’t—”

“And how dare you, how
dare
you try to tell me who I can and can’t be with
now
?!”

“What?”

“You’re such a hypocrite, Andy. Here you are with another girl
immediately
after we break up, and yet now,
a year and a half
later, you go mental when I’m with someone else!”

“That’s not what happened!”

“What?”
I ask incredulously. “You practically ripped Kyle off me!”

“Well, yes—but only because I was worried about you!”

“
Worried
about me? Is that why you snogged me too?”

“Actually,
you
snogged
me
,” Andy reminds me.

“Yeah? Well … I was drunk!” I retort bitterly, my cheeks burning.

“Exactly!”

“What?”

“Rose … you were off your head. You didn’t know what you were doing, and … after last time …” He swallows. “I’m sorry. It should never have happened. It was a mistake.”

A mistake
. My heart crumples as I look away, my gaze snagging on a picture right at the edge of the montage, almost hidden behind the others. It’s me. Me and Andy. Our first date. We’d gone ice-skating, followed by fish and chips, of all things, sitting out under the stars with our newspaper wrappers. I stare at the photo. Our cheeks are flushed, our eyes bright with laughter. We look so happy. I close my eyes against the tears.

“Rosie,” Andy sighs. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I was just trying to look out for you last night—I didn’t want you to do anything you’d regret.”

I swallow hard.

“But you’re right, if you want to go out with Kyle, with anyone …” He sighs. “That’s your business.”

I screw my eyes up tighter.
There’s only you. There’s only ever been you …

“I know you’ve had a rough time lately, with your mum and everything …,” he says gently. “But I really wish you’d told me about her. I would’ve understood, Rose. I would’ve been there for you.”

My throat swells with regret.
If only I’d called him that day
—
explained. He’s right. What was he supposed to think? What did I expect him to do? This is all my fault
—
if I’d only told him the truth, things might’ve been so different …

“But I understand why you didn’t,” he admits. “It’s a bit embarrassing, isn’t it?”

I look up sharply.

“I just mean it can’t have been easy,” he says quickly. “Giving up Sixth Form to look after your alcoholic mother.”

My jaw drops. “What?”

“Rosie.” He hesitates. “I know you tried to keep it quiet, but we all saw her, okay? Staggering down the street, slurring and spilling things everywhere …”

I stare at him, dumbfounded, an icy numbness gripping my insides. An image of Kyle’s stupid tottering walk floats through my mind.

He sighs. “I know she couldn’t help it, it was an addiction, but look what she put you through. Missing your A levels, your friends—eighteen months of your life!”

“What?! No!” I interrupt, my cheeks hot. “Andy, Mum was not an alcoholic!”

“Rose, come on—”

“I can’t
believe
—How
could
you!” I stare at him incredulously. “I mean,
Kyle’s
one thing, but
you
, how could
you
think she … You knew Mum. You
knew
her!” I push past him and thunder down the stairs.

“Rosie!” He races after me. “Rosie, I’m sorry!”

I fling open the front door.

“Rosie, wait—” He catches my arm. “I’m sorry, I know she was your mum—you loved her—I didn’t mean—”

“You don’t know anything!” I yell, wrenching away from him, rage pounding in my ears. “She wasn’t an alcoholic!”

He sighs, sadly, pityingly. “Rose …”

“She had
Huntington’s disease
, okay?
That’s
why I couldn’t just hop on a train,
that’s
why I dropped out of Sixth Form. She wasn’t an
alcoholic
—it wasn’t her fault—she had Huntington’s!”

My heart racing, I run out the door, sprinting down the street, tears streaming down my face.

I can’t go back—I can’t ever go back to how things were. Andy doesn’t want me—he feels
sorry
for me. He feels sorry for me because he thought my mum was an
alcoholic
! That night, that awful, horrible night her life changed forever, mine effectively ended.

And now she’s gone. She’s gone, and I’m left with nothing—no friends, no life, no future—

And she wasn’t even my mother!

My heart racing, I sprint into the garden, my stomach churning as I lunge for the flower bed.

“Oh, sweetie.” Melissa appears beside me, brushing my hair back from my forehead. “Was it the punch? Did I make it too strong? Should I call your dad?”

I shake my head vehemently, then immediately wish I hadn’t, as my stomach empties itself yet again. She rubs my back.

“Oh, babe. You need a glass of water? Coffee?”

“Water.” I nod weakly, clutching my belly.

“Coming right up!” She grins, ruffling my hair. “Don’t worry, next time I’ll leave out the vodka. Or maybe the rum.” She kisses my forehead. “Maybe neither would be a good idea for a few days, though!”

She winks and disappears into the house.

I lean my head against the cold wall and close my eyes.

I didn’t even have any freaking punch.

Chapter Four

The Christmas wreath tumbles to the floor as I shove the front door open and lean my head against the cold glass. I close my eyes, struggling to catch my breath, to summon the strength to step inside, to face the house that’s no longer my home.

Nearly everything had to be moved, cleared away or locked up after the diagnosis: anything Mum could trip over or smash into as the jerky movements—
chorea
—progressed; anything she could hurt herself, or anyone else, with when the paranoia set in; all our trinkets and ornaments, our throw rugs and photo frames and memories, all boxed up and stored in the garage, empty since we’d sold the Mini.

The car was the biggest blow. By law, Mum had to tell the DVLA her diagnosis, and they made her retest. When she failed, that was it. They revoked her license.

“This is crazy!”
Mum screamed at the test center. “Even
Jenson Button
failed his driving test the first time—I demand a retake!” They refused. And without the car, in our little rural village, she lost her independence.

So I deferred Sixth Form. Despite Nana’s protests about the importance of my education, I couldn’t bear the thought of Mum being stuck at home on her own. I wanted to be there for her, look after her, do my best to cheer her up. It wasn’t easy. I hated the way strangers stared at her wherever we went, nudging each other and whispering that she was crazy or drunk. But her mood swings were the worst.

She’d be high as a kite one minute, then fly into an uncontrollable rage over the smallest thing. She got so angry because
Neighbours
was canceled one bank holiday that she started hurling things at the TV, and smashed the screen. I tried to calm her down, tried to explain, but there was no reasoning with her—she needed her routine and didn’t understand why she couldn’t watch her beloved soap. In the end Sarah’s husband, Steve, had to physically restrain her to stop her hurting herself. Then, when he finally let go, she called the police, showed them her bruises and had him arrested for assault.

The only thing that seemed to calm her down was her cigarettes, but like with her temper, she didn’t seem to know when, or how, to stop. She’d just smoke one after another—up to fifty a day—inhaling compulsively until they burned down to her fingers. Then, if there weren’t another dozen full packets ready in the cupboard (something she’d check obsessively), she’d freak out about that too.

Other times, she’d get utterly depressed, despairing at what was happening to her, frightened about the future, paranoid that I was going to leave. But I didn’t. She was my mother, my whole world.

And I felt so guilty. She’d been struggling for years and I’d never twigged what was really going on, never realized. So I learned how to cope: to stick to a routine, to keep episodes of all her soaps recorded just in case, to buy cigarettes in bulk and leave ashtrays everywhere. To stop her burning her fingers I even bought her an old-fashioned cigarette holder that she absolutely adored—she said she felt like Audrey Hepburn.

Nana and Sarah helped as much as they could, worried about me dropping out of Sixth Form, losing touch with my friends, my future … Nana wanted me to take the predictive test straightaway, but I wasn’t allowed—at sixteen I was too young. Plus there were other factors to consider.

Bex bombarded me with questions: What would I do if the test was positive? Would it be worth going to uni, or learning to drive? Should I really get married? Or have kids, if they could get it too? Wouldn’t that be cruel, or irresponsible, or selfish? Endless painful, impossible questions that left me confused and sick and dizzy.

I kept quiet after that, told Bex to, too—tried to be normal, to keep up with my friends as they started Sixth Form without me, with odd days out, phone calls, Facebook. But all they ever seemed to do was gossip about their new mates, giggle about guys or moan about their course work, and it all seemed so petty suddenly. So meaningless. It was actually a relief when they finally stopped calling.

And besides, I had new friends—online friends from the Huntington’s Disease Youth Association. Teens who understood what I was going through, who’d lived with the disease for years, watching as it slowly sapped the independence and vitality from their loved ones day by day. Though we now realized Mum’d had symptoms for years before her diagnosis, we met people at her support group in much later stages of the disease—people whose families had deserted them because of their volatile behavior, not realizing they had HD; families torn apart by denial; parents whose children wouldn’t visit them for fear of witnessing their own future; pensioners who’d envisaged their retirements spent indulging their hobbies and grandchildren, not visiting their formerly strong, healthy spouses or adored grown-up children withered and bedridden in care homes.

Mum was so frightened of becoming a burden like that. She couldn’t bear to imagine that someday she might need someone to spoon-feed her and wipe her bum—that wasn’t who she
was
. Though it pains me to say it, in a way, she was lucky.

And for a while she was reasonably okay. The doctors prescribed medication that toned down her anger, depression and chorea, and on really good days she developed a jubilant carpe diem attitude, throwing her worries to the wind as we went swimming in the sea, boating on the river, and picnicking on the Downs. For her birthday Nana, Sarah and I even took her to Paris for cake beneath the Eiffel Tower. She was even due to start a clinical trial for a new drug, which they hoped would slow the disease’s progression.

But then, a few weeks later, she went upstairs for something in the middle of the night, lost her balance and tumbled all the way back down, smacking her head against the wall, causing a brain hemorrhage. That was the beginning of the end. Her symptoms seemed to advance much more quickly after that. She became completely bedridden. She struggled to swallow her food. Then she developed pneumonia.

It was awful. Nana and Sarah both did their best, coming over day and night, and care workers rallied round, but I was the only one there twenty-four-seven. The only one watching my mother slipping away. The only one witnessing what might happen to me.

What I
thought
might happen to me.

But she knew it never would
.

The thought comes like a burning scythe through my chest as I stare at the grab-bars, the child-locks, her chair—things that have haunted my future—things that I’ll
never
need—
and she knew!
All that time she let me believe I was at risk,
and all the time she knew!

I grab a pair of scissors from a child-locked drawer and dive at the chair, screaming as I stab the sharp blades into it again and again, slashing and hacking at its wipe-clean surface, leaving great gashes bleeding foam. I hate this chair
so much
. I hate its carefully padded limbs, its folding backsupport, its urine-proof coating.
So
practical.
So
functional. So ugly and terrifying and waiting for me—my destiny. Well, not anymore! I shove the chair onto its side, kicking and wrenching at it with all my might until finally an arm snaps off, sending me slamming painfully into the wall, but I don’t care. Never again, never again will anyone sit in it, rely on it, succumb to it.

My eyes scan the room greedily, searching for more targets; then suddenly the front door flies open and a man bursts in, wielding a cricket bat.

“All right, you—” Steve stops when he sees me. “Rosie?”

“Rosie?!”
Sarah pushes past him. “Rosie! What on earth are you doing?” Her eyes take in the savaged chair, the scissors. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I stare at her coolly, the scissors cold and hard in my hand, blood pounding in my temples.

“We heard all the noise and thought”—she glances at Steve—“I thought it was burglars!”

“Well, it’s not,” I say. “So you can go.”

Sarah glances at Steve and pats his arm. “You go.”

He frowns. “You sure?”

“You too,” I tell her.

“Off you go.” Sarah smiles at her husband as he leaves. “I’m staying.”

“There’s no need.” I grit my teeth. “Just go.”

She folds her arms and meets my gaze evenly.

I explode. “
What do you want?
”

“I don’t want anything.”

“Then get lost! Just get lost! This is my house, and I don’t want you here, you and your lies—you make me sick! You’re just … you’re just …” My eyes fill with tears. “You’re just like
her
!”

“Rosie—” She reaches for my arm.

“Get off me!” I wrench away. “How could you? How
could
you?!” I glare at her, rage pumping through me. “For
eighteen months
I watched my mum suffering, watched her slipping away, watched her
dying
 …” My eyes flood. “Always fearing that I could have it too, that someday that could happen to
me
. But it couldn’t, could it? It was never going to happen to me—
because she wasn’t my mother!
”

“Rosie—”

“And all the time she knew! Eighteen months, and she never thought to mention it, to let me off the hook?
Oh, by the way, Rosie, you can’t have Huntington’s
. That’s all it would’ve taken—one simple sentence to erase a life sentence.
Eighteen months!
And if she hadn’t got pneumonia it could have been longer, couldn’t it? It could have been years and
years
—and would she
ever
have told me?”

“Rosie,” Sarah begins, flustered now. “Rosie, she didn’t know—”

“Oh, I know she didn’t know!
I
didn’t know.
You
didn’t even know she had Huntington’s, and you’re a nurse, for God’s sake! But once she was diagnosed she
should
have told me—how could she not? How could she sit there in that
hideous
chair
knowing
I’d
never
inherit the disease
and not tell
me? What did she think I’d do?
Leave
her?
How could she be so selfish?!
”

“Rosie, stop it! Rosie—she didn’t know!”

“She did! She knew there was
no
chance of me
ever
getting the disease, and yet—”

“No, Rosie, she didn’t!” Sarah grabs my wrists, her eyes intense. “She didn’t know you weren’t her daughter!”

I stare at her, the anger frozen in my limbs.

What?

She holds my gaze, her breath coming in gulps. “Rosie, sit down.”

I open my mouth to speak but can’t, and my legs crumble as I sink onto the sofa, my head spinning, trying to figure out what I’ve missed, what she means—hitting brick walls every time.

She didn’t know …?

Sarah sits down next to me, takes my hands.

“Rosie,” she says carefully, searching for the right words. “I want you to listen to me, to let me explain—without interrupting.” She swallows. “Okay?”

I nod, not sure I can speak anyway. My throat’s like sandpaper.

“Okay,” she sighs. “Okay.” She takes a deep breath. “You know that Trudie always wanted a child so,
so
desperately. But she—I don’t know if you know—she suffered a number of miscarriages …”

I nod again, my chest tight.

“She and David tried to adopt, but they were too old, too many stupid rules and red tape.” She sighs. “Then finally she got pregnant again. David was so angry with her, we all were, so worried she was putting herself at risk. But she kept saying how she knew that this time it was going to be okay—she just
knew
. And for ages it seemed she was right. Everything was going so well, she’d got to her third trimester and they were over the moon.

“But then one horrible stormy night, just as I was finishing my shift at the hospital, your nana rushed Trudie in with stomach pains, weeks before she was due. David wasn’t there, he was out somewhere in his cab, but they’d called his dispatcher—he was on his way. Trudie was frantic, terrified of losing her baby, anxious about the storm, desperately needing David beside her, so I stayed on, determined to do everything I could for her and the child.

“But there were … complications. The baby was born, but she wasn’t breathing properly. She was rushed off to the Special Care Baby Unit and put on a ventilator while they organized an urgent transfer to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit at Westhampton Hospital. I felt so helpless. All I could do was watch as she struggled to survive. She was so tiny, so frail.

“Then my friend Jamila who works in the SCBU started sympathizing, saying how life isn’t fair—how some babies die while others aren’t even wanted. I wasn’t really listening, but she kept on about this other premature newborn, how her seventeen-year-old mother was going to give her up for adoption. She was doing my head in. I wanted to tell her to shut up, as if silence would save Trudie’s baby—with every breath she seemed to be slipping away …

“Then Jamila asked me to cover for her. Her shift was meant to be over, but her replacement hadn’t arrived yet.
Please
, Jamila begged—she was going on holiday, had to catch her flight—and as I was staying anyway, I told her to go. Anything for some peace and quiet.”

Sarah swallows, takes a deep breath.

“The next thing I knew, an auxiliary nurse ran in, shouting that Jamila’s teenager had done a runner. I hurried back to the labor ward and nearly ran straight into your nana, who’d come to find me. Trudie was desperate to see me, she said, so together we rushed back to the delivery rooms, and sure enough, the teenage girl’s bed was empty. Security confirmed she’d left—they’d had no idea she was abandoning her baby. Then we heard Trudie. She was in hysterics, I’d never seen her so distraught. The police had arrived—there’d been a crash—David had been …” She glances at me, her face deathly pale. “He’d been so unlucky. There was nothing they could do …”

I swallow hard.

“It was awful. Your nana tried to comfort her, but Trudie was beside herself. Then, when she saw me, she just wanted her baby, was desperate to know if she was all right. She was so frightened, so upset, I
couldn’t
tell her the truth. I said I’d go and check, and hurried back to the Unit. But her baby looked worse than ever and the ambulance
still
hadn’t arrived. I was desperate. The baby was going to die, I just knew it. She wasn’t even crying—she didn’t have the strength. I couldn’t face Trudie, couldn’t go back and tell her—not after David …