Wishbones Read online

  I wish she hadn’t done that. But I agree with her to this extent: it’s going to take more than a bunch of leaflets to stop her eating so much. It’s going to take someone who loves her and won’t give up on her, even when things get really hard. In other words, it’s going to take me. And getting rid of the TV and putting Dad’s bed in the lounge is the first step.

  ‘Where’s my bed?’ Dad calls down from the landing.

  I go out to the hallway and look up at him. He’s got bags under his eyes that make him look one of those droopy-faced dogs.

  ‘I thought it would be nice for you guys to be together. After everything.’

  It took Steph, Jake and me ages to get the bed down, but it’ll be worth it. When I drew up a timeline of when things started getting really bad with Mum, I worked out that Mum coming to live in the lounge downstairs four years ago made both of them go sad. I mean, Dad still does everything for Mum and you can tell that he totally adores her, but that’s not the same as being happy or loving each other romantically. I thought that maybe if I could bring them closer again, then Mum would get better faster.

  ‘This isn’t your business, Feather,’ Dad shouts down the stairs.

  ‘It’s completely my business!’ I yell back.

  It’s the second time in twenty-four hours that I’ve shouted at Dad. But then Dad never shouts at me either. I guess we’re both a bit stressed out.

  I keep going:

  ‘You’re my parents. And Mum nearly died. I had to do something.’

  It feels weird, standing there in the hall between Mum, sitting in her chair in the lounge, and Dad upstairs.

  ‘There’s no room in the lounge,’ Dad says.

  ‘There’s plenty of room,’ I lie.

  Because Mum and Dad being squished up together in the lounge is the plan. It’s what will make them close again.

  This is how I see it:

  Mum + Dad happy together = Mum happy.

  Mum happy = Mum motivated to get healthy.

  Mum motivated to get healthy = Mum stays alive.

  We hear the creaking sound Mum makes when she heaves her legs up onto the footrest that goes with the armchair. Dad got the chair and footrest for her at the same time as the TV. Officially, it’s a love seat, which means it’s meant to hold two people, but Mum hardly fits all by herself. It’s the ugliest chair you’ve ever seen. Think of a gigantic, padded purple cabbage – with a slightly smaller padded purple cabbage for your feet.

  My phone goes and I slip into the kitchen. It’s Steph.

  ‘How’s it all going?’ she asks. ‘How’s Jo taking the changes?’

  Like I said earlier, Mum and Steph had a barney at Christmas and since then Mum’s been ignoring her. They won’t tell me what it’s about. Mum + Steph being friends is another plan I need to put into action if I’m going to get Mum happy again and motivated to lose weight.

  ‘Not well,’ I say.

  I hear Dad close the door to his room upstairs.

  ‘And I think we should have told Dad. About the bed.’ I sigh. ‘I wish you and Jake were here. I’m not sure I can cope with being in the house alone with Mum and Dad.’

  There’s a pause. Which makes me feel guilty because I know that it’s probably Mum’s fault that she and Steph fell out and that Steph’s really cut up about it and that she’s still been doing all this stuff to help Mum. Plus, Steph is divorced so she doesn’t even have the option of sharing a room with her husband.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I say to Steph. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘I’ll send Jake over when he gets back.’

  ‘He’s with Amy?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Jake’s basically had a girlfriend since we were in nursery. He’s one of those guys that girls fancy: floppy, sandy hair that he has to keep flicking out of his blue eyes; dimples; a big smile. And for some reason, he seems to go along with it, picking up a new girl as soon as an old girlfriend gets bored or angry because he doesn’t give her more attention.

  None of those girls looked right with Jake. You know how, when you see a couple that are meant to be together, their edges go blurry and they kind of meld together and become more like one person than two? Well, Jake’s never had the blurry-edged thing: he and his girlfriends always looked like two people.

  Steph once told me: Jake needs to have a girl around… And when I asked her, What about me, aren’t I a girl? Steph had laughed and given me a hug and said, You’re different, Feather. Which made me feel kind of hurt and happy at the same time.

  Anyway, Steph and I are on the same page about Amy. I think she secretly hopes Jake and me will get together and get married and have loads of grandchildren she can coo over, which is kind of embarrassing but it’s nice to know that she’d want me as part of her family.

  ‘Hope everything works out,’ Steph says.

  ‘Thanks, Steph.’

  I go back out into the hall. It’s really quiet. I imagine Dad sitting in the middle of his bedroom floor in the place where the bed used to be.

  ‘Dinner’s in half an hour,’ I call out to them both.

  I borrowed Cook. Eat. Live. from the mobile library and Steph took me shopping for ingredients. I’m going to make Mum the best salad in the world.

  As I go back into the kitchen and pull out the chopping board and get the vegetables out of the fridge, I tell myself: It’s going to be okay. It’s all going to be okay. And I say it over and over until it begins to sound a bit true.

  6

  ‘Mum?’ I knock on the lounge door.

  She’s lying in bed, staring at a damp patch on the ceiling that Dad’s been going on about fixing for years. Dad must have helped her out of her armchair.

  When she sees me, she smiles, which makes me think that maybe she’s forgiven me for taking out the TV.

  ‘It’s good to have you home, Mum.’

  ‘Why don’t you put that down and come and have a chat.’ Mum smiles and pats her armrest.

  Our chats are the best things in my day. You two could natter for England, Dad says. And it’s true. There’s nothing we don’t talk about. But right now, getting Mum healthy is more important.

  I carry over the tray with the massive salad I’ve made: a big pile of lettuce and peppers and cucumber.

  ‘That plate’s so green it’s giving me a headache,’ Mum says.

  ‘You’ll love it, Mum. It’s called The Green Goddess Salad.’

  ‘Quite a grand name for a few salad leaves, don’t you think?’ Mum stares at the plate and then she shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry, lovely, I’m not hungry.’

  Mum’s always hungry.

  I put the tray on her bedside table and then notice a scrunched-up packet of prawn cocktail crisps on the floor. I dig my nails into my palms. I did a sweep of the whole house. Dad must have given it to her.

  ‘I read on the internet that it takes twenty-eight days to break a habit,’ I say as I pick up the crisp packets and put them in the bin. ‘Twenty-eight days is not even a month. You can do it, Mum.’

  I’ve put targets on the six-month timeline in my room. Those nurses said that if Mum doesn’t get to a healthier weight, she’ll die in six months – well, I’m going to make sure that, by the end of every month, she’s lost a whole load of weight.

  ‘Twenty-eight days to do what, my love?’ Mum asks.

  Mum’s slouched right down in her bed so I grab her elbow, help her to sit up and wedge a pillow in her back.

  I perch beside her on the edge of the bed.

  ‘To get you well again,’ I say.

  Mum leans forward and brushes my fringe out of my eyes.

  ‘I am well, my love. I’ve got you, and Dad; that’s all the good health I need.’

  I shake off Mum’s hand and tuck a napkin into her sweatshirt.

  ‘You need to get your body healthy, Mum.’

  Mum grabs at her napkin and throws it onto the bed sheets.

  ‘What I need, is the TV back.’

  I stand up. Mum
never talks to me like that.

  ‘We could do fun things instead,’ I say. ‘We could go on walks. Little ones at first…’

  ‘You know I don’t like walking.’

  By that, Mum means she doesn’t like walking outside, where there are people.

  Mum stretches her arm out. I let her take my hand. ‘Why do we need to go out, Feather?’ She glances at the slit in the curtains, which is just wide enough to let her see out and just small enough to make sure no one can look in, not unless they’re standing right under it. ‘We’ve got everything we need right here,’ Mum adds.

  I take my hand out of Mum’s and lift the tray onto her lap.

  ‘I just thought that a few changes might do you some good.’ I pick up the fork and the plate. ‘The salad’s organic. It’s full of good vitamins and nutrients. The book says…’

  ‘The book?’

  ‘Cook. Eat. Live. I borrowed it from the library. It’s not about dieting, it’s about eating food that’s good for you, that makes you healthy and happy.’ I pause. ‘I’ve told Dad I’m doing the cooking from now on.’

  Dad has always done the cooking. It’s Tucker legend that when Mum first tasted Dad’s roast chicken, she decided he was the man she was going to marry.

  Mum smiles. ‘You can’t boil an egg, love.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to learn. And I’ve already made a start – with this salad.’ I spear a bit of lettuce onto the fork.

  Beads of sweat have gathered along Mum’s hairline. Her body’s like an old heater – either stone cold or scalding hot and nothing in between.

  I hold the fork closer to Mum’s mouth, which makes me think about the stories Mum told me about when I was little and hated eating. I’d throw things off the side of the high chair and laugh.

  Mum pushes the salad away. ‘I’m groggy from the hospital, Feather. I’m sure my appetite will come back later.’

  I hold the fork closer to Mum’s mouth. ‘I’m not going until you’ve had a bite.’

  ‘Please, Feather, I just need a bit of a rest.’

  When I was little, I didn’t see Mum locking herself indoors as unusual. Staying inside was just what Mum did. And then, when I got older and kids at school made comments, I always defended Mum. I said that it was Mum’s choice and that it was just as good a choice as going out and that, anyway, she was perfectly happy and busy doing things inside.

  But over the years, she started eating more and more. And she got bigger. Much bigger. By the time I was in secondary school, Mum couldn’t fit through the front door any more and she’d stopped going upstairs to sleep: her legs were too weak to carry her body. And then she stopped walking altogether.

  The funny thing is that Dad and me just went with it. To us, Mum was Mum: funny and kind and always there for us and beautiful too, with her long hair and her soft skin and her big, sparkly eyes. It’s only now, after Mum nearly died, that I realise that she wasn’t okay at all, and that she must have known it, and if she knew it, I want to know why she let herself get so sick.

  ‘You won’t be all right,’ I say. ‘Not if you don’t get to a healthy weight.’

  ‘I lost two stone while I was in hospital.’ Mum pats her belly and smiles. ‘It’s a start, Feather.’

  I smile back at Mum because I don’t want to rain on her parade, but two stone is a drop in the ocean when you’re Mum’s size.

  ‘Nurse Heidi’s coming to weigh you tomorrow,’ I say. ‘So you’ve got to keep making an effort.’

  Nurse Heidi is the community nurse. She works with the GP in Newton and she popped in earlier when I was sorting out the house with Steph and Jake.

  ‘I don’t need to be weighed,’ Mum says.

  ‘Losing weight at home is going to be harder than losing weight in hospital, Mum. Mitch said it has to be your journey.’

  ‘Who’s Mitch?’

  I feel my cheeks flushing. ‘He lives next door. He helped—’ I stop. Mum doesn’t know about what happened on New Year’s Eve. ‘He runs this club.’

  ‘What club?’

  ‘A support group for people who want to get healthy.’

  Mum’s smile drops.

  I know Mum would find it hard to sit with a bunch of strangers talking about being overweight. I mean, she won’t even talk to me about being overweight.

  ‘Why don’t I get Dad and we could all eat the salad together.’

  ‘Your dad needs to eat more than a salad. He’s fading away.’

  Mum looks out through the slit in the curtains again. Dad’s giving Houdini his tea. I take advantage of her being distracted by lifting the fork back to her lips.

  She snaps her head back and knocks the fork out of my hand. A piece of lettuce catapults over Mum’s duvet and lands on the floor.

  My eyes sting.

  ‘Darling.’ Mum touches my hand. ‘I know you mean well…’

  I pull my hand away. She doesn’t get it, how serious her condition is.

  ‘It’ll all be fine,’ Mum says. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You’re not fine. You’re sick. Really sick. And if you don’t get healthy…’ I gulp.

  They haven’t told her. Just like they tried to keep it from me. That if she doesn’t do something to get to a healthy weight, she’s going to die.

  I take a breath. ‘If you don’t make an effort, you’ll have to go back to hospital, Mum.’

  I know it’s mean to say that, with her hating hospitals, but she has to understand how serious this is.

  I put the plate of salad back on the tray and walk to the door.

  ‘Feather…’

  I look back at her.

  ‘You have to try.’ My voice trembles. ‘We need you – I do and so does Dad and Steph and all the friends you haven’t seen in years. We all want you to be well again.’ I pause. ‘It’s not fair, Mum.’

  It’s the first time I feel like one of those teenage girls who yell at their mums. It’s never been like that between us. We’re friends, best friends. We understand each other. But it’s not fair, is it? To keep eating crisps, to pretend everything’s going to be okay.

  I have to get through to her: if she doesn’t make changes right now, I’m going to lose the person I love more than anyone in the whole world.

  I slam the door and walk out.

  7

  I find Dad outside scraping some earth out of one of Houdini’s hooves. Sometimes I think he loves Houdini more than he loves anyone, including me and Mum.

  ‘Here, Houdini may as well have this,’ I say, handing him the plate of salad I made for Mum.

  Dad lets go of Houdini’s leg and Houdini hoovers up the lettuce and the bits of tomato and pepper. His bell rings out through the village.

  ‘Mum didn’t want it?’ Dad asks.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Give her time, love,’ Dad says.

  I ignore his comment and take a piece of paper out of my pocket. ‘I’ve made a list, Dad.’ I hold it out to him. ‘Things I think we should do to help Mum.’

  Dad pulls his reading glasses out of his overall pocket and holds the paper up to the light above the front door.

  I watch him scan down the items:

  1. Go to Slim Skills and get tips for making Mum healthy.

  2. Get Mum to go to Slim Skills.

  3. Get Mum and Dad to be happy with each other again.

  I notice Dad pause after this one.

  4. Get Mum and Steph to make up.

  5. Take Mum for a walk around The Green every day, even if it’s only a few steps.

  6. Look into alternative weight-loss programmes: hypnosis, acupuncture, Chinese medicine, diet pills, reflexology and gastric bands.

  Dad hands the piece of paper back to me.

  ‘We should leave it to the doctors, Feather.’

  ‘The doctors aren’t going to do anything. They just gave her a bunch of leaflets. Leaflets won’t help. We have to help her, Dad.’

  ‘It’s complicated with your mum, Feather.’

  I�
��m sick of hearing that word: complicated. And I’m sick of what it implies: that because something’s hard, we shouldn’t do anything about it. Or that because something’s difficult to understand, I won’t get it.

  Dad takes off his glasses and puts them away.

  ‘And they’re expensive, Feather. Those things you wrote down.’

  ‘I’ve got some money saved up. And I’ll get a job. Plus, you’ve got so many call-outs at the moment, you must be making some money.’

  ‘I know you mean well, Feather…’

  ‘Of course I mean well,’ I say, ‘I want to help Mum. Don’t you?’

  I want to shake him. Doesn’t he realise that Mum nearly died? That she might still die?

  ‘You’re acting like none of this has happened, Dad. Don’t you remember what it felt like to sit next to Mum while she was in a coma, not knowing whether she was going to wake up? I thought that if anyone would understand…’

  He gives Houdini a pat and starts to walk up the ramp to the front door.

  ‘Do you love Mum?’ I ask Dad.

  He looks up at me, his eyes dark and shiny. Houdini head-butts my shins like he’s trying to tell me something. His bell tinkles.

  ‘Of course I love her, Feather.’ His Adam’s apple slides up and down his throat. ‘Of course I do.’

  And then I don’t say anything because I know that if I do I’ll regret it. I just get up and go back into the house.

  Jake swipes the screen. His face glows.

  We’re sitting on my bedroom floor using his mobile to surf the Internet. His dad gave it to him to make up for never being around.

  ‘It says you need to work out your BMI,’ he reads from the obesity section of the NHS website.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Body Mass Index.’ He taps the screen. ‘Here, there’s a calculator. Your mum’s forty, right?’

  ‘Forty-two.’

  ‘And she’s what, five foot two?’

  ‘Yeah, roughly that.’ We’ve never measured Mum but she’s a bit taller than me and I’m five feet.

  ‘And her chart at the hospital said she was thirty-seven stone?’

  I nod. My stomach churns. I’m not sure I’m ready to have a calculator tell me how overweight Mum is. Though I guess I’ve heard the worst of it from the nurses already.