Breakfast at Sadie's Page 7

  Her mouth moved. I don't know if it was meant to be a smile or not. Probably not. ‘All right, then, Sadie. Go on, but don't let this happen again.’

  I was so shaky after that that I really did go to the loo, just to take a few deep breaths and calm down. I was splashing water on my face when the door opened and Milly walked in, her dark hair pulled back in a rough ponytail.

  Surprise fell across her face. ‘Oh. Hi.’

  ‘Hi,’ I muttered, thinking, Oh, great, Miss Perfect Marks. Just what I need. I rubbed my face on the rough cloth of the towel dispenser, not looking at her.

  ‘What are you doing, hiding out?’ She leaned against one of the sinks.

  My gaze snapped to hers in the mirror. ‘What do you mean?’

  She grinned, and pointed at the floor. ‘Well, you've got your bag with you. So it looks like you haven't been to class yet this afternoon, right?’

  I made a face. ‘Excellent deduction, Sherlock.’

  ‘Yeah, you know what he always said – once you eliminate the impossible, you're left with the truth, however unlikely. Or something like that. Sorry, that's a paraphrase.’

  Did she have to show off even in the girl's loo? ‘I really wouldn't know.’

  She sat on one hip, swinging her leg. ‘Well, not everyone's into old Arthur C. D., but he's a pretty good read. I mean, if you're into that sort of thing.’

  Oh, go lick off the Battleship's whiteboards. I pressed my mouth together with the effort not to say it. ‘What are you doing in here, anyway? I mean, since you're obviously not going to the loo.’

  Her thick eyebrows rose. ‘I'm hiding out too, can't you tell? Mr Jenkins looked like he was about to get me to read my poem out to everyone.’

  ‘What poem?’

  ‘Oh, just a poem I wrote, about atoms. He heard Mrs Green going on about it. Anyway, here's a tip – if you ever want to get out of a class, just say that you think you've started your period; they'll let you out in about two seconds flat. Some days I start my period three or four times. You have to keep track, though, or else they start thinking you have medical problems.’

  Heat swept up my face. I had only had my period for about six months, and it really wasn't my favourite topic of conversation.

  Milly waggled her eyebrows. ‘Especially the male teachers, they practically pass out if you mention the P word.’

  Looking away, I picked up my bag. ‘Right, well, I'm late enough as it is.’

  She smiled wickedly. ‘What are you going to say? That you've got the P word?’

  ‘No, I'm going to say I was crying in the girls’ loo.’

  Milly tilted her head to one side and nodded, pursing her lips together. ‘Crying . . . yeah, I guess that could work, too.’

  100 Years of Caring

  When I got to the hospital that afternoon, Mum's bed was empty.

  I stood in the doorway staring at it dumbly, wondering if I had the right room. But no, there was her roommate, Greta, the old lady who had had the stroke. Greta looked up at me, and I backed away in confusion, banging the door shut. My heart felt like it might hammer through my chest. Where was Mum? What had they done with her?

  A nurse stood a few feet away checking something on a trolley, her back to me. I ran over to her. ‘Excuse me – I'm looking for my mum – I don't know where my mum is—’

  She turned round, and glanced at Mum's closed door. ‘Mrs Pollock, is it?’

  I nodded, my throat dry.

  ‘Wait here; I'll find out where she is for you.’ She strode briskly off to a sort of podium halfway down the corridor, where two other nurses stood talking. A minute later she was back.

  ‘Your mum's in surgery, and then we'll be moving her to Intensive Care. You really should have been notified, but I suppose there wasn't any time – she's been finding it hard to breathe, you see, so they're inserting a tube in her throat to help her out a bit.’

  The blood fell from my face. I couldn't say anything.

  The nurse touched my arm. She had blue eyes, and a nametag that read Brenda Jones, RN. ‘ It's not as scary as it sounds. This sometimes happens with GBS; I'm sure the doctor will have explained it to you.’

  ‘When— when can I see her?’

  Brenda looked as if she wanted to hug me. I was glad she didn't, or I would have started bawling.

  ‘Well, she'll be out of surgery soon, but she'll be very groggy after that. Why don't you leave a note for her at the nurse's station, and we'll read it to her once she's awake? Then you can see her tomorrow.’ She touched my arm again and walked away.

  In a daze, I found the nurse's station and borrowed some paper and a pen. Brixham Hospital, over 100 years of caring for Brixham, the paper said on it. I stood staring at it for ages, until the words blurred wetly together and didn't make any sense at all.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked the nurse behind the desk. I nodded. Clearing my throat, I wrote carefully, clutching the pen.

  Dear Mum,

  I'm sorry you've had surgery and hope you feel better soon. Don't worry about anything, everything is OK at Grace's and Aunt Leona is doing a really good job running things.

  Love,

  Sadie xx

  PS – I got an almost perfect score on my history homework today.

  That's Only Five Per Cent

  Marcus was still in the lounge when I got home, tapping away at the computer. It was a relief to have him there, actually. Being alone just then . . . I swallowed.

  He twisted round in our creaky old computer chair to look at me. ‘Your mum doesn't have Dreamweaver, does she?’

  ‘Have what?’ My voice sounded scratchy, like I had a raging cold.

  ‘It's a software package. I can build the site in Express, but it's not as good. And I want to do a really flash site, so that people can book their own reservations and stuff.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He stared at me. ‘Sadie . . . Dreamweaver?’

  ‘Um, I don't know.’

  Marcus sighed and went back to his typing. ‘A couple of people rang to make reservations today.’

  My hands iced. ‘You didn't answer the phone, did you?’

  ‘Of course not! I let the machine pick it up, just like we planned.’

  Glancing at the machine, I saw that the little green light was flashing. The plan was for me to ring people back using my grown-up voice, but instead I just stared at the light, watching it go on and off. I felt like I had been disconnected from my body.

  ‘What's wrong? You're acting all weird.’ Marcus was watching me.

  ‘I'm just—’ I let out a breath. ‘Just – worried about Mum, that's all.’

  ‘Oh.’ He blinked. ‘Well . . . what's that thing that she's got called again, and we'll look it up on Google.’

  I went over to stand behind him, looking over his shoulder. ‘GBS.’

  ‘What does that stand for?’ He was already typing it onto the screen.

  ‘I don't know! Just GBS.’

  It was enough. The very first hit that came up said, GBS – Guillain-Barré Syndrome Support Group.

  ‘Here, let me sit down.’ I slid into the chair, staring at the screen.

  But then I hardly knew where to start. The site had pages and pages of information, all of it in small, pressed-together writing. There were long words everywhere I looked. My stomach pitched sideways. I was never going to be able to understand all of this.

  ‘Try that one.’ Marcus pointed at a button that said, GBS Explained.

  So I clicked on it, and suddenly my eyes were stumbling over words like toxin exposure, cerebrospinal, electromyogram. They felt like scorpions crawling over me. And then I saw it: Death in GBS is a rare event, occurring in about 1 in 20 cases.

  The world froze. My heart froze.

  ‘Oh, hey, that's not too bad,’ said Marcus, reading over my shoulder. ‘One in twenty, that's only five per cent. Statistically, you've got nothing to worry about.’

  Shut up! Shut up! But I couldn't say it. I couldn't say an
ything.

  Complications

  Marcus had to leave after that, to get home in time for his tea. I didn't eat anything. I would have vomited it straight back up again, all over the keyboard, because one in twenty didn't exactly sound rare to me. Rare would be one in two million, not one in twenty. I blinked back tears, hating the site, hating whoever had written it.

  Death tends to occur more commonly in elderly people severely affected by GBS, but like any other illness, unexpected complications can arise. Death is more likely to be a result of a complication rather than GBS itself.

  What did that mean? What was a ‘complication’, exactly? I sat biting a hangnail, staring at the screen. Did it mean that once you had GBS, other things could really affect you, and you might die? Dr Sarjeem flashed into my mind. She shouldn't be worried about anything while she's in here.

  If Mum found out that Aunt Leona had left me alone for three weeks, what would it do to her?

  All of a sudden, my dad's funeral came rushing back: the strangling smell of flowers, and the round-faced vicar who droned on and on about the tragedy of God calling one of his flock home so young. Afterwards, it had seemed like everyone cried except Mum, who stood still and silent, staring at the coffin. I'd started crying then too, partly because Dad was gone, but also just because I was so scared of the look on Mum's face.

  And now in my mind I was back at the funeral, only this time it was Mum lying in the coffin.

  Ice choked my heart. What would happen if Mum died? If she found out what her own sister had done, would that make her so much worse that she might become the one in twenty?

  My fingers clutched the hard plastic mouse. I'd be an orphan, completely alone. I'd be sent away to live with strangers, or in a home somewhere. They'd have to sell our house. Dad's house. Mum would be gone.

  The screen blurred. For a second I seriously wanted to ring the police. I wanted to tell them what Aunt Leona had done, so they'd track her down in the Canaries and arrest her, and then her face would be splashed across every paper in the country as she was dragged off to prison.

  But I couldn't do that. Mum was depending on me, whether she knew it or not.

  Wiping my eyes, I clicked another page on the website and kept reading.

  Cycling in the Pyrenees

  ‘Excuse me.’ I reached across one of the two women at Table Three to get her plate. They were the same two women I had almost run down in the corridor the other day. They were all smiles now, nodding politely to me as they went on with their conversation.

  ‘Yes, such amazing views,’ said the older one. ‘So still and quiet, as if the rest of the world doesn't even exist.’

  A headache smashed my temples as I glanced at my watch. Eight forty-three, and they were still sitting there yakking away! I really didn't need this, not after staying up until almost two o’clock that morning, reading about all the horrible things that could happen to Mum.

  The younger one smiled at me, obviously wonder-ing why I was hanging about. Because it's late, everyone else has left, and you're still drinking your coffee!

  ‘We're just talking about our last cycling trip, up in the Pyrenees,’ she said. ‘Completely stunning mountains. We both love Spain . . . brilliant skiing up there, as well.’

  Fab. ‘Um, I'm sorry to hurry you, but my aunt—’

  ‘We're here to do the South West Coast Path now,’ put in the older one. ‘Just for a bit of a holiday, after the Pyrenees!’ They both laughed, chortle chortle. Oh, leave!

  Finally they drifted back up to their room, still nattering away about cycling. I whipped their dishes off the table and ran into the kitchen with them.

  I had exactly six minutes to get changed and get to school.

  A Very Famous Triptych

  The window in the artroom door was dark, which meant Mr Grange was presenting one of his history of art slide shows again. I softly eased open the door, hoping I could just slip in and sit in the back. Of course Mr Grange spotted me the second he saw the light from the hallway angling in. He's young and blond; half the girls in our group fancy him.

  ‘Sadie, you're late – is there a problem?’ He peered at me through the beam of light from the projector.

  My face went red instantly, but at least the room was so dark you could hardly tell. I went over to the table where he had the slide machine set up. ‘Sorry, sir,’ I whispered. ‘It's just that I, um – started my period.’

  I could not believe I'd said that. But it worked – suddenly Mr Grange looked like he had swallowed a hot pepper, even in the dim light. ‘Oh, I see. You don't need to – see the nurse, or—’

  I shook my head vehemently, praying that no one else was hearing any of this.

  ‘Well, that's fine, then,’ he said. ‘Just take a seat, Sadie.’

  The light shifted as the slides clicked forward. ‘Right! And here we have The Adoration of the Lamb, a very famous triptych by the Van Eyck brothers . . .’ He sounded very relieved to be talking about art again.

  Milly caught my eye as I started towards the back of the room, and smiled. My face flamed and I looked away, sinking down next to Hannah and Tara.

  Tara squinted at me in the gloom. ‘Where were you?’ she whispered.

  I kept my eyes on my bag as I settled it onto floor. ‘Mrs Clark wanted to talk to me.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I don't know. Some form that Mum's supposed to fill out.’

  ‘Quiet, girls,’ called Mr Grange. ‘Now, still in the Flanders school, there's the work of . . .’

  I folded my arms on the desk, leaning towards Hannah across the table. ‘Um, Hannah . . . I sort of didn't get my maths done last night . . .’

  I had hardly even finished the sentence before Hannah was pulling a paper out of her folder. I copied it quickly, keeping an eye on Mr Grange.

  Exactly the Same

  ‘Now, it's not as bad as it looks, all right?’ Brenda turned to look at me, her blue nurse's uniform rustling slightly.

  I swallowed. ‘Yes, OK.’

  ‘But I'm glad I caught you before you went in, because you should be prepared. The thing is, the tracheostomy – that's the operation we did to put the tube in your mum's throat, to help her breathe – makes it impossible for her to speak.’

  ‘I— I know,’ I managed to get out. The GBS website had gone on and on about it.

  Brenda squeezed my shoulder. ‘Sadie, I know how scary that sounds, but it's only temporary; I promise.’

  We had stopped walking by then, standing in front of Mum's closed door. A nurse carrying a clipboard hurried past.

  ‘There's a GBS volunteer in with her now,’ said Brenda. ‘Someone who's had this condition herself, and knows what it's like first hand. She'll help you work out a way to communicate with your mum until she's better; there are codes and things you can work out.’

  Somehow I managed not to turn on my heel and run for the lift. Brenda put her arm around me. ‘She'll be OK, love, really. Now come on, are you ready to see her?’

  She gave me a little squeeze, and I nodded, even though going into that room was the very last thing I wanted to do. ‘Good girl. Now, I have to go check on another patient, but call me if you need me, right?’

  Brenda bustled off, leaving me there alone. I took a deep breath and reached for the doorknob.

  Mum lay on her bed as still as a plank of wood. She didn't even turn her head when I went in. And I had thought that the tube would be like a slender snake, but it was massive – a clunky white accordion-tube of plastic had taken over her throat, plugging her into a black and silver machine beside her bed. Another smaller tube led from her nose to a drip on a stand.

  I started as a woman at Mum's bedside stood up, and came over to me with her hand out. I hadn't even noticed her.

  ‘Are you Sadie?’

  I nodded. I couldn't have said anything to save my life. Or Mum's life, come to that.

  She was tall, with short grey hair and warm, lively brown eyes. ‘Sadie, I'm Tric
ia. I had GBS myself a few years ago.’

  ‘Will she be OK?’ I blurted out. I couldn't stop looking at Mum, lying there like a giant, motionless doll. Her chest moved gently up and down. Was that the machine breathing for her?

  ‘Let's step outside for a moment,’ murmured Tricia. She turned to Mum, and said, ‘We'll be right back, Celia,’ in this completely natural voice, as if we were all out on a jolly shopping spree together.

  We sat in the waiting area, and Tricia leaned towards me, her voice intense. ‘Now Sadie, listen to me. I know how frightening this must look, but the thing you have to remember is that it's still your mum in there. She can't move; that's all. But she's aware of everything that's going on around her; she's still thinking. She's still exactly the same person.’

  A hot lump lodged in my throat, and I wiped my eyes with my hand. Tricia patted at the pockets of her sundress. ‘Oh, I'm sorry, I don't have a tissue—’

  ‘That's OK,’ I mumbled. ‘Will she be all right, though? I saw – saw this website, and it said that one in twenty people die from this . . .’

  Tricia squeezed my hand. ‘That's statistically true, but I don't think it will happen in your mum's case.’

  ‘You don't know, though!’ I jerked my hand away as my voice rose. Across the room, an old man reading a magazine looked up.

  ‘No, that's true,’ said Tricia calmly. ‘Nobody can know, Sadie.’

  Neither of us said anything. For a few minutes, the only sounds were the old man turning pages, and nurses passing by.

  Finally, Tricia touched my arm. ‘Come on, let's sit with your mum, and I'll show you how she can communicate with you.’

  Blinking Hard

  Tricia stayed with me as I sat with Mum. I'm not sure I could have done it otherwise. Mum just – just lay there, still and quiet, her eyes following my every word. I babbled away, on and on, terrified of the utter silence that would drop around us if I stopped talking.

  ‘And look, I wanted to show you this – see, I got a nine out of ten.’ I fumbled in my bag, and held up a maths paper I had copied from Hannah. The Battleship had written Good work! at the top.