photo of Jake in his uniform and some rosary beads my grandmother left me. During the night, after exhausting finger-prick tests, I would open the drawer and put one hand on the soft leather. In the dark, as though instinct would guide me, I began trying to tackle the knots.
There was no time during the day because after the morning in the shed, I lost Rose again.
She didn’t leave the house this time, just me. She wouldn’t acknowledge me for the dreaded finger-prick test but her hands spoke clearly; I will not submit , they said. She sat on them, refusing to let me pierce her finger ends. Again I cajoled. I whispered promises of pet rabbits and trips to theme parks. I pleaded, got angry, calmed down, said sorry, and then began all over again. My life was a series of circles, spinning faster, faster.
‘Do you think I want to do this?’ I said to Rose. ‘I hate it too, but I have to do it. If we just do it quickly, then it’s done.’
Somehow I managed. I pulled her hands from under her bottom as firmly as I dared without causing more bruises, and did what I had to. Prick, pain, blood. Harvest the crimson flow onto the strip. Read black numerical digits on the machine; usually still high enough to cause concern but dropping slowly, like a plane losing altitude. Then a meal or snack and an injection, the dose of insulin depending on how her blood sugar readings were doing.
You’ve found the book .
But Rose’s logbook demanded my time too. It slowly filled with numbers; twelve-point-two, fourteen-point-three, seventeen, fifteen-point-four. We needed to achieve less than ten but Shelley assured us we were doing well. I’d decorated the logbook cover with a picture of Doctor Who, hoping it might make Rose smile, but she turned away.
On one of her routine visits Shelley said, ‘No family finds a diabetes diagnosis easy and it must be especially hard that Rose’s dad is away. Are your family nearby? Is there anyone who can come and stay, give you a break for a few days.’
Rose sat wordlessly between us.
I shook my head vigorously. ‘My mum lives on the Isle of Wight and I don’t want to disrupt her life when there’s no need. I saw my dad last week, took Rose there for a few hours. I’ve got my friend Vonny. Jake rings when he can and he’ll be home in about seven weeks. I don’t need anyone else. We’re fine .’
Shelley suggested Rose give us a moment. When she had stomped off, Shelley said, ‘Have you thought about counselling, pet?’
‘God, no. She’s only nine. She’d be terrified. She’d never talk to a stranger.’
‘I meant for you,’ said Shelley.
‘Me? Why would I need it?’
‘Natalie, there’s nothing wrong with admitting how hard this is. You’re the only mum I’ve ever visited who didn’t break down and cry.’
I felt it was a criticism. That she saw me as cold, emotionless. Why must I prove that I had feelings? Indignant, I said, ‘I’ll be sure to weep for you next time.’
Shelley closed her file. ‘I didn’t mean to … Look, it’ll get easier, pet.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ I sighed, ‘but it’ll get harder first?’
She left and I tried to rescue Rose with the only lifejacket in my possession; the man in the brown suit. In the shed her face had glowed when she’d talked about him, and we had somehow shared a curious communication with him.
So I asked, ‘What did he say when he suggested you go to the shed?’
‘Can’t remember,’ she shrugged.
‘Was it in a dream?’
Another shrug.
‘What did he look like? How did he talk?’
I was sure I saw light flash in Rose’s eyes for a brief, hopeful moment, but it died as soon as it was born. Then she went upstairs and shut the bedroom door softly and stayed there until her next injection.
When I dragged Rose to the supermarket later I looked for the man in the brown suit myself – in windows, in faces, in bus passengers. Would I ever see him again the way I had at the hospital? Had Rose and I both
There was no time during the day because after the morning in the shed, I lost Rose again.
She didn’t leave the house this time, just me. She wouldn’t acknowledge me for the dreaded finger-prick test but her hands spoke clearly; I will not submit , they said. She sat on them, refusing to let me pierce her finger ends. Again I cajoled. I whispered promises of pet rabbits and trips to theme parks. I pleaded, got angry, calmed down, said sorry, and then began all over again. My life was a series of circles, spinning faster, faster.
‘Do you think I want to do this?’ I said to Rose. ‘I hate it too, but I have to do it. If we just do it quickly, then it’s done.’
Somehow I managed. I pulled her hands from under her bottom as firmly as I dared without causing more bruises, and did what I had to. Prick, pain, blood. Harvest the crimson flow onto the strip. Read black numerical digits on the machine; usually still high enough to cause concern but dropping slowly, like a plane losing altitude. Then a meal or snack and an injection, the dose of insulin depending on how her blood sugar readings were doing.
You’ve found the book .
But Rose’s logbook demanded my time too. It slowly filled with numbers; twelve-point-two, fourteen-point-three, seventeen, fifteen-point-four. We needed to achieve less than ten but Shelley assured us we were doing well. I’d decorated the logbook cover with a picture of Doctor Who, hoping it might make Rose smile, but she turned away.
On one of her routine visits Shelley said, ‘No family finds a diabetes diagnosis easy and it must be especially hard that Rose’s dad is away. Are your family nearby? Is there anyone who can come and stay, give you a break for a few days.’
Rose sat wordlessly between us.
I shook my head vigorously. ‘My mum lives on the Isle of Wight and I don’t want to disrupt her life when there’s no need. I saw my dad last week, took Rose there for a few hours. I’ve got my friend Vonny. Jake rings when he can and he’ll be home in about seven weeks. I don’t need anyone else. We’re fine .’
Shelley suggested Rose give us a moment. When she had stomped off, Shelley said, ‘Have you thought about counselling, pet?’
‘God, no. She’s only nine. She’d be terrified. She’d never talk to a stranger.’
‘I meant for you,’ said Shelley.
‘Me? Why would I need it?’
‘Natalie, there’s nothing wrong with admitting how hard this is. You’re the only mum I’ve ever visited who didn’t break down and cry.’
I felt it was a criticism. That she saw me as cold, emotionless. Why must I prove that I had feelings? Indignant, I said, ‘I’ll be sure to weep for you next time.’
Shelley closed her file. ‘I didn’t mean to … Look, it’ll get easier, pet.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ I sighed, ‘but it’ll get harder first?’
She left and I tried to rescue Rose with the only lifejacket in my possession; the man in the brown suit. In the shed her face had glowed when she’d talked about him, and we had somehow shared a curious communication with him.
So I asked, ‘What did he say when he suggested you go to the shed?’
‘Can’t remember,’ she shrugged.
‘Was it in a dream?’
Another shrug.
‘What did he look like? How did he talk?’
I was sure I saw light flash in Rose’s eyes for a brief, hopeful moment, but it died as soon as it was born. Then she went upstairs and shut the bedroom door softly and stayed there until her next injection.
When I dragged Rose to the supermarket later I looked for the man in the brown suit myself – in windows, in faces, in bus passengers. Would I ever see him again the way I had at the hospital? Had Rose and I both
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