see,â
I think, as I head back to the house. From alcoholic father to cocaine-trading-stealer-of-boyfriends in less than ten minutes.
Sliding
I return to the house and pull a salad bowl filled with pasta, tomato sauce and ham from the refrigerator. I reckon that I can fish the lumps of ham out and that, tonight, I actually donât care if I miss one or two. I stick the bowl straight in the microwave.
I sit in Jennyâs motherâs kitchen and look out at the darkened garden, and think that I donât want to be here, that I donât want to be here at all.
But these moments of sheer emergency leave no room for manoeuvre â they simply
require
that you do this and then
require
that you do that, and youâre left just batting away random balls as they fly at you. Itâs like being in a car sliding across the ice. I can do little but wait to see how far it will skid before my steering wheel gains some traction again.
In spite of my tired state, I barely sleep that night. Perhaps itâs because not feeling able to lay claim to Jennyâs bed, and not wanting to sleep in her dead motherâs room, I opt for the sofa. Maybe itâs just unknown house syndrome: the place is full of unfamiliar shadows and strange noises. Nothing truly sinister â just a coat hanging here, a branch moving in the moonlight, the grunting and groaning of a building at sleep, the tinkering of radiators and the wheezing of a gas meter ⦠Iâm jet-lagged and stressed as well, of course, but itâs mainly the noises and the shadows that keep me awake.
At six, precisely, a milk float enters the close, and that sound, the whirring of its electric motor, the clinking of bottles, is one that is so familiar, soreassuring ⦠I yawn, and think that I havenât heard a milk float since I was a child. Iâm so glad they still exist.
When I reawaken, I feel like I have merely dozed off for a few seconds. Initially Iâm confused as to where I am, in which country even, but then I remember.
The VCR is showing nine-fifty-four which strikes me as unlikely so I switch on my phone to check the time and realise that I can now phone Ricardo.
A quick scan of the house reveals no signs of broadband â Jennyâs laptop has an old fashioned modem plugged into a phone socket â so I text Ricardo with the house number and while I wait, I head through to the kitchen and scour the cupboards for breakfast options. In the refrigerator, hidden behind a pack of chilled toilet roll (does someone have haemorrhoids? I wonder) I find butter, Marmite, and joy of joys, crumpets. And thatâs what Iâm eating when Ricardo phones.
He declares that he canât talk for long, but then patiently remains on the line for over an hour as I tell him about Jenny and the hospital, and then in reverse order of urgency, about the funeral, and Tom, and Sarah, and the neighbour. Finally, I ask him what he thinks might be causing Jennyâs fits.
âIf it is epilepsy,â he says, âit could be anything ⦠tired, stress, flashing lights â¦â
âBut wouldnât she know if she was epileptic?â
âProbably,â he says. âBut, you know, you donât know youâve got that kind of things until you know. And it might be cause by something else, some other illness.â
âLike?â
âBest to wait for the results,â he says, sounding suddenly doctorly. âNo point speculating.â
âRight.â
âNow I really do have to go, Pumpkin. Iâm meeting up with a friend downtown and Iâm late.â
âYouâre still in Bogotá?â
âYes. Going home tonight. I wish I was with you Chupy.â
âIâd rather be there with you, I think,â I say.
âItâs no fun on either side,â he says. âBelieve me. OK. Gotta go. Bye.â
And itâs only once the line is dead that I remember that his mother
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