Read Online Somebody Loves Us All by Damien Wilkins - Free Book Online
Authors: Damien Wilkins
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dimanche. She couldn’t work it out, how many hours that was, more than thirty-six. She looked it up. Deux jours, almost. Dormir. The screen was too bright for her eyes so she shut it down and went to the drawer for her dictionary. The book was not much bigger than her palm, with a plasticised cover, as though ready to be taken on travels of some kind. She sat in an armchair beside her small lamp and flicked through the pages. Presque. Almost. Presque deux jours. She’d never slept for this long before. She was like a person in a fairytale. And someone had come while she was lying on the bed and put on her shoes and walked around in her place, buying sausages and bread, and of course the travel dictionary. And when Teresa woke up … nothing had changed. It wasn’t over at all. This was the beginning. Because she knew what it was, what she had.
Before she’d fallen asleep she’d put the sausages in the fridge. She remembered this now. All the food had filled her with shame and the box of coloured pens was heartbreaking. She’d texted Steph. She said she’d been vomiting all night, some bug. Bad timing! Sorry to the girls. She was going to bed right now. Go without me. Don’t fret. Go! Yr sick old ma.
Almost at once, the phone rang and Teresa waited until it went on to message. Afterwards she listened to Stephanie. She said that was too terrible and could they do anything? She was always getting sick these days, she had to take care of herself. Well, Paddy was right there so she figured things would be okay. But could she face the drive by herself over that hill? They’d paid the money already and the house was waiting. Could Teresa really not make it, even if she groaned and threw up the whole way, she could have the weekend in recovery mode? But no, if she was contagious, perhaps it was best to lie low. One thing: she wasn’t to get up in the middle of the night and fall over and cut her head open, okay? Loving you, Mummy, she said. Poor old you. Call me when you can on my mobile.
While she was listening to this, Teresa heard her mobile receive a text. It was Stephanie saying she’d left a message. Usually all this connectivity thrilled her. Now it was an assault. Anyway, the text said they would go. The girls had spent all morning sitting in the car, practising to drive over the hill.
Teresa was suddenly tired too, and weepy. Having created the lying situation, her body now seemed ready to make her honest. She did feel rotten. She swallowed a mouthful of bile. All the people she was letting down. Oh girls.
A surge of leaden dullness made her almost fall into the nearest chair. It was as if her senses were closing down, as if some surgery were happening to her while she was still conscious. They were taking out parts of her, the parts responsible for everything and someone was looking at each bit, saying, ‘No, this isn’t it.’ Fault, they were looking for the fault. Maybe it wasn’t a stroke. She was plonked in front of the computer, which for a moment she thought was the television or perhaps the black window of the microwave. One of her neighbours in Lower Hutt had found her elderly husband trying to watch a DVD in their oven. But if this was her mother’s gift, Alzheimer’s, where was the build-up, the misremembered things, the wandering lost in car parks, the secret looks of relatives?
Yet things had perhaps entered some new phase. The bathroom fall she’d had a few months ago had seemed to disturb her children greatly. Even Margie had phoned from Canada. For a week or so afterwards, Stephanie had stayed away. ‘I don’t want you scaring the girls with that ghastly bandage on your head. You look like a pirate or a loony.’ Normal service quickly resumed. Steph wanted her as often as ever now, needed her to get through each week, gave her jobs, gave her the girls.
And Paddy? He had come warily closer, she believed, with a kind of curiosity, a sense maybe that time wasn’t infinite between
Before she’d fallen asleep she’d put the sausages in the fridge. She remembered this now. All the food had filled her with shame and the box of coloured pens was heartbreaking. She’d texted Steph. She said she’d been vomiting all night, some bug. Bad timing! Sorry to the girls. She was going to bed right now. Go without me. Don’t fret. Go! Yr sick old ma.
Almost at once, the phone rang and Teresa waited until it went on to message. Afterwards she listened to Stephanie. She said that was too terrible and could they do anything? She was always getting sick these days, she had to take care of herself. Well, Paddy was right there so she figured things would be okay. But could she face the drive by herself over that hill? They’d paid the money already and the house was waiting. Could Teresa really not make it, even if she groaned and threw up the whole way, she could have the weekend in recovery mode? But no, if she was contagious, perhaps it was best to lie low. One thing: she wasn’t to get up in the middle of the night and fall over and cut her head open, okay? Loving you, Mummy, she said. Poor old you. Call me when you can on my mobile.
While she was listening to this, Teresa heard her mobile receive a text. It was Stephanie saying she’d left a message. Usually all this connectivity thrilled her. Now it was an assault. Anyway, the text said they would go. The girls had spent all morning sitting in the car, practising to drive over the hill.
Teresa was suddenly tired too, and weepy. Having created the lying situation, her body now seemed ready to make her honest. She did feel rotten. She swallowed a mouthful of bile. All the people she was letting down. Oh girls.
A surge of leaden dullness made her almost fall into the nearest chair. It was as if her senses were closing down, as if some surgery were happening to her while she was still conscious. They were taking out parts of her, the parts responsible for everything and someone was looking at each bit, saying, ‘No, this isn’t it.’ Fault, they were looking for the fault. Maybe it wasn’t a stroke. She was plonked in front of the computer, which for a moment she thought was the television or perhaps the black window of the microwave. One of her neighbours in Lower Hutt had found her elderly husband trying to watch a DVD in their oven. But if this was her mother’s gift, Alzheimer’s, where was the build-up, the misremembered things, the wandering lost in car parks, the secret looks of relatives?
Yet things had perhaps entered some new phase. The bathroom fall she’d had a few months ago had seemed to disturb her children greatly. Even Margie had phoned from Canada. For a week or so afterwards, Stephanie had stayed away. ‘I don’t want you scaring the girls with that ghastly bandage on your head. You look like a pirate or a loony.’ Normal service quickly resumed. Steph wanted her as often as ever now, needed her to get through each week, gave her jobs, gave her the girls.
And Paddy? He had come warily closer, she believed, with a kind of curiosity, a sense maybe that time wasn’t infinite between
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