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Authors: Cath Staincliffe
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out. After an examination, a muscle biopsy and an electromyography test to measure muscle strength they might be left with MND. A matter of elimination.
We agreed not to say anything to Adam and Sophie until we knew one way or the other. We were worried about Adam’s reaction. Sophie would be devastated but Adam’s state of mind was
fragile and a shock like that could see him in meltdown again.
As it was he beat us to it.
That Friday night, a few days before Neil had to go for tests, Adam didn’t come home. He was sixteen then and had just started back at school. Part of the deal he’d made with us and
the counsellor was that he’d be home by midnight or get in touch if not.
That night we lay in bed longing to sleep, taking turns checking the clock. I tried Adam’s mobile at twelve fifteen, one thirty and two forty-five. I got up at five. The house was chilly.
There’s a convector heater in my workshop. I went to get it, half hoping that Adam would be there, spreadeagled on the rug or even huddled on the bench in the garden. A lost key, reluctance
to disturb us, the explanation.
There was no Adam. Back in the kitchen, I made coffee with hot milk, then dragged out my bread-maker, dusted it down and sprinkled in dried yeast, filled it with wholemeal flour, adding
sunflower seeds, chopped dried apricots and walnut pieces, salt, sugar, olive oil and water.
Neil came down at seven. ‘Adam back?’
I shook my head.
‘Should we try Jonty?’ He was one of the friends who still hung out with Adam.
‘It’s very early, I’ll try at nine.’
Neil stood behind me, wrapped his arms around me and stooped to kiss my cheek. ‘He probably got pissed and stayed at someone’s house.’ He straightened up.
‘And lost his phone?’ I was more sceptical. And also, if I thought the worst, as I had done all night – the body broken beneath car wheels; the figure, beautiful and
bare-chested, falling as he tried to fly; the knife fight after some silly comment; the beating dished out by a gang of hard lads who had sniffed out Adam’s middle-class softness – it
would not come to pass.
The phone rang. It was Manchester Royal Infirmary. Adam had been admitted to A&E. Unconscious. He’d ingested a cocktail of drugs washed down with vodka. They were pumping his
stomach.
When we got there he was awake but very drowsy, looking sheepish and then plain sad when I asked him if he was okay.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said to us both. There was defeat in his tone, a note that sent a chill through me, as though he’d accepted that it would always be like this. Him messing
up, him hurting us, scaring us.
He claimed not to remember anything about the hours before he collapsed.
‘Nothing?’ Neil said incredulously. ‘Not where you were, who you were with?’
Adam shook his head and looked away, his lips parted slightly, his tongue up behind his front teeth: a trick he uses to fight tears. Had he taken the drugs to get off his head or had he wanted
to harm himself? The question bored into my brain. It didn’t seem fair to ask him yet and I guessed he’d be more likely to lie now, in the immediate aftermath, eager to reassure us and
be forgiven. I knew all that but I was so upset I wanted to shake him.
‘You promised,’ I heard myself saying, ‘that if you ever felt at risk . . .’
‘Mum, I got trolleyed,’ he said. ‘That’s all, honest. I’m sorry.’
The rest of the weekend I found myself watching Adam, looking for signs of deterioration: was he hanging around the kitchen so he wasn’t alone? Was he feeling anxious again? When he stayed
at home all day Sunday, was that because he wanted to chill out after Friday’s scare or because he was too fearful to leave the house? I asked him if he wanted to see the GP but he shrugged a
no. He gave the same response when I offered to contact the counsellor.
Once Sophie knew he was okay, she dealt with the situation by ignoring it: he wasn’t going to get any of
We agreed not to say anything to Adam and Sophie until we knew one way or the other. We were worried about Adam’s reaction. Sophie would be devastated but Adam’s state of mind was
fragile and a shock like that could see him in meltdown again.
As it was he beat us to it.
That Friday night, a few days before Neil had to go for tests, Adam didn’t come home. He was sixteen then and had just started back at school. Part of the deal he’d made with us and
the counsellor was that he’d be home by midnight or get in touch if not.
That night we lay in bed longing to sleep, taking turns checking the clock. I tried Adam’s mobile at twelve fifteen, one thirty and two forty-five. I got up at five. The house was chilly.
There’s a convector heater in my workshop. I went to get it, half hoping that Adam would be there, spreadeagled on the rug or even huddled on the bench in the garden. A lost key, reluctance
to disturb us, the explanation.
There was no Adam. Back in the kitchen, I made coffee with hot milk, then dragged out my bread-maker, dusted it down and sprinkled in dried yeast, filled it with wholemeal flour, adding
sunflower seeds, chopped dried apricots and walnut pieces, salt, sugar, olive oil and water.
Neil came down at seven. ‘Adam back?’
I shook my head.
‘Should we try Jonty?’ He was one of the friends who still hung out with Adam.
‘It’s very early, I’ll try at nine.’
Neil stood behind me, wrapped his arms around me and stooped to kiss my cheek. ‘He probably got pissed and stayed at someone’s house.’ He straightened up.
‘And lost his phone?’ I was more sceptical. And also, if I thought the worst, as I had done all night – the body broken beneath car wheels; the figure, beautiful and
bare-chested, falling as he tried to fly; the knife fight after some silly comment; the beating dished out by a gang of hard lads who had sniffed out Adam’s middle-class softness – it
would not come to pass.
The phone rang. It was Manchester Royal Infirmary. Adam had been admitted to A&E. Unconscious. He’d ingested a cocktail of drugs washed down with vodka. They were pumping his
stomach.
When we got there he was awake but very drowsy, looking sheepish and then plain sad when I asked him if he was okay.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said to us both. There was defeat in his tone, a note that sent a chill through me, as though he’d accepted that it would always be like this. Him messing
up, him hurting us, scaring us.
He claimed not to remember anything about the hours before he collapsed.
‘Nothing?’ Neil said incredulously. ‘Not where you were, who you were with?’
Adam shook his head and looked away, his lips parted slightly, his tongue up behind his front teeth: a trick he uses to fight tears. Had he taken the drugs to get off his head or had he wanted
to harm himself? The question bored into my brain. It didn’t seem fair to ask him yet and I guessed he’d be more likely to lie now, in the immediate aftermath, eager to reassure us and
be forgiven. I knew all that but I was so upset I wanted to shake him.
‘You promised,’ I heard myself saying, ‘that if you ever felt at risk . . .’
‘Mum, I got trolleyed,’ he said. ‘That’s all, honest. I’m sorry.’
The rest of the weekend I found myself watching Adam, looking for signs of deterioration: was he hanging around the kitchen so he wasn’t alone? Was he feeling anxious again? When he stayed
at home all day Sunday, was that because he wanted to chill out after Friday’s scare or because he was too fearful to leave the house? I asked him if he wanted to see the GP but he shrugged a
no. He gave the same response when I offered to contact the counsellor.
Once Sophie knew he was okay, she dealt with the situation by ignoring it: he wasn’t going to get any of
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