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Authors: Virginia Bergin
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you. You will live.
You’re one breath away from her, then two, then three, then four, then five.
Mum, I am still breathing.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I don’t know how we got back downstairs. I was sobbing, that I remember. Wailing so I could hardly breathe. But I did breathe.
What I kept trying to say, over and over, was that I knew why. I knew what had happened. Hadn’t I seen the tablets fall? My mum must have reached out into the rain to throw the box to Mrs
Fitch. Poor stupidMrs Fitch.
Why hadn’t I realised? Why hadn’t I shouted? Why hadn’t I thought?
And then what? Had she known right away? No . . . or else she wouldn’t have touched Henry. Oh, she would have stroked his little face. Not even enough to wake him. Just the softest touch
on his cheek. She did it to me, still; even if we’d rowed I’d pretend to be asleep just so she’d do it . . . the softest touch and a little kiss.
For the rest of that day, it rained. Simon and me, we set up camp in the sitting room, made Dan-nests there. I guess neither of us wanted to be alone.
I’ll tell you the bits I remember, but – really – how it all went, what we said and did, it’s kind of muddled.
What I do remember, more than anything, was stuff about sound, the torture of it. To begin with, he turned the TV off. Fine, because who would want to see that? Even though it had been on mute
anyway, those pictures – I dunno – they kind of made noise . . . because of how horrible they were, I suppose. But when the TV was off, all we had was the rain. I couldn’t listen
to that . . . but whatever we tried to stop it with – music, a DVD – none of it was right. Cheerful stuff, sad stuff, silly stuff – whatever we tried seemed so wrong, so
angry-making . . . and unless you had the volume up, right up, deafeningly up, you could still hear it: the rain.
So we watched boring stuff. Simon had tons of it. It’s almost enough to make me laugh – but not quite – that I sat through a boxed set of birdwatching DVDs and this history
series he’d bought and been trying to force me to watch for weeks because he thought it would help with my revision.
Ha. I thought history was boring, and now here I am writing my own.
Simon would be pleased, I think.
We talked – not much, but also a lot, if you see what I mean. We talked in little bursts, about Mum, about Henry, about what had happened. And then we’d have to
stop for a bit, because it hurt too much.
All the while, everything we said and did, I kept thinking about my mum and Henry upstairs. I couldn’t stop seeing them in my head.
I got angry with him. I wanted to know why he hadn’t called me, why he hadn’t let me say goodbye. He told me he hadn’t known. He’d heard Henry.
He’d thought it was the teething. He was about to go up there with one of Henry’s teething rings from the fridge, but then it had stopped. After that he heard nothing, thought it best
to let them sleep. He’d stayed up the rest of the night watching the news, trying to get back on to the internet, trying to phone people. When it got to 7 a.m. and Henry still hadn’t
piped up, he went upstairs to check on them. It was too late.
But why had he left me to sleep and then sat me at the kitchen table with his stupid list when –
‘I was trying to think about what your mother would have wanted,’ he said.
How she had kept quiet, I don’t know. I just can’t even imagine. Most people I’ve ever heard with the sickness scream and groan and . . .
‘Why didn’t she call you?’ I said.
I said it in the middle of a thing about wetland birds. Marsh warblers.
‘She would have been worried about giving it to us,’ said Simon, staring at the screen. Then he looked at me. ‘She would have been worried . . . If I got sick, there’d be
no one to look after you,’ he said.
He did shout at me a few times. Just ‘RUBY!’. Mainly for going to turn the tap on. Once for nearly knocking a jug of water over. When that
You’re one breath away from her, then two, then three, then four, then five.
Mum, I am still breathing.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I don’t know how we got back downstairs. I was sobbing, that I remember. Wailing so I could hardly breathe. But I did breathe.
What I kept trying to say, over and over, was that I knew why. I knew what had happened. Hadn’t I seen the tablets fall? My mum must have reached out into the rain to throw the box to Mrs
Fitch. Poor stupidMrs Fitch.
Why hadn’t I realised? Why hadn’t I shouted? Why hadn’t I thought?
And then what? Had she known right away? No . . . or else she wouldn’t have touched Henry. Oh, she would have stroked his little face. Not even enough to wake him. Just the softest touch
on his cheek. She did it to me, still; even if we’d rowed I’d pretend to be asleep just so she’d do it . . . the softest touch and a little kiss.
For the rest of that day, it rained. Simon and me, we set up camp in the sitting room, made Dan-nests there. I guess neither of us wanted to be alone.
I’ll tell you the bits I remember, but – really – how it all went, what we said and did, it’s kind of muddled.
What I do remember, more than anything, was stuff about sound, the torture of it. To begin with, he turned the TV off. Fine, because who would want to see that? Even though it had been on mute
anyway, those pictures – I dunno – they kind of made noise . . . because of how horrible they were, I suppose. But when the TV was off, all we had was the rain. I couldn’t listen
to that . . . but whatever we tried to stop it with – music, a DVD – none of it was right. Cheerful stuff, sad stuff, silly stuff – whatever we tried seemed so wrong, so
angry-making . . . and unless you had the volume up, right up, deafeningly up, you could still hear it: the rain.
So we watched boring stuff. Simon had tons of it. It’s almost enough to make me laugh – but not quite – that I sat through a boxed set of birdwatching DVDs and this history
series he’d bought and been trying to force me to watch for weeks because he thought it would help with my revision.
Ha. I thought history was boring, and now here I am writing my own.
Simon would be pleased, I think.
We talked – not much, but also a lot, if you see what I mean. We talked in little bursts, about Mum, about Henry, about what had happened. And then we’d have to
stop for a bit, because it hurt too much.
All the while, everything we said and did, I kept thinking about my mum and Henry upstairs. I couldn’t stop seeing them in my head.
I got angry with him. I wanted to know why he hadn’t called me, why he hadn’t let me say goodbye. He told me he hadn’t known. He’d heard Henry.
He’d thought it was the teething. He was about to go up there with one of Henry’s teething rings from the fridge, but then it had stopped. After that he heard nothing, thought it best
to let them sleep. He’d stayed up the rest of the night watching the news, trying to get back on to the internet, trying to phone people. When it got to 7 a.m. and Henry still hadn’t
piped up, he went upstairs to check on them. It was too late.
But why had he left me to sleep and then sat me at the kitchen table with his stupid list when –
‘I was trying to think about what your mother would have wanted,’ he said.
How she had kept quiet, I don’t know. I just can’t even imagine. Most people I’ve ever heard with the sickness scream and groan and . . .
‘Why didn’t she call you?’ I said.
I said it in the middle of a thing about wetland birds. Marsh warblers.
‘She would have been worried about giving it to us,’ said Simon, staring at the screen. Then he looked at me. ‘She would have been worried . . . If I got sick, there’d be
no one to look after you,’ he said.
He did shout at me a few times. Just ‘RUBY!’. Mainly for going to turn the tap on. Once for nearly knocking a jug of water over. When that
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