Scarlett - Cathy Cassidy [53]
‘Scarlett?’ Mum’s voice sounds high-pitched and strained. ‘Sweetheart, is that you?’
‘Mum,’ I say
‘Scarlett, I’m so glad you called me at last, I’ve missed you terribly,’ she babbles. ‘Did you get my phone messages? I’m not sure your dad’s been passing them on. Did you get my letters?’
‘I got them,’ I say shortly. ‘All the messages, all the letters.’
‘I see.’ Mum clears her throat. ‘That’s OK then. I was just worried, Scarlett. Connemara is so far away. You were right, darling, I never should have made you go. I mean, you were never going to fit in, were you, not with them. You belong with me. I should have listened –’
‘Mum,’ I interrupt. ‘Listen now. Clare’s had a fall. She’s had her baby early, five weeks early, and the doctors have taken it away to the special care unit and Ed and Sylvie are looking after me, but nobody actually knows what’s happening. Clare’s crying and Dad’s not here, and…’
‘And what, darling?’ Mum asks.
A noise that’s somewhere between a gasp and a howl leaks out of my mouth, and I know I can’t hold it together for much longer. I can taste tears again, wet and salty, sliding down my face. What do I want of her anyway? I want her to be here, right now, to wrap me in her arms and wipe away my tears and make everything all right again. Like that’s ever going to happen.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ I say into the mobile. ‘Bye, Mum.’
It’s past midnight. Holly is asleep on a squashy blue vinyl chair beside me, her head resting on my shoulder. One of her mouse-brown plaits curls down round my arm like a snake.
Clare is sleeping in the maternity ward just along the corridor, and Dad is keeping his own night vigil in the special care unit nearby. My new little sister lies in an incubator, a tiny, angry doll. She looks like she could break at any minute. She is hooked up to tubes and drips and ventilators, and when I saw her I raked the dent in my tongue against my teeth and blinked back tears. I wanted to rip out the tubes and wires, lift her up and hold her tight, but I knew I couldn’t.
I left Dad sitting with his face against the incubator, his hand inside one of the portholes, one curled finger resting against the baby’s clenched fist while the doctors and nurses move silently around him.
Ed and Sylvie went hours ago, back to the real world. They left me with a scribbled address (somewhere in Ohio) and promises that everything was going to be fine, and that we were to keep in touch and come visit some day, the whole family, baby included.
I shift around on my seat, letting Holly’s head slip down towards my lap. She moans a little, pulls an arm across her eyes to block out the light. The minute hand on the wall clock jerks round in slow motion.
‘Scarlett?’ a voice says.
I turn, expecting to see the kind-faced nurse who brought me a hot chocolate earlier on, but the figure in the corridor is not a nurse. She’s small and slim, with blonde hair piled up in a messy bun and a blue skirt-suit and impossibly high-heeled, pointy shoes. She looks tired and creased and slightly uncertain, standing there in the half-light.
‘Mum?’ I say. ‘Mum, what are you doing here?’
Mum hugs me so tightly it feels like she’s holding me together. When somebody holds you that tight, it feels safe – safe enough to let yourself fall to pieces. The tears come again, tears for Clare and Dad and my new baby sister wired up to monitors and machines and feeding tubes in the bright, warm room along the corridor. Tears for myself and the mess I’ve made of things.
‘Scarlett,’ Mum whispers into my hair. ‘It’s all right. It’s all right.’
When I’m done with crying, she wipes my eyes and strokes my cheeks and I become aware of Holly staring at us wide-eyed from the blue vinyl seats.
‘It’s OK,’ I tell her. ‘It’s OK, Holls, really. This is my mum.’
‘Hi, Holly,’ Mum says to her politely, offering a hand to shake. ‘I’m pleased to meet you at last. Let’s find Chris, shall we?’
Mum takes charge. She tells Dad that Holly and I are exhausted, and offers to take us back to the cottage to get some sleep. ‘I’ll bring them back in the morning,