knitting. Besides, I need to pay more attention to my image.
‘I need a hat,’ I tell her.
‘I’ll have to finish the scarf first.’ Since when do babies wear scarves anyway?
‘Not knitted. Bought. A cap, or something, like Ryan Reynolds would wear. Can you get me a hat?’
‘Why would you need a hat inside?’
‘It’s not for sun protection. It’s more for … ego protection. My head is too pale.’
Mum glances up mid-row. ‘Who’s Ryan Reynolds? And what’s wrong with your head?’
‘I’m a human lightbulb. I want a hat. A cool hat. A manly hat. A hat hat.’
‘All right, Dr Seuss.’
‘But not from the hospital store. Somewhere … cooler. Could you do that?’
‘What, right now? After thirty days, you’ve decided you need a hat right now?’
‘Pretty much.’
Mum exaggerates a sigh as she finishes the row, then she places the needles and wool in her lap. ‘You’re a funny one. Is this about the scarf? Because I’m doing one for the baby first?’
‘Can’t a man have a hat?’
‘Do you need to talk to Patrick?’
‘I
need …
’ I repeat, exasperated, ‘a hat. And amother who doesn’t ask so many questions.’
‘Tetchy,’ she mutters, tossing her handbag over a shoulder. ‘I’ll get some ice-cream while I’m out then. So, draw me a picture of this manly hat.’
I tear a page from the neglected diary and draw something similar—but not too similar—to the hat Mia’s boyfriend was wearing when he came in a week ago.
He’s wearing it again today as he passes my round window, crossing paths with Mum in the corridor. I wonder if she takes any notice of this guy, with his fixed expression and fistful of carnations.
The conversation next door is too quiet to hear. Mia’s speaking, at least, which is more than she’s done for the past two days. I’ve wanted to tell her that it gets better; that this will pass. I hope Rhys is saying these things to her now. I hope he’s being the significant other that her mother couldn’t be.
There are already twenty-four comments on my latest post asking for a project. There are predictable suggestions from people I barely know—
make a scrap-book of your journey; write a letter to yourself in one year’s time; monogram a Christmas stocking
—to ideas from mates:
build an Eiffel Tower out of used needles
(Alex);
sell your old marrow on eBay
(Matt);
convince the nurses to star in a porn movie
(Evan). The least-offensive suggestion comes from Rick, another Emma Watson fan:
back-to-back Harry Potter movies
. Easy.
Mia hasn’t commented, not that I’d expected her to. I refresh her page again and again, waiting for herto add something about hospital, her dumbass ankle, or even the creepy Helga-boy from next door. But her page remains unnaturally cheerful and my eyes ache from watching it. Her status update, posted last night, says:
Still chilling down south. Anyone got tix to Future Music Fest?
I read her friends’ banter about the line-up. None of them ask about her ankle.
Don’t they realise how wrong they are about her life? How sick and sad Mia is? I’ll bet the only one who knows is in with her now, and he doesn’t stay long. I hear the door open and close, then I see Rhys in the corridor, empty-handed. A minute later I spot him through my rectangular window as he emerges from the main entrance, seven stories down. He lets himself into a car in the five-minute parking bay. Then he zooms off, leaving behind the hospital and its sickness and the seventeen-year-old girl who’s crying softly in the next room.
It’s more painful than any pop song.
If I could get up and go in there, I would. At least, I think I would.
I’d go in there and sit on her bed. I’d rub her back. I’d put my arm around her, I think, if that’s what she wanted, the way Mum used to do with me.
But I’m stuck in this room, burdened with the sad sounds that no one else can hear.
When Mum returns from the shops, she presents me with a tea cosy
‘I need a hat,’ I tell her.
‘I’ll have to finish the scarf first.’ Since when do babies wear scarves anyway?
‘Not knitted. Bought. A cap, or something, like Ryan Reynolds would wear. Can you get me a hat?’
‘Why would you need a hat inside?’
‘It’s not for sun protection. It’s more for … ego protection. My head is too pale.’
Mum glances up mid-row. ‘Who’s Ryan Reynolds? And what’s wrong with your head?’
‘I’m a human lightbulb. I want a hat. A cool hat. A manly hat. A hat hat.’
‘All right, Dr Seuss.’
‘But not from the hospital store. Somewhere … cooler. Could you do that?’
‘What, right now? After thirty days, you’ve decided you need a hat right now?’
‘Pretty much.’
Mum exaggerates a sigh as she finishes the row, then she places the needles and wool in her lap. ‘You’re a funny one. Is this about the scarf? Because I’m doing one for the baby first?’
‘Can’t a man have a hat?’
‘Do you need to talk to Patrick?’
‘I
need …
’ I repeat, exasperated, ‘a hat. And amother who doesn’t ask so many questions.’
‘Tetchy,’ she mutters, tossing her handbag over a shoulder. ‘I’ll get some ice-cream while I’m out then. So, draw me a picture of this manly hat.’
I tear a page from the neglected diary and draw something similar—but not too similar—to the hat Mia’s boyfriend was wearing when he came in a week ago.
He’s wearing it again today as he passes my round window, crossing paths with Mum in the corridor. I wonder if she takes any notice of this guy, with his fixed expression and fistful of carnations.
The conversation next door is too quiet to hear. Mia’s speaking, at least, which is more than she’s done for the past two days. I’ve wanted to tell her that it gets better; that this will pass. I hope Rhys is saying these things to her now. I hope he’s being the significant other that her mother couldn’t be.
There are already twenty-four comments on my latest post asking for a project. There are predictable suggestions from people I barely know—
make a scrap-book of your journey; write a letter to yourself in one year’s time; monogram a Christmas stocking
—to ideas from mates:
build an Eiffel Tower out of used needles
(Alex);
sell your old marrow on eBay
(Matt);
convince the nurses to star in a porn movie
(Evan). The least-offensive suggestion comes from Rick, another Emma Watson fan:
back-to-back Harry Potter movies
. Easy.
Mia hasn’t commented, not that I’d expected her to. I refresh her page again and again, waiting for herto add something about hospital, her dumbass ankle, or even the creepy Helga-boy from next door. But her page remains unnaturally cheerful and my eyes ache from watching it. Her status update, posted last night, says:
Still chilling down south. Anyone got tix to Future Music Fest?
I read her friends’ banter about the line-up. None of them ask about her ankle.
Don’t they realise how wrong they are about her life? How sick and sad Mia is? I’ll bet the only one who knows is in with her now, and he doesn’t stay long. I hear the door open and close, then I see Rhys in the corridor, empty-handed. A minute later I spot him through my rectangular window as he emerges from the main entrance, seven stories down. He lets himself into a car in the five-minute parking bay. Then he zooms off, leaving behind the hospital and its sickness and the seventeen-year-old girl who’s crying softly in the next room.
It’s more painful than any pop song.
If I could get up and go in there, I would. At least, I think I would.
I’d go in there and sit on her bed. I’d rub her back. I’d put my arm around her, I think, if that’s what she wanted, the way Mum used to do with me.
But I’m stuck in this room, burdened with the sad sounds that no one else can hear.
When Mum returns from the shops, she presents me with a tea cosy
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