The Happy Family by Jackie Kabler (electric book reader txt) 📕

stopped and said hello to your friend Nadia on the way past. She doesn’t say much, does she, bless her? Anyway, hello everyone!’

Mum has arrived, resplendent in a cobalt-blue jumper with some sort of fringe detail on the sleeves, her face carefully made-up, hair freshly washed and styled. Her bags arrived by courier last night, Liv somehow managing to pack them and organise delivery within twenty-four hours of Mum’s email (‘She’s so efficient, it’s scary!’ Mum told me). The clothes filled two large suitcases and a vanity case, and she spent ages in her room, unpacking and arranging. She hummed happily to herself and it made me smile as I stood on the landing listening to her, my heart full.

My mother, here in my house. Actually moving in for a while. What does anything else matter when I have this?

I stand up and hug her, laughing at her noisy entrance and touched that she remembered to say hello to Nadia, who I’d only mentioned briefly to her the other day. I make the introductions and soon we’re all gabbing away over toasted sandwiches and coffee. I say we’re gabbing away, but it’s really only three of us; Deborah seems distracted, sipping her coffee and nibbling on the sandwich she’s brought with her (Martha, the owner, knows us well enough to turn a blind eye to us occasionally bringing our own food in as long as we buy something), while looking curiously at Mum but not really joining in with the conversation. It reminds me of Barbara the other night.

‘Everything all right, Deb?’ I ask, when Mum, at her insistence, goes up to the counter to pay for everyone’s food and Ruth nips to the loo.

She nods.

‘Just feeling a bit … well, a bit guilty about coming out. I’ve got so much to do. You know what it’s like. Your mum seems nice though. So interesting too. Great stories.’

I smile. Mum’s spent the last few minutes telling us about an art gallery she visited a few years ago in Germany which hosted an exhibition of the work of a young artist whose work consisted entirely of the droppings of various animals moulded into sculptures and affixed to canvasses.

‘I think he fancied himself as a sort of German Damien Hurst,’ she said. ‘But the place stank so badly they had to offer people facemasks drenched in perfume at the door. I mean, talk about shit art …’

‘She’s had quite a life, yes,’ I say. ‘And she’s quite the entertainer. Not shy, that’s for sure.’

Deborah smiles and looks down at my still half-full plate.

‘You’re not eating much,’ she says.

‘Ah, just trying to cut down a bit. I’ve piled it on recently,’ I say.

‘Really?’ She looks me up and down with a puzzled expression. ‘You look fine to me,’ she says.

‘Thanks,’ I say, but I don’t really believe her.

Deborah smiles but her face looks strained. I’m looking at her properly now and she doesn’t look great – dark hollows under her eyes, fingernails bitten. I’m about to ask if she’s really OK, if she’s not feeling well, but Mum and Ruth return and moments later we’re back out on the street, Mum heading off for a wander round the shops while we rush back up the road to work. I don’t get a chance to pop into Deborah’s room during the afternoon and she’s still with a patient when I clock off for the day and drive to the hospital to spend an hour with Dad before I go home.

I’m thrilled to find him wide awake and sitting up in bed. The little television on the wall opposite is switched on and some early evening quiz show is playing. I pull the well-worn plastic chair that sits by the bed a little closer to him and sit down, and for a while we make small talk, me asking what the hospital food’s like, him wanting to know if Finley’s been picked for the school football team yet. It’s nice to just sit there with him, chatting about nothing very much, and I’m relieved to see that his face looks a little less twisted, to hear his words a little less slurred.

‘So,’ he says suddenly. ‘Your mother. How ish she?’

I hesitate. I’m happy, so happy that Mum is back, but I wouldn’t blame him in the least if he was angry that I’d welcomed her with open arms, although he doesn’t look angry, just casually interested.

‘She’s … she’s fine, Dad,’ I say eventually. ‘She’s in good form. She’s going to stay for a little bit longer actually.’

I decide not to tell him it might be months. We can cross that bridge later. He nods slowly, then says, ‘Whatsh she been up to then, all thish time? Go on, fill me in.’

‘Are you sure? Well … gosh. Quite a lot.’

I spend the next few minutes updating him, and his eyes widen with pleasure when I mention Liv.

‘A sishter? You always wanted a sishter, didn’t you?’

‘I did. We chatted the other day. It was kind of amazing, Dad.’

He nods again and smiles his new, crooked smile, and suddenly I want to cry. I love him so much and he’s sacrificed so much for me over the years, and here he is, old and sick but still here for me, still happy for me despite everything. I’m already holding his hand, the skin dry and thin, and I squeeze it, running my thumb over his bony knuckles.

‘Ow,’ he says.

‘Oh heck, sorry!’

I release my grip and we both laugh.

‘Passh me that water, will you, love?’

I hand him the plastic beaker that’s sitting on the bedside table, and watch him as he drinks carefully, waving away my offer of help. The door of the room is half-open, and outside in the corridor a bed trundles past, its occupant a motionless mound under a blue blanket.

‘Dad,’ I say. ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘I don’t want her to vishit me again,’ he says quickly and firmly. ‘I’m happy for you, but thatsh