Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
“Quite an achievement, isn’t it?”
“I’ll take them.”
“Size?”
“Oh shit, they’re different sizes? Don’t they just stretch? One size fits all?”
“Well, they could, but Lapland might be a little faded from the stretch on the bigger lady, if you know what I mean.”
“She’s average, I suppose. Maybe a UK fourteen?”
“I suggest medium.”
“Perfect.”
“Let’s take you to the checkout.”
“Thank you . . .”
“Hilda.”
“Thanks, Hilda.”
“Very welcome . . . ?”
“Camryn. My name’s Camryn.” And it’s in this moment I realise that I haven’t cared for anyone’s name or cared to offer mine in years.
It’s like I’m being seen again.
Or, I want to be seen.
A gust of wind carries me into the reception of the care home, along with a flurry of snow. My cheeks balloon, my shoulders hunching. “Camryn, you’re blue!” The receptionist, alarmed, whips a towel off the radiator behind her chair and comes at me with it. “What on earth are you doing venturing out in this weather?”
“It’s not so bad,” I say, pulling off my hat and gloves, my teeth chattering. “Thank you.” I take the towel and pat at my frozen cheeks, feeling only mild warmth. “Mind if I keep this while I’m here?”
“Take it.” She returns to behind her desk. “You’re the only visitor today, and we’re short-staffed, what with the weather and all.”
“Snowflakes,” I murmur as I sign in.
“Pardon me?”
“Nothing.” I smile and pull the door open, noticing a distinct difference in the noise level, as well as foot traffic. The corridor’s empty, except for the endless decorations hanging from the ceiling and every wall. Nothing on the floor though—trip hazard. Shrugging my coat off as I walk, I peek into each room as I pass. It’s like a ghost town.
When I reach Mum’s room, I find Deirdre checking her blood pressure. She’s awake, and that stirs the dormant anxiety inside.
“Ah, look who’s here,” Deirdre says, tapping buttons on the machine as it whirs.
I laugh under my breath at such a stupid thing to say. Look who’s here? Like my mum might know. I dump my bags on the chair and drape my coat on the back. “How is she?”
“She is in the room,” Mum grumbles.
My eyes must look like saucers. “Sorry,” I blurt, taken aback, looking at Deirdre who’s smiling. “How are you, Mum?”
She squints at me, and my heart clatters, waiting for the inevitable question.
Who are you?
I don’t know no Camryn.
“What happened to your cheek?”
I raise my hand to it, drawing a blank. She noticed? I got mugged. Wait, no, I was attacked. Jumped? Some random believed I looked like the perfect person to rob? “I had an argument with a filing cabinet.”
She frowns, confused. “Why would you have an argument with a filing cabinet?”
“I didn’t mean to.” I look at Deirdre, as if for encouragement or reassurance. Am I doing this right? I’ve completely forgotten amid the endless distress of her rejections how to handle this. “Oh, shepherd’s pie,” I chime, distracting her. That’s it. Distraction.
“Too many carrots,” she says. “They know I don’t like carrots. They’re taking my money too.” Suspicion is rife on her face, her expression cutting on Deirdre.
“I have your money, Mum,” I say, lowering to the chair and taking her hand as Deirdre removes the blood pressure band from around her arm. “I put it all in the bank for you.” There is no money. This place soon swallowed it up, hence my brother paying the eight-thousand-pound monthly fee. And he doesn’t let me forget it.
Mum moves her glassy eyes back onto me. They’re not completely empty today, and although she’s not refuted it when I’ve called her Mum, she also hasn’t acknowledged I’m right. She’s my mum. I feel a bit needy wanting her to see me. Call me by my name. Please see me.
Then her cutting look drops like a rock. “Your face,” she murmurs, lifting her arm. No name. But this? I inch forward, allowing her to reach my cheek. “What happened?”
“I walked into a door, Mum.”
“Well, that was silly, wasn’t it? Why’d you do that for?”
“I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
She huffs. “Too busy, aren’t you? Always in a rush, darting here and there, getting Noah to school, yourself to work, back to school, to whatever playdate or after-school club he has to go to. All these clubs! Guitar, gymnastics, football, drama, dance. He should pick one and focus on that.”
I stare at her. Just stare at her. She used to say this to me often, because she cared about our well-being. Never judgy. Just kind. Supportive. “Yes, he should do that.”
She smiles, happy I’m agreeing. “Where is he today then? Football?”
Sundays are for football. She knows it’s Sunday. She knows it’s me. “Yeah, Mum,” I say, taking her hand from my face and squeezing. “He’s at football.”
“Oh, yes. It must be Sunday.” Her eyes narrow, as if contemplating that. “Tell me what’s going on in your world. I can’t keep up.”