Page 8 of Sleep

“Put it in the garage, then we’ll sit down and figure this out, Mabel. Because no child of mine is going to move back home in their finest years. I won’t have it. This godforsaken dump of a place is nowhere to build a future. Not for you. Not for any of these young folks. You’re going back to the city where you belong. We will find you some fancy-pants place to live. After you make that tea, of course.”

“Of course, Dad,” I smarmed and flicked the kettle on.

I still got nothing of any substance done. Instead, I sat next to my mother, watching her chest slowly rise and fall. There was hardly any difference in her being awake to being asleep. She sometimes made noises when she was awake, mostly due to her being uncomfortable. But for now, she was clean and dry and freshly tucked into her large medical bed with her head slightly raised.

She still didn’t respond to my caress of her face, the way I combed her hair or my voice as I gently asked how she was.

A stupid question that would never get an answer.

“She’s fine.” Dad said, shuffling through the door and taking his place in the armchair by her feet. “She’s relaxed. I can always tell from her neck muscles. The way her head lies against the pillow.”

Sad observations, but this was the life we lived.

“Good,” was all I could say, wringing my hands. I felt so incredibly useless. I always did.

“You know, Mabel, one day she simply won’t wake up, and for her, that will be a blessing. For me? It will be a different way of life. And for you, it will be a weight off your shoulders.”

“Don’t talk like that, Dad.”

“It’s the truth. Mum wouldn’t have wanted this. We just don’t have a choice. She will decide when it’s time.”

“I know,” I whispered.

“Do you remember that evening? In the shop?”

“What evening?”

“The time I caught you with that school uniform skirt.”

I liked this. How Dad would change the subject and tell me something that would make me laugh, although it had been incredibly traumatic at the time. Some family with teenage daughters in my parents’ wedding dress shop, trying on bridesmaid dresses, a discarded school skirt… I’d picked it up and held it over my hips, then twirled like a ballerina, around and around in front of the mirrors. I’d thought I was alone. I obviously hadn’t been since my father had been standing behind me in the doorway, his arms folded.

I’d expected to be scolded.

“You were just ten years old,” he recalled, “but you already knew exactly who you were. It was no surprise to me or Mum. We knew. And we loved you. We’ve always loved you, just the way you are.”

“I know.” I had to smile. “You offered to get me a skirt of my own.”

“I did. And then you wanted to hem it and take it in so it was nice and fitted like the other girls wore them. Short. All the way up your bum.”

I laughed at that. He wasn’t wrong. Mum had bought me new school uniform every summer. From that year onwards, it had always included a skirt. I’d never worn it to school, but I had treasured those skirts. I loved how they made me feel when I wore them at home. Happy memories.

“You did a good job raising me,” I said quietly. He needed to hear it. “I had a good childhood. I was loved and accepted and cherished. All things I needed.”

“You’re still loved and cherished. Don’t you forget that.”

Dad looked at me over the rim of his glasses. Smiled gently.

“I know, Dad.”

“And don’t worry about me and Mum. This is our life now. I might have thought we would spend our golden years cruising the Mediterranean and exploring Greek islands, but instead, we’re doing this. Playing Wordle and drinking tea. And enjoying brief visits from our beloved child.”

“Brief visits.” I snorted. Yeah. Because I was not going anywhere fast.

“Brief visits,” Dad repeated. “I’m on spareroom.com. I already have four places favourited, and you need to book viewings. Like, yesterday.”

“Dad.” I sighed. He was right. I hated that he was.

5. Jonathan

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