Sorry about the length. Critiques are VERY welcome!I never thought I’d love my grandmother as much as I did now. Staring at her half open eyes, unfocused and hollow, I felt guilt. Guilt for not helping her when I could have; guilt for ignoring her all my life. I tried to get her attention, to catch her blank eyes of which all colour had seeped out of long ago – but nothing I did would bring her back. Nothing I did could save her.
Her pale face, now spoilt with skin that no longer had any flesh to stretch it out evenly, looked tired and used. All the efforts she’d made when she was younger to make herself beautiful; for nothing. Every bit of makeup she’d ever applied now fought against her – the heavy mascara thinning her eyelashes until they were stiff, broken spider’s legs, the cherry red lipstick she always wore breaking her lips, cracking them like old soil.
She looked so small under the thin blankets, breakable, almost. I took her hand - an assortment of delicate bones, covered in thin paper-like flesh. She didn’t even flinch when I touched her. Her hand lay in mine, limp but warm. I glanced around the clean, white room, full of cables and monitors. The cleansing smell was making me feel sick. I closed my eyes, waiting for the spell of nausea to pass.
And while waiting for my grandmother’s last breath, I began to remember how, in the most impossible time of my life, I grew from hating her bitterly to not being able to live without her.
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It was a cold November day, the kind of weather that promised snow, but broke its promise every time. Instead, there was sleet in the air, falling against the hot classroom windows and clouding them with condensation. Everyone lucky enough to sit next to a radiator huddled close to them, for once not caring about the rumours about the disgusting things that hid on the walls behind them. Across the classroom I could see my friend, Jayne, drawing faces on the condensation, and snatching her hand away from the glass every few minutes to blow some warmth onto her chilled fingers. I wished I wasn’t seated in such a central place, where The Toad had a full view of me. Being forced to listen to his droning voice was awful; especially when I couldn’t distract myself from it like Jayne was without getting myself a detention.
The Toad was our maths teacher’s nickname. His real name was Mr Todd, but no one ever called him that. He wore really huge glasses, and was the type of person that would call them ‘spectacles’. He looked really old, and acted it too, but he must have been only middle aged because he had a daughter in year nine. If I were her I’d have died with embarrassment, but luckily, somehow, she gained respect, and no one teased her about her dad being the most boring person on this planet.
I looked at the whiteboard, and saw some complicated formulas that had no meaning whatsoever. Maths was never my strong point. I could never get much more than a C. It was okay though, I was alright at everything else. Especially drama. I loved drama.
I was snapped out of my thoughts when the bell rang. The scraping of chairs sounded almost immediately, angering The Toad until he was screaming at the top of his voice. No one listened, though. No one cared what he said. They wouldn’t let anyone spoil their relief that it was the end of yet another school day. Just one more day to go and it would be the weekend. I jumped out of my chair, snatching my maths book and walking brusquely out of the classroom.
I stepped out of the main entrance, pulling on my coat as I did so. It was good to breathe fresh air again, after being stuffed in the classroom for so long with the artificial heat and the smell of other people’s sweat rushing through the ventilation. The haggle of boys and girls outside the school started growing immensely, so I quickly walked down the steps and started off to the bus stop, where I usually met my friends before we headed off on our separate buses to get home. That was the problem with St Ash’s; it was in the middle of nowhere, and the only way to get home was by bus. Which wasn’t great, seeing as being in year 10 meant lots of homework, and how were we supposed to find time to do it when the buses always came so late?
‘Hi!’ I smiled, approaching Jayne, Hannah, Mike, Ryan and Sophie.
Jayne was in the same class as me for everything apart from French (where she was in a higher set than me, having a French grandma, who made sure she practised every evening). Hannah was only in one of my classes, but I’d known her since I was small. Sophie was my mum’s friend’s daughter, and, even though she was quite shy, she was really nice once you got to know her. Mike and Ryan hung around with sometimes at break times and after school, and when they weren’t acting stupid, they were actually quite good company. A chorus of ‘hello’s’ sounded, before Hannah started telling me all about someone fainting in her science class that morning, and how the teacher did nothing about it. Hannah was always full of stories, and usually wouldn’t stop talking unless forced on the pain of death.
‘Where’s Lilly?’ I asked, finding a slight break in Hannah’s talking to ask where my closest friend was. She hadn’t arrived yet, and I was staring to wonder if she’d already left. I met Lilly when I started in secondary school, and apart from the occasional girly tiff, we’d never had a proper argument.
‘Oh, she’s gone out with Liam. She said to tell you ‘hi’, and ‘see you tomorrow’,’ Hannah replied. I nodded stiffly. Liam was her boyfriend, but, secretly, I didn’t like him at all. He was stupid, and was known to have gone out with at least five girls already, breaking up with each after a week or two. So far, Lilly had managed a week and a half. I wondered how much longer before he dumped her, too.
Just then, my bus came rushing round the corner, and, after saying bye to everyone, I got on, finding myself a window seat and starting on my everlasting homework.
As soon as I opened the door to my house, I knew something was wrong. The door wasn’t supposed to be open, for one. Mum and Dad owned a restaurant, and usually didn’t come home till late. My older sister, Cathy, was at her friend’s for the night. So, unless someone forgot to lock the door, someone was home early.
‘Hello?’ I asked, peering up the stairs, dumping my school bag in the dark corridor. There was something in the atmosphere that made me feel uneasy. Dread crawled up my throat, threatening my mouth with worst case scenarios.
‘Hello?’ I repeated, taking the stairs two at a time.
‘Isabel!’ Mum’s voice. She sounded… distressed. As if she’d been crying. Her voice was thick, almost forced. She didn’t want to speak, I could tell.
Worried, I ran in the direction of her bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, and on opening it, I found her sitting in the old wicker chair that stood in the corner of the bedroom, next to the bed. Just… sitting. Still in her work clothes; pencil skirt and grey jumper. Her dark hair, usually so immaculate, had fallen out of its bun, hanging in waves around her thin face. Her cheeks were wet, eyes red. The mascara was running down her face faster than the tears. I’d never seen her cry like this before, and it frightened me.
‘Mum…’ I whispered, flicking on the light switch. She jumped, as if only just now acknowledging my presence. Her eyes darted towards me, the distant look replaced with surprise.
‘Isabel!’ she cried, jumping out of the chair and rushing towards me, pulling me into a tight embrace. This wasn’t something she did often. The dread inside me grew even more, and for once I forgot about Lilly and Liam, forgot about all my homework, forgot about the double maths I’d have to endure the next morning. All I could feel was fear. I tore away from my mother’s arms, which were clinging so tightly around me.
‘What’s going on?’ I demanded.
Mum looked me in the eyes, her own dark brown eyes weak, for once powerless.
‘It’s just… It’s just that…’ She gulped. Forced a tiny smile.
‘What is it mum? Where’s Dad?’ A horrible thought came tiptoeing up to me, hounding my brain. ‘He’s not… he’s not hurt is he?’ I whispered.
‘No… no, Dad’s fine, sweetheart.’ Mum said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. ‘It’s… it’s grandma,’ Her voice broke.
I actually felt relieved.
Grandma was crabby and old and posh. She wasn’t as important as Mum, or Dad, or even Cathy. She was just there, in her neat little cottage that we visited every fortnight.
But looking at Mum’s tear stained face, I let the relief wash away in a big wave.
‘What happened to her? Is she okay?’ I asked. Despite not liking her, I didn’t want grandma dead. I didn’t want the grief that would follow, which I’d be forced to take a part in.
‘Course she’s not okay, silly,’ Mum sniffed, rubbing her eyes, making even more of a mess of her makeup. ‘She had a stroke…’ The serious face was back. Mum was on the verge of tears again.
‘Is she alright?’ I said, stupidly. Of course anyone who’d just had a stroke wouldn’t be alright. But what I really meant… was she going to survive, being so old? Did she survive at all?
‘Not really…’ mum replied, taking me seriously this time. ‘Luckily she was… found in time. And she’s going to live,’
This time I let my relief stay inside me. She was going to live. No grieving periods, no awkward funerals. It was going to be okay.
But there’s always a but. Always.
And that was why Mum was crying.
‘But… she’s not going to be the same, Izzy. Doctors don’t know if she’ll be able to speak again. She might not even be able to walk… She’s going to be like… be like a useless rag doll!’ Mum cried, breaking down in fresh tears.
I thought about it. Grandma, unable to walk and talk? She talked too much before, anyway. I wouldn’t miss her cocky comments, telling me how bad I looked. And she could hardly walk the last time I saw her anyway. So, even though it sounds mean, I didn’t feel much. Only sympathy, and that was for my mother. Grandma was her mother, after all. If something like that happened to my mother, I’d be absolutely devastated.
‘Oh God mum, that must be awful for you…’ I whispered, not quite finding the right words to say.
‘Awful for me?’ she cried, her eyes flashing with anger. ‘Don’t you think? Think about your grandma! She’s the one who’s the rag doll here! Not me!’
I backed away, put off.
‘Where’s Dad?’ I asked darkly. I didn’t want to think about my crabby grandmother anymore. Didn’t want to pretend I cared.
‘Coming home from the restaurant. Then we’re visiting her in hospital,’ Mum replied, sitting herself on the edge of her bed with a big sigh. I stood awkwardly, not quite sure what to say or do. ‘Cathy’s coming home too,’ Mum said, suddenly. This surprised me – even though Cathy and I didn’t get on, we did have one thing in common; and that was our dislike for grandma. Cathy was as stubborn as old boots; I was surprised she didn’t just tell Mum that she absolutely refused to see the miserable old cow. Obviously, she was in a nicer mood today.
‘Oh,’ I said.
The door slammed shut. Footsteps came pounding up he stairs. Dad came into the bedroom, his expression bleak.
‘Are we ready to go then?’ he said quietly. His hair was a mess, but that was normal. Dad was a very big man, and he never looked quite tidy. Today, he was wearing a crumpled shirt and jeans. It was what he wore almost every day.
‘We’re waiting for Cathy,’ Mum whispered.
A small look passed between them: the kind of look that said, ‘What on earth do we do now?’
‘I’m going to… going to…’ I said, not quite sure what excuse I could use to get out of this room. The worry in the atmosphere was starting to get me angry – why get so worked up about it all? At least grandma was sill alive.
Dad seemed to understand my need to escape, and nodded in permission. I wandered off to the kitchen, and got myself a snack.
All I could do was wait.
