Freia Lockhart's Summer of Awful (24 page)

By the time Dad gets back I've made seven rows of tightly knitted stitches. He has his hand on Ziggy's shoulder and I can't tell whether it's to steer him through the hospital's labyrinthine corridors or if he's making sure Zig doesn't make a run for it. Even though Ziggy's eyes are focused firmly on the floor, I can see the glistening streaks of tears on his pink-tinged cheeks.

Gran peers at the two of them over her specs. “All sorted out?”

Dad nods. “For now. We have to go back during office hours to work out a community service arrangement, but the park isn't pressing charges.”

“What'd he–” I cut myself off when I see Dad's eyes narrow.

“Thelma, could you take Freia and Ziggy home, please? I'm going to stay here with Gene.”

“I'll stay with you,” I offer.

“No,” says Dad. Conversation over. It's the sort of thing Mum does all the time, but I don't expect it from him.

“Come on, kids,” says Gran, gathering up her bags. “Let's go downstairs and get some dinner. It's too late to start cooking and I could murder some fries.”

“Great idea, thanks, Thelma,” says Dad, pushing through the swinging doors before I can protest.

When we get home after our lard-laden meal, Gran says she needs a long, hot bath and heads upstairs, taking Rocky with her. Ziggy flops down on the sofa and reaches for the TV remote. I grab it first.

“What have you done now, you little turd?”

Ziggy crosses his arms and stares at the wall. “Get stuffed, Fraymond. I've had enough lectures for one day.”

“You're getting lectured because you're behaving like a criminal. How could you go and … do whatever you did when you knew Mum was back in hospital? Are you jealous because she's getting all the attention now and poor little Siegfried's being ignored?”

Ziggy says nothing, keeps staring at the wall.

“You're pathetic,” I say, turning and walking quickly to the hall to ensure I have the last word.

The message light on the answering machine is flashing. I hit play and the little tinny voice inside the machine tells me there are three new messages. The first is from Steph, asking if I know what's up with Siouxsie. The second is from Siouxsie, asking if there's any news about Mum. The third is from Dan, saying he's going camping with “Kristy and the gang” for a couple of days and that he'll call me when he gets back.

I'm trying to decide whether to slump on the seat by the phone and have a good cry or call Siouxsie and have a good rant when Ziggy comes out of the living room.

“You want to know what me and Biggie did?” he asks, puffing out his chest and standing so close to me that I can feel his breath on my cheek. “We made our mark on your precious tree. All the way around it. I'm afraid we may have cut off the bit where Danielle carved your names. Whoops.”

“You
ringbarked
the tree?”

Ziggy considers the idea for a moment. “I didn't know it had a name, but that sounds about right.”

“But that'll kill it.”

Ziggy shrugs and smirks. An imaginary scoreboard over his head flashes up the score, Freia: 1, Ziggy: 1 million. My heartbeat pounds in my ears as the adrenaline hits my bloodstream.

“You little bastard,” I shout as I launch myself at him.

It's been about five years since I last crash-tackled my little brother, and he's not expecting it. He falls to the floor under my weight. Once I've got him there, though, I don't know what to do. Our old game of dangling long gobs of spit over the weaker opponent doesn't seem appropriate at this moment, and the idea of me actually hitting him is laughable. The decision is taken away from me when Ziggy bucks his hips, sending me flying towards the study door. I land with a thud and a groan.

“What the hell is going on down there?” yells Gran.

“Nothing,” Ziggy yells back, glaring at me to stay silent.

I pick myself off the floor and open the study door.

“You're lucky I wasn't trying to hurt you,” he says as I close it behind me.

Boris is waiting for me on the sofa bed, flicking his tail agitatedly in a where's-my-dinner way. One good thing about having a cat whose main focus in life is his enormous belly is that he'll let you do just about anything to him if he's hungry. I pull him onto my lap and bend my head to nuzzle in his soft fur.

By the time I've finished telling him every single thing that's gone wrong today, Boris's patience is wearing thin. He gives my wrist a slow, deliberate bite, just in case I haven't got the message that his bowl is empty.

“Okay, you've earned it,” I say, putting him back on his pillow.

From the kitchen I can hear Ziggy taking out what's left of his rage on his punching bag. I dump Boris's dirty bowl in the sink and scoop the contents of one of the small tins of King Cat Royale he got for Christmas into a fresh one. The cat food has a jellied layer of shrimp and clams; it looks twice as appetising as the floppy burger I had for dinner. My stomach gives an unsatisfied growl. I open the fridge but before I can delve further than yesterday's leftovers I hear the garage door slam and Ziggy's footsteps in the laundry. I close the fridge and walk double-time back to the study.

Dad gets home a little after midnight.

“What are you still doing up?” he asks when I join him in the kitchen.

“I couldn't sleep,” I say, which is an outright lie since I've been struggling to keep my eyes open for the last hour. “How's Mum?”

“Stable. She's getting super-strength antibiotics through a drip and they've moved her back to the ward.” He goes to the fridge and gets out the ingredients for his favourite late-night sandwich: cheese, pickled onions and mayonnaise. “Want one?”

I shake my head. “Did they say when she can come home?”

“A couple of days, hopefully. But we've heard that before, right?”

Dad sounds like his optimism has finally been exhausted. I want to tell him that he can't lose hope, that he has to have enough for all of us, but he looks so, so tired.

“I'm sure she will,” I say, but I have nothing better to back it up with than, “It'll take more than some nasty bacteria to keep Mum down.”

Dad tries to smile, fails and takes a bite of sandwich to cover it up.

“Want me to take Boris to your room?” I ask. “He's being pretty smoochy tonight.”

“Thanks, love, but I think I'll go and listen to some music in my study. You should get some sleep.”

I don't argue. I've run out of cheering platitudes and I'm worried that if we keep talking, one of us will end up in tears … and for once it probably won't be me.

Dad spends most of the following two days in his study, except for when he's at the hospital. It wouldn't be that different from how he's been acting since Gran arrived if he hadn't stopped sleeping in his bed. He's also stopped inviting us to go to the hospital with him, instead going as early as possible in the morning and coming home late in the evening.

A few days ago I would have given him a serve about leaving me to accompany Gran on her daily visits, but compared to him she's the lesser of two burdens right now. After the night in the ICU, she decided I was A Knitter and started pulling out my “scarf” every time she got out her own knitting. Mostly, I go along with it to humour her, but I draw the line at knitting on the bus. There's always a chance that someone from school will get on it, and knowing my luck it would be Belinda Sinclair herself.

On the third day, Dad returns from the hospital before Gran and I are even dressed, bringing Mum with him.

“I wish you'd told me, Terence,” says Gran. “I'd have cleaned this place up.”

But not even Gran can break Dad's mood. His eyes are still ringed with grey, but they sparkle every time he looks at Mum. “Sorry, Thelma, I didn't know Genie'd be all packed up and waiting for me.”

“It's my fault,” says Mum, giving Gran a hug. “I couldn't bear those pink walls for a minute longer. Anyway, the house looks great.”

Mum's lost more weight and is even more fragile than before, but she doesn't have the drain any more. She puts her arms around Ziggy's and my waists and squeezes tightly. “Sorry if I gave you a scare, but I promise I'm home for good this time.”

She sounds so happy and so sure of herself that I can't help believing her.

When Mum goes upstairs to shower Dad tells us that Dr Bynes and the oncology nurse have given her strict instructions to take it easy or she won't be able to start radiotherapy next week.

“It's up to all of us to make sure she doesn't overexert herself,” he says sternly. “And that includes not doing anything to stress her out.” I'm pleased to note that this directive is aimed at Ziggy.

“Something smells good,” calls Mum from the living room where Gran and I have made her a day bed on the sofa with her mohair rug and lots of cushions for her back.

I take the hint and put one of the brownies I've just finished icing on a plate.

“New recipe?” asks Mum, holding the plate at eye level to inspect it.

“Yep. I invented the peanut butter swirl bit, but the icing was Gran's idea.”