Numbers

FIVE YEARS LATER

I don’t hang around the places where kids go skiving off anymore. I guess you could say I’ve moved on. These days, you’ll find me in playgrounds, on the beach, down at the community center, or waiting outside school. It’s all part of the normal pattern of things, isn’t it? Kids like me turn into parents like me. And our kids will turn into teenagers, and then into parents themselves. And on and on.

I’m not so different anymore. That whole time with Spider, it changed me, and not in just the obvious ways – growing up, falling in love, having sex, and that. It showed me what I was missing, what I hadn’t had for fifteen years: having real friends, someone to have a laugh with, learning to trust people, open up a bit. It changed my whole outlook on life – I’d been so hung up on the numbers that I’d let them paralyze me, I can see that now. The numbers had stopped me from living. But Spider, and all those other people – Britney, Karen, Anne, Val – they changed that for me, made me realize I was wasting what time I did have.

I wish I could tell you I’d done something great with my life – become a brain surgeon or a teacher or something – but you wouldn’t believe me, anyway, would you? I suppose, looking back, I’ve done two things so far. For a start, I stayed with Karen and looked after her after she had her stroke. I’d known she only had three years to go, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise, really.

I was trying to sort out getting my own place; in fact, I was over at the flat Social Services were offering me, when I got a phone call from the hospital. Karen had collapsed in the street. It was a massive stroke, left her partially paralyzed down one side. Her speech went, too – she still had all her marbles, just couldn’t get the words out without a struggle. It was just accepted that I’d look after her. She lost the twins – Social Services found them another home – broke her heart, that did. But everyone assumed that I’d stay with her and care for her.

It was hard, really hard, trying to look after Adam as well as dress Karen, feed her, take her to the toilet. It was like having two kids. I can’t tell you the number of times I nearly walked out. I even packed my bags. But in the end, I couldn’t do it. I knew she didn’t have long left. Besides, she’d stood by me, through being pregnant and then bringing Adam home. She’d helped so much, showing me how to cope with him, giving me a break when I was fed up. I figured I owed her.

Toward the end, we had some very bad days. The thing was, although I couldn’t see the numbers anymore, I could remember them. They disappeared while I was pregnant – when I was in and out of the psychiatric ward, drugged up, sedated. I can’t remember exactly when – just that, one day, I realized I couldn’t see them. They were gone. I felt sad to lose something that had been a part of me for so long. But I felt relieved, too. It took away something that I’d been dreading – the moment I would have to look in my newborn baby’s eyes and see his death date. That day, I realized that I could face the future, whatever it would bring. I could have Spider’s child, and we could have a life together.

Anyway, I didn’t forget the numbers that I’d already seen. So I knew when Karen was due to check out. She didn’t know, though, obviously, and her illness, her disability, really got to her. The last few weeks, she was really depressed. I mean, desperate. She kept having more strokes. Every time she got a little bit better, another one would come along and wipe out the progress. It was frightening for her, I know it was.

She begged me to help her end it, exhausting herself, forcing the words out. “Please, Jem. I’ve had enough.” Pleading with her eyes. I told her not to be so daft. What would we do without her? Adam loved his nana. Her eyes brimmed over. She loved him, too, loved him to pieces, but she’d gone past logic – she was in a dark and lonely place.

I guess the strain of caring for her really got to me. I used to lie awake at night, torturing myself with these awful thoughts. What if that’s what was meant to happen? What if I was meant to help her end it?

As the day got nearer, I got more and more on edge. She kept going on – wouldn’t talk about anything else. The last time I took her to the toilet, we had a dreadful time getting her settled. Finally installed on the seat, she just slumped there, crying her eyes out with the humiliation of it all. Perhaps I let it all go on too long. Maybe I should have asked Social Services for help. Looking back now, I can see that it had got to be too much for both of us.

I got her back to bed. She was still upset. We both were. She tried to twist ’round, managed to get hold of one of her pillows. “Just hold it, Jem.” She tried moving it up to her face, but she couldn’t manage.

“No, Karen. Stop it.”

“Please, Jem. I’m tired.”

I took the pillow out of her hands. It would be so easy to do it, press it up against her, lean my weight in. It was what she wanted.

Then Adam came into the room.

“Mum, I’m thirsty. I want a drink.”

That snapped me out of it. I helped Karen to lean forward and propped the pillow firmly behind her back.

“I think we all do, darlin’,” I said. “Let’s make a cup of tea.”

I put some juice in a bottle for Adam and some tea in another one for Karen – like I said, it was like having two kids. I sat with her and held the bottle up to her mouth.

“That’s it,” I said, “everything seems better with a nice cup of tea.” She managed half a smile with the bit of her face that still moved.

“Do you want some biscuit?” She nodded, and I dipped a biscuit into my tea so it was nice and soggy, and fed her. And then it happened. She started choking. I put everything down and slapped her on the back. She was gasping, fighting for breath. I couldn’t do nothing to help. I ran into the hall and grabbed the phone. The ambulance was there within ten minutes, but it was too late. She’d gone.

Adam had seen it all. I should’ve kept him out of the way, but I was so busy trying to help Karen.

“What’s wrong with Nana?” he asked. I took him into the front room, and sat him on my lap.

“She’s gone, darlin’. She’s died.”

“Like Daddy?” I was always telling Adam about his dad. I wanted him to know about him, how special he was.

“Yes, just like Daddy.”

That was the other thing I’ve been doing, you see. I’ve brought Adam up, been a mum and a dad to him. I know I’m not unique doing this. There’s thousands, millions of single parents, but when it’s you, and your own childhood wasn’t exactly rosy, it feels like a big deal to look at your five-year-old son and know that he’s healthy and happy. If you’d asked me five years ago if I thought I could be someone’s mum, and be a good one at that, I’d have laughed in your face. But do you know what? It’s something that I can really do. I’m a mum. I’m Adam’s mum, and it’s something I’m proud of.

I suppose everyone thinks that their child is special. But I know that Adam really is. He’s a lot like his dad. Val says he’s the spitting image of him when he was little, and I can believe it. He’s tall, for a start, all arms and legs, even when he was a baby. And he’s always busy. You can’t keep your eyes off him for a minute – he’s into everything. That’s why I take him out so much. He’d drive me mad, cooped up inside all day. He’s the kind of boy that needs to burn off some energy on the swings or running ’round the park. That’s one of the reasons we moved out here to Weston after Karen died. Spider was right: There’s so much space here. We can spend an afternoon on the beach, and by the end of it we’ve walked for miles and miles, and Adam’s tired and ready for bed like a good boy.

He finds it difficult to sit still, not got much concentration. The teachers at school have said that, too. He’d rather be climbing something or kicking a ball than sitting looking at a book. He’s a bit behind with all that stuff, not that that bothers me – I know he’ll get there in the end. He’s not stupid.

They’ve been learning the alphabet and counting, one to ten, over and over at school. I don’t think anyone thought he was taking it all in. But just last week, we had a bit of a breakthrough. He came out of school and said his teacher wanted to see me. I thought, Oh, no, what’s he done now? but it wasn’t bad, at least not the way I was expecting: getting in a fight or being cheeky or whatever.

We went into the classroom and his teacher showed me a drawing he’d done. Beautiful, it was, in bright crayons – the colors of summer. There were two people holding hands, a big one and a little one. They were on a strip of yellow sand, with the sun in the sky above them, and big smiles on their faces.

“We’ve talked about this, haven’t we, Adam, this lovely picture?” she said.

He nodded solemnly.

“It’s you and Mummy, isn’t it?” she asked him.

“Yes,” he said. “Me and Mummy at the beach.”

“I think he’s got his numbers and letters a bit confused,” she said, “but I’m very pleased with his pencil control.” For there, above the head of the taller figure, arching over like a rainbow, was some writing. “I think you meant to write Mummy, didn’t you, Adam?”

He shook his head and frowned.

“No, Miss,” he said. “I told you. It’s not her name. It’s her number. It’s Mummy’s special number.”