Maame(65)

“I’ll be expecting money from you, too.”

James looks at me and frowns. “Yeah, course. Some.”

“Some?” I repeat. “You should pay the most since you hardly helped in any other way. You’re the eldest and, supposedly, the head of the household now. And I’m pretty sure you make more than me.”

“Yes,” Mum says, nodding at him. “Look at you.”

“But let me guess,” I continue, “I’m expected to use my savings because you’re low on funds, again? Where did you spend all your money this time? Brazil? Russia? Italy?”

His face drops. “Mads.”

“What?” I ask him. “Mads, what?”

“You know I did the best I could.”

I look at his shiny black Puffer jacket and spotless trainers. “No,” I tell him. “No, you didn’t. But it’s too late now, isn’t it? I needed you both—desperately, at times. Dad and I both did.” You would have been able to tell he was off, right? “Now it’s too late.”

I walk out of the kitchen and then the house, slamming the front door behind me.



* * *



Mum LONDON

How much savings have you got and how much will you use for your dad?

I am sorry but your brother and I don’t have much so most will come from you. Thanks.



Maddie

Stop adding “thanks” to the end of your messages. It’s annoying.



Mum LONDON

Your mother is annoying?

Madeleine your mother is annoying?



I type out a reply but hesitate.

In secondary school, I once heard a friend tell her mum to shut up over the phone. I couldn’t imagine the trouble she’d get into at home and told her as much.

“I tell her to shut up all the time,” she assured me. “She doesn’t take it seriously.”

I couldn’t believe children told their parents to shut up and survived to tell the tale. It wasn’t—and still isn’t—the way my family worked. Even aged twenty-five, I wouldn’t dare. It’s not like I’m scared of Mum, because I know I can outrun her now, but I just don’t have the attitude in me.

Or I didn’t.

I press send.

Maddie

Yes. Very annoying.





Chapter Twenty-five


I’m eating lunch in my room when my phone rings with a private number.

I’ve been looking forward to this stew and I’m really hungry, so I think about just letting it ring out, but decide last minute to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Madeleine Wright?”

I clench and my heart drops. The woman on the phone has a tone that is slow and sad; it’s to do with Dad.

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Hello, dear. I’m just calling to give you your father’s postmortem results. Your number is on the contact sheet and we can’t reach your brother. Is now a good time?”

She tells me Dad died of twisted intestines, medically known as “distal large bowel obstruction,” which is a complication that can occur when suffering from Parkinson’s. For some reason, she tells me that Dad would have been in pain, only briefly, but still. I feel a knot in my own stomach. She tells me we’ll need to register my father’s death next and I almost ask her if this process will be over soon. I instead end the call in a more socially acceptable manner.

I ring Mum to tell her, but it goes to voicemail, so I try James. No answer. I text them both instead.

I put on a comedy show and when James calls back, I ignore it. I go to bed, leaving the stew on my desk.

Google: When do you start feeling better after losing a loved one?

It can take up to five years

There is no one-size-fits-all time line for grief; it will vary from person to person

Rather than it getting better, it gets easier

So long as the memory of the person lives on, will you ever stop grieving?

Grieving doesn’t always mean crying your eyes out and yelling, “Why, God, why?” So long as you still miss them, you’re still grieving, but that doesn’t mean you’re not getting better. There are no rules to this process.





* * *



Mum eventually calls to say that Auntie Mabel’s finally changed her return date so the funeral planning needs to start moving forward.

“You and I both need to go to the funeral home.”

“I thought you were going to get Uncle Freddie to fill out the forms?”

“I tried, darling, but the funeral home wants the person who is making the deposit to be the one to sign. When can you do? Two days from now? Don’t forget, we need to register the death tomorrow.”



* * *



I feel sick from the moment I wake up and it happens again; my body freaks out and my brain turns soft. I wait it out on my bedroom floor. I can’t tell if this panic attack is longer or shorter than the ones before. As I shower to wash away the sweat, I consider the possibility that this is my life now. Even thirty minutes later, the pressure on my chest lingers.

The call to register the death is scheduled for half past one and then we’ll need to call the funeral home after.