Maame(7)

I gave braided twists a rest for the first time in three years when it started wreaking havoc on my hair’s edges; last week, I went to a salon specializing in type four hair and had my hair treated and blow-dried so that I now brush it into a low bun for work.

“I bet you got so many compliments in the office though,” Avi says.

We share a smile. “Of course,” I say. “Not a word before.”

We get onto Waterloo Bridge teeming with cyclists, shoppers, and workers on their lunch break. I look over the bridge and there’s a tour boat gliding underneath us.

“Are you moving out soon by any chance?” Avi asks. “I have a friend with a room she needs to fill and you’re the only person I know still living at home.”

Great, I can now add Avi to my list.





List of people who think I’m a loser for still living at my parents’ house:


Nia (even though she technically lives at home for three months of the year)

Shu (best friend no. 2)

Mum

Boy at bus stop who snorted after eavesdropping on my private conversation

Me

Avi

“Is it that weird that I still live at home?”

“It’s not that it’s weird; it just doesn’t make sense,” Avi says. “You can afford to move out and it’s not like you’re saving for a mortgage on this salary, so why live at home?”

Avi doesn’t know about Dad, so I shrug.

“You didn’t even move out for uni,” she continues. “Don’t you want a bit more…” She shimmies with her shoulders. “Freedom? Nights out. Friends over. Men.”

“I’m just not boy crazy at the moment,” I say defensively. “There’s plenty of time for that.”

“The time is now, Maddie,” and she pounds a fist into her open palm. “You’re twenty-five. You’re meant to be getting as much dick as possible!”

“Avi!” I look apologetically at the mother shepherding her toddlers away from us.

“Relax,” Avi says, tilting her head to the sun. “It’s called being in your twenties, which you only get to do for ten years in your entire life, and guess what? You’re already halfway through.”

Oh God. I am halfway through. Five years of my twenties have disappeared into the ether and I live at home, have no boyfriend or obvious career path and I’m still a virgin.

“Where’s the room?” I ask. “Just out of curiosity.”

“Crouch End.”

“North London? That’s too far.”

“No it’s not. You can get the Northern line to Waterloo.” She looks at me. “You meant from where you live now?” She rolls her eyes. “I’m going to give her your number. She’ll send you pictures of the place later.”

“Fine.”

“Well?” she asks. “Aren’t you going to ask me how anal went?”

I blink. “You know, Avi, finishing that conversation didn’t even cross my mind.”

She tilts her head in disbelief. “Really? I’d want to know.”

“You and I are very different people.”

She doesn’t let this fact deter her. “It was uncomfortable at first but wasn’t the worst. You know when something’s just not meant to be stuck somewhere?”

“Oh, look, there’s Jake.” Thank God. I give him a frantic wave before recalling how and where he spent last night, dropping both my hand and gaze. “I’ll leave you two to it.”

I turn back the way I came when Avi hollers, “Are you going to tonight’s show? We’re all going for a drink before if you wanna join.”

“No,” I shout back. “I have plans tonight.”



* * *



When I walk back into the office, Katherine is stalking my desk despite the fact I have five minutes left of my lunch hour. Her cheeks are red and patchy and she exhales when she sees me. “Oh, there you are, Maddie. Finally back, then? That’s fine,” she says. “Can you print me a few things, oh, and pop downstairs and grab me a coffee? I needed one half an hour ago but couldn’t find you.”

Whilst in line at the in-house coffee shop I check my phone for any new job alerts. I scroll through two pages to find nothing non-PA-related I’m qualified for but three that I’ll apply to anyway.



* * *



It wasn’t a complete lie—what I told Avi. I do have plans tonight, just not of the sociable kind.

Back at home that evening, I heat up the rice I made a pot of but bake the fish fresh. I add some salad to the plate and a glass of water to the tray and take it into the living room. I sit on the chair to the right of Dad’s, and we watch TV as I feed him.

This part of Dad, of Parkinson’s, happened slowly at first and then escalated so quickly I almost don’t remember witnessing the signs. He’d drop his plate and I’d call him clumsy; he’d spill water down his front and he’d pat himself dry. Then his cutlery kept slipping through his fingers when he ate, until it was impossible for him to hold it steady at all. He began skipping meals just to avoid the truth altogether.

Dad eats well today, which makes me happy. I used to panic and hear imaginary thunder when he didn’t clear his plate or if he fell asleep long before it was time for bed, convinced it was an early sign of something else. The more I read on Parkinson’s, the more I discovered just how unwieldy and elusive it was; a sprawling tree of disease with each branch detailing a possible symptom or consequence. I’d lie awake wondering if he’d die in his sleep and how it would be my fault for not calling a doctor and saving him when I could. I’d creep down at maybe two or three in the morning and listen outside his bedroom door for sounds of his snoring, only returning to bed when I heard it.