Writing in the Sand (16 page)

I'm thankful yesterday is over. I don't want another day like that. Thank God exams have finished. I walk up the Kellys' path. Kirsty's waiting; she opens the door wide. “Hi. How are things?”

I step inside. “Mum's still poorly, but they're wonderful at the hospital.
So
kind.”

When Mrs Kelly comes out of the kitchen carrying Robbie, I have to cross my arms to keep myself from reaching out to him.

My heart sinks. Suppose in the future it's not me and Robbie together, but Mrs Smith who'll kiss and cuddle him; brush the top of his head with her lips? It's unbearable – the thought of Robbie being adopted: the finality of not being able to run along the sand to see him whenever I want to.

Mrs Kelly tickles him under the chin. “Say hello to Amy!” Looking at me, his mouth changes from a mint-with-a-hole to a quivering smile. It's amazing, it's like he understands.

Mrs Kelly says, “And how's Mum today?”

But I'm staring at Robbie, transfixed. “Oh, sorry. Yes, they say there's not a lot of change and she's comfortable.”

Mrs Kelly says, “That sounds very encouraging.”

Kirsty draws attention to Robbie. “Look at him, Amy. There's no doubt he knows you.”

I touch his cheek and Mrs Kelly says, “Don't you think he's filling out?”

I look into his forget-me-not eyes. “Oh yes, definitely.” I take his tiny hand. “You are, aren't you?” He pokes out the tip of his little pink tongue – and my heart nearly breaks.

It's a week before they move Mum. She's on Castle Ward now, in a side room on her own. After such a serious illness she needs as much care as possible. But the fact she's no longer in the HDU is helping me – knowing she's making progress.

Mrs Kelly has been to see her. She took magazines and grapes. Mum says grapes might sound boring, a bit of a joke because it's what visitors usually bring, but they're exactly what you want, sweet and juicy.

Though the staff say Mum's improving, it seems very slow to me. Mrs Wickham visited. I hope she doesn't feel she ought to visit me too. Mum says there's no reason why anyone from the Social should turn up. They think Lisa and I are very capable. Telling me this, Mum had given my hand an extra squeeze. When I leaned over to kiss her goodbye she whispered, “We'll make it through the rain.”

As soon as they moved Mum I called Lisa, urging her to visit again soon. It would be good if the nurses on Castle Ward got to know her. If she
does
visit, everyone's more likely to believe she actually lives on Dune Terrace.

There's still the possibility Mum might have to face a gall-bladder operation if, like Mr Dorrington said, the stones continue to cause trouble.

Being on my own, except for Toffee, gives me too much time to think. Day or night, even watching telly, I think about Mum. And Robbie – and about Mr and Mrs Smith wanting to adopt him. I see him often, but I do wish I didn't see Liam each time I look into those blue eyes. Kirsty asks me round and Mrs Kelly's being very kind. Which she always is, but right now she's going out of her way. Mr Kelly too. And Shaun, he'd do anything for me, though I don't think he totally understands how I feel about Mum. I think his strangeness might be to do with not having been loved by a parent, and not having one to love. Poor Shaun – it doesn't help that he doesn't see what effect he has on people. It can be something quite ordinary, like standing too close, not realizing he's crowding you; or giving that explosive laugh when there's nothing funny to laugh at. Perhaps it's the result of having folk play pass-the-parcel with him all his life. Being Shaun – great big Shaun – must be like living on an emotional roller-coaster. Still, maybe the way he can't quite connect gives him some sort of protective shell.

This afternoon I walk Toffee over to Kirsty's. It turns out she's not in – she's gone into town with Jordan to help him choose a suit for a cousin's wedding – but I stay behind to help Mrs Kelly with the children. Mr Kelly's at home – on duty in the garden with the little ones. Clean sand has been delivered and they're “helping” him refill the sandpit. There's an awful lot of squealing and shouting. Looking out of the window, I can see Toffee, lying down, not too close to the activity. He likes the kids but he's sensible about keeping his distance.

This leaves Mrs Kelly and me with Robbie, who's lying on a changing mat on the kitchen table. I'm dealing with his nappy. I've already wiped him with baby wipes and wrapped up the
very
dirty nappy. Now his little bottom's pink and clean and the only smell is baby. Fresh and sweet. Mrs Kelly hands me a new disposable nappy, which I smooth out. It has teddy bears on the front so you know which way to fasten it. I shift it under Robbie, while he kicks his feet in the air. I have to hold his ankles together with one hand while I fasten the front with the other.

Mrs Kelly says, “Well done, Amy. It's not easy when he's this lively. Wait till I tell your mum, she'll be proud of you!” It's great, the way she's so positive about Mum. She never lets on she was worried, which I know she must have been.

I tickle Robbie and he gurgles. It's funny that such a messy chore has made me feel so happy, and I love it that Mrs Kelly lets me change him. After I've washed my hands, she asks if I'd like to make up his bottle. I've done this a few times before, and though I feel stabs of sadness – thinking that if things were different I could still be breastfeeding him – I'm glad I can help with the next best thing.

To keep pace with his healthy growth, Mrs Kelly has upped his number of powdered formula scoops. First I put the cooled, boiled water in his bottle, then measure out the number of scoops and add them to the water before screwing the lid on the bottle. If it wasn't for this – doing small things for Robbie, and keeping my hopes up for Mum – I don't think I'd be coping at all right now.

Mrs Kelly finishes folding a pile of towels she brought in from the line. Checking the kitchen clock, she says, “Is that really the time? Andrew and Gina Smith should be here soon.”

I didn't know they were expected and my heart thuds uncomfortably. My hand feels sweaty on the bottle as I give it a shake. I clear my throat. “They seem rather interested in Robbie.”

“What makes you say that, Amy?”

I mustn't drop Kirsty in it. “Well – haven't they been round before?” I dribble a little of the milk on the inside of my wrist to check the temperature.

“They have, yes.” She adds a towel to the growing pile. “Actually,” she says, like it's not a big deal, “Mrs Smith is interested in knowing how fostering works.”

Though I can't imagine Mrs Kelly telling me a fib, I'm not sure I believe Mrs Smith can be
that
interested in fostering. I keep my voice light. “Well,” I say, “you're the expert. You've had loads of experience.”

Mrs Kelly chuckles. “You can say that again.” She puts Robbie's tiny vests neatly together. “As a matter of fact,” she says, as she pulls a sleepsuit out of the wash basket, “Mr and Mrs Smith have been approved as adoptive parents.”

I wait for a moment. “You mean, so they could adopt Robbie?”

“Well – not necessarily. At this stage, it's just general approval.”

“They must be glad.” I wait a few more moments. “How do people get to adopt?”

She sits down and reaches out to stroke Robbie's feet. “With a fair amount of difficulty.” She looks thoughtful. “Though I admit I've been tempted myself a couple of times.”

I ask, “What makes it difficult?”

“For a start,” she says, “it takes months to be approved. Sometimes more – what with counselling and visits to a child's possible future home. And reliable folk providing references.”

“It all sounds very businesslike.”

“Well actually, it needs to be.” Then she adds, “The adoption authorities call on people who are prepared to recommend the potential parents. Friends of the couple, for example. Though it's not always a couple, of course – sometimes it's a single person hoping to adopt.”

I say, “Lots to think about then.”

“My word, yes.” She pauses. “A reference might also be given by a person respected in the community.”

“You mean like a vicar?”

“Yes, possibly.” She looks serious. “It's a big responsibility – saying you believe someone is fit to take on a child for life.”

I think of Mr Smith filling out forms because he wants a child. “Sounds like a whole lot of hoops to jump through.”

“There certainly are.” She pauses. “It's also pretty rigorous with fostering.”

There's a louder than usual squeal from the garden, followed by a yap from Toffee. Mrs Kelly stands to look out of the window.

I say, “What are they doing out there?”

She chuckles. “It's okay – just excitement at so much sand.”

I'm shaking the bottle again – every movement clocked by Robbie's bright eyes. I decide to scare myself: “Do you think Mr and Mrs Smith would like to adopt Robbie?”

Like I hadn't asked something so specific, she says, “Someone's going to want to.” She pauses. “I'm hoping for good things where the Smiths are concerned. They haven't had it easy.”

The doorbell rings. “Ah!” says Mrs Kelly. “Talk of the devil!”

I have to sort myself out. The minute Mrs Kelly is out of the room – opening the front door and chatting – I sit down ready to give my baby his bottle. My arms tighten round him for a moment and I kiss the tip of his ear. Such a natural thing to do, yet fear hits me in the stomach: how would I bear it if he was adopted, and these little ears weren't mine to kiss? Footsteps come along the hallway and I push the teat into his eager mouth.

Before they reach the kitchen door, I hear Mr Smith's soft laugh. As the three of them come into the room, I look up, efficient and confident. You know what they say about swans – all calm above the water but their feet paddling like crazy underneath? That's me.

Mrs Smith is tall, nearly as tall as her husband. I suppose at first glance she could fall into Kirsty's “Ice Queen” category: elegant, and kind of beautiful. She doesn't seem cold or aloof though. She's quite freckled and I wonder if Mr Smith likes this. Her chin-length hair is mid-brown and shiny. I bet she washed it this morning. Her eyes are the lightest blue. The brown eyeshadow and carefully smudged eyeliner make me think of moths. Her jeans show off her narrow waist, and her bright-white T-shirt reveals a dip of cleavage. Round her neck there's a little gold charm. It's one of those that, if you spin it, says
I love you
. I used to wish Liam would give me one.

Mr Smith says, “Hello, Amy.”

I say hello, leaving off the “sir” because it might sound out of place in this situation.

“This is my wife, Gina,” he says. For a quick moment she smiles at me, but really she's only got eyes for Robbie. Mr Smith asks how Mum is.

“She's coming on all right, thank you.”

He says, “That's good. Toffee not with you this afternoon?”

“He's in the garden, I say, “helping Mr Kelly with the little ones.”

Mrs Kelly smiles. “Gina, would you like to finish feeding Robbie?” Gina's fair skin turns pink, and I notice how the freckles merge. Robbie hangs onto his bottle so tight I almost have to unscrew the teat from his gums. I hand the bottle to Mrs Kelly, then stand up with Robbie. Mrs Smith sits in my chair and I put Robbie in her arms. Still flushed, she crosses her legs, then tries them uncrossed. Mrs Kelly hands her the bottle. When Robbie's hands reach out like he wants to grab it for himself, Mrs Smith looks up at all of us. “Did you see that? Isn't he clever?”

I think of other clever things he'll do. And it's suddenly all too much. My mind rushes ahead. Me not there to hear Robbie's first words, watch him take his first steps. Not there when he runs out of school with a swimming certificate. Not there when he gets ten out of ten for spelling.

With Mrs Smith's head bent over him, he sucks away. But she's holding the bottle awkwardly and he's sucking air. I don't think she's got the experience to notice. Mrs Kelly hasn't noticed either, unless she just doesn't want to say anything in front of me.

She goes to the window. “Amy, love, would you mind popping into the garden? Ask the kids which they'd rather have with their fish fingers – baked beans or spaghetti hoops? Oh – and give Frank a hand for a few minutes.”
Frank.
Funny that, I mean, I do know he's called Frank but to me he's always been Mr Kelly.

She wasn't exactly subtle, Kirsty's mum. It's obvious they want to talk confidentially. About fostering. Or adoption?

I wander over to the sandpit. Toffee leaps up, pleased to see me. The two boys and a girl all choose spaghetti hoops. I help with the sand, tipping bucket-loads into the wooden-sided pit. The kids chatter non-stop, showing how bright they are; or they ask questions – which Mr Kelly only answers if they seriously seem to need an explanation.

Slowly pouring sand and smiling, but with cold fingers clutching somewhere inside me, I wonder what sort of mother Mrs Smith would make for Robbie.

I saw Mum earlier. She's not too bad, but there's no definite date for her coming home. The blood tests seem never-ending.

It's been dull all day. Nothing like the gorgeous day when Shaun carried Mum down to the sea. I'm watching TV, hardly noticing what's on. Mum's constantly on my mind – added to which, I can't get
that image
out of my head: Mrs Smith with Robbie in her arms.

Tears wet my cheeks. I don't ask Liam to come into my head, but he's suddenly here. Me without Liam, me without Robbie. Me without
Mum
is so unbearable I scramble out of my chair, go into the backyard and take deep breaths to release some of the tension.