Page 12 of The Pieces of Us

My fingers hover over the keypad as my mind tries to formulate a normal response. OK xx , I type. My chips are burning my throat, but I keep stuffing them in, barely giving myself time to swallow, filling the gaping hole before the scream escapes.

I don’t know how long I sit on the bench for.

Long after the chips are gone, along with the students and the tourists and the pale-faced parents with their whiny toddlers who want just one more go on the slide.

Finally the warmth disappears too. My jacket is too thin, and I’ve got goosebumps on my lower arms. I need to move.

Ruby is happy with her friends. Minnie is safe with Lena. Nobody needs me right now. I could go anywhere, do anything.

I start with an overpriced glass of wine in the first pub I find, sitting at a corner table, not meeting the eyes of my fellow Sunday-afternoon drinkers.

I finish my wine quickly and don’t know what to do next, so I order another.

Pete answers on the second ring. ‘Hey, Cat.’

‘I’m drunk,’ I shout. ‘And my mother’s not my mother.’

‘Where the hell are you? What’s that racket?’

‘Karaoke.’

‘Karaoke? At five p.m. on a Sunday?’

‘It’s five p.m.?’

‘Yes, Cat. Are you all right? Who are you with?’

‘Come and sing with me,’ I whisper. ‘Something fun. Queen … Elton John … ABBA!’

‘Wow. You are drunk.’

‘My mother is not my mother,’ I tell him again, and it’s like I’m speaking a foreign language.

‘Oh, Cat. She is. She’s just not the woman she used to be.’

‘You don’t get it,’ I whine. ‘She’s not my mother.’

He sighs. ‘OK, Cat. I’m just sorting some stuff out at the shop. I’ll come and get you. Text me the address. Can you do that?’

‘Of course I can. But I’m being serious about singing.’ It comes out like serioushhhhhhh .

The guy on the stage is murdering ‘Mr Brightside’ but things can always get better and it’s still only early – I don’t believe it’s 5 p.m. already. So I order a pint but I don’t drink it because I hate lager. I stare at its frothy head until my phone starts bouncing on the bar.

‘Pete, hey.’

‘Cat, you didn’t text me the address. Where are you?’

‘What address?’

‘The address of the bar.’

‘Oh, Pete, I do love you.’

‘You’re a nightmare sometimes. You’re lucky you’re cute and good with flowers.’

‘Come and sing with me.’

‘Cat, I don’t know where you are.’

‘I’m in McPhee’s,’ I tell him. ‘Didn’t I say that already?’

‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Don’t move a muscle.’

I do what he says, staring into the froth until I feel a gentle hand on my left shoulder. I turn round and let Pete draw me into his chest just as the introduction to ‘Don’t Leave Me This Way’ punches me in the gut.

I wake up on my sofa, my head pounding. There’s a glass of water on the floor – I gulp noisily, savour the cooling effect on my sandpaper tongue. I lie back down, press the bottom of the glass against my forehead and close my eyes as my new reality comes flooding back to me.

Minnie is not my mother .

Minnie, my mother, is not my mother .

My mother Minnie is not my mother.

The house is too quiet – I find myself longing for noise, the chaos and stress of a normal morning. But I know nothing will ever be normal again.

Moving gingerly, slower than the beat inside my head, I locate my jacket, my bag, my phone.

Almost out of charge, but enough to tell me that it’s 5.

45 a.m., which explains the silence. A text from Pete tells me that I’m not, under any circumstances, to go to work today.

It also fills in some of the blanks: he checked in with Ruby, told her I’d had a few too many white wines and would be home safe before the end of the night.

Ruby confirmed that Lena had gone home but that she was with Minnie and everything was fine, and yes of course she would let Pete know if she needed anything.

I text him back: Thanks for everything. Sorry. WTF. Speak soon xxx

I remember Pete taking me back to his house last night, where he made me eat toast and drink coffee. I might have fallen asleep on his sofa, but I’m not sure. I remember crying. I remember him driving me home, walking me to my front door, hugging me tightly, telling me that he loved me.

I don’t remember falling asleep on my own sofa. I don’t remember seeing Ruby. Or Minnie. I’m dreading the moment she wakes up and shouts for me or appears in the room demanding a cheese toastie.

She doesn’t do either of those things. Ten minutes before Lena is due to arrive, I open the door to Minnie’s room and find her sitting on Nana’s red-velvet chair at the window. She’s taken the nesting dolls apart; their bisected bodies are strewn across the window sill.

‘Minnie,’ I say quietly, ‘are you OK? Do you want some breakfast? Lena will be here soon.’

‘They’re broken,’ she says flatly, poking one of the doll heads with her finger.

‘We can fix them.’ I put my hands on her shoulders.

She’s not my mother. She’s not my mother. Another new mantra, one I’ll never be able to get out of my head. Like a record that jumps and plays the most heartbreaking lyric of the song, ad nauseam.

‘Not now,’ she says. ‘Don’t touch them.’

By the time Lena arrives, I’ve managed to manoeuvre Minnie into her dressing gown and on to the sofa.

‘She’s in a bit of a low mood today. She’s got toast in there, but I don’t think she’s going to eat it. And she’s not even dressed yet.’ I pull an apologetic face.

‘Try not to worry, s?oneczko ,’ Lena says, hanging her coat up.

‘I’m not working today, so I’ll be here,’ I tell her. ‘Just sorting stuff out.’

She pauses on her way into the living room. ‘Is everything OK? With you?’

‘Everything is OK,’ I lie.

‘You do your thing,’ she says. ‘I’m going to take your matka to the park if she’s happy to go.’

Minnie’s not my matka, I want to yell at her. And I don’t know who is and I have so many questions and I’m terrified that I can’t answer any of them. I want Lena and her strong capable hands to deal with this horror.

I can’t keep myself away from the photo album in the kitchen.

I lift the protective film and peel the photo taken on the day I was born from the sticky board.

I tuck it into the back pocket of my jeans and close the album just as Ruby comes into the room, looking dishevelled.

‘Free periods this morning; no classes until after lunch,’ she says before I can question her.

‘You sobered up yet? What are you doing?’

I close the photo album. ‘Just trying to organize the last of Minnie’s things now that Lena is here. Sorry about last night. It’s not your responsibility to look after Minnie.’

She frowns at me. ‘Why not? I’m sixteen, not six. I’m old enough to help.’

‘I know you are,’ I admit. ‘But not when I’m in the pub. One too many on an empty stomach … bad idea.’

‘You’re human. But don’t try to keep up with Pete next time, OK?’

I force a laugh, grateful to Pete for the cover story. Luckily Ruby’s already distracted and doesn’t ask for more details. ‘I’m starving,’ she groans.

‘I’ll make you a fruit salad,’ I tell her.

She pulls a face. ‘I don’t want fruit. I want a massive doughnut dripping in sugar. Maybe dipped in chocolate. With sprinkles. Can I have one of those?’

‘Sorry, love. I can make you toast and chocolate spread?’

She shrugs. ‘Sure. I’ll pretend it’s a doughnut.’

I make us both chocolate-covered toast with thick slices of white bread. ‘You’re eating vegetables later,’ I warn her, and she sticks her chocolate-covered tongue out at me.

‘It’s good, huh?’ She can’t hide her satisfaction.

When our mugs are empty and the last slice of toast eaten, I pull the photo out of my pocket and hand it to her. ‘Look at this.’

‘Is that you? Aww .’ She peers at the image. ‘Wow, look how young Gran is.’

This is the time , I think. This is the time to tell her what I’ve discovered. When she’s got a full belly and she’s smiling and I’m not distracted by Minnie. But I don’t. I let her return the photo to me and it goes back into my pocket.

Despite my promise to Lisa, I don’t start the day by calling social services.

I’m scared what I might find out , I text her, after filling her in on what happened last night.

She reminds me of our long-standing deal: don’t make any big life decisions drunk or hungover .

I’m not sure we had this particular situation in mind when we made that pact all those years ago, but a deal is a deal.

She tells me to focus on something else and I do, spending most of the day tackling the paperwork that’s taken over the kitchen table.

After dinner, I diligently follow the steps required to hydrate, medicate, bathe and soothe Minnie before settling her into bed.

‘Would you like me to read to you?’ I ask as I smooth her duvet cover down either side of her body.

‘OK,’ she says. ‘ The Wimpy Kid ?’

I can’t help but smile. ‘Of course.’

Minnie always read me bedtime stories when I was a child, regularly buying books from Woolworths with her staff discount. And she sang at every given opportunity: ‘She Wears Red Feathers’ and ‘I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles’. She was my mother in every way and with her whole heart.

I read from the copy of Diary of a Wimpy Kid I bought for Ruby when she was ten, holding the book at an angle so Minnie can see the pictures. She laughs at all the usual places until she falls asleep after only a couple of chapters.

I let the tears fall while I brush my teeth, staring at my stunned eyes in the mirror. Green with brown flecks, just like Minnie’s. That I’m supposed to believe now is a mere coincidence rather than a genetic gift. Who do my eyes come from, if not her?

With my bedroom door closed behind me, I slowly get undressed for bed and remember the photo I’d slipped into my jeans pocket.

I prop it against the lamp on my bedside table, where the muted light illuminates my mother’s contented face next to my peaceful one.

Tiny eyes closed, tiny fingers curled round one of hers.