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First published in Great Britain 2019
by Egmont UK Limited
The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN
Text copyright © 2019 Aisha Bushby
The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted
First e-book edition 2019
ISBN 978 1 4052 9319 8
Ebook ISBN 978 1 4052 9320 4
www.egmont.co.uk
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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For Alfie,
Thank you for braving the world with me -- both real and imaginary.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Some days later
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Mum always turns everything into a game. Even boring days out to the theatre.
‘When the play starts,’ Mum says, ‘count the number of times the cast say Rapunzel’s name. Apparently they say it seven times in the first seven minutes!’ She pauses, looking between me and my best friend Elle. We glance at each other and frown. ‘Seven!’ Mum repeats, like this should mean something to us. ‘The witching number?’ She looks disappointed. ‘Oh, never mind.’
I can’t help but laugh. Mum’s games don’t always make sense, because her brain works in mysterious ways.
We’re at a coffee shop next door to the theatre, having cake and hot chocolate while we wait to watch an afternoon performance of Rapunzel.
‘Fine, you think of a better game to play while we watch,’ she says, chucking her napkin at me, grinning.
‘We could just watch the play?’ I offer.
Mum snorts, shaking her head. ‘Boring.’
‘OK, fine.’ I think for a moment. ‘How about we count the number of times the cast says “hair”?’ I suggest. ‘Isn’t that what the story is about?’
It’s Mum’s turn to laugh. ‘Rapunzel isn’t about hair!’ she says. ‘I’ve never heard something so ridiculous. It’s about freedom, and independence, and exploring the world.’
While Mum talks, I look up a line from the story on my phone and read it out, smirking. ‘“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down thy hair.” You have to admit, Mum, it does seem to be about hair . . .’
‘Cheeky,’ Mum says, taking a sip of her coffee. ‘Anyway, what about you, Elle, what do you think we should count?’
Elle, who’s been watching us talk back and forth like a referee at a tennis match, chimes in. ‘We’ve been doing Shakespeare at school this year, and apparently whenever anyone performs Macbeth, it’s bad luck to say his name in the theatre before the play!’
Mum looks genuinely interested. ‘Yes, I have heard this! But also, did you know . . .’ And soon enough Mum and Elle have launched into a conversation about different traditions in the theatre – something I could never talk about.
Elle’s like a chameleon, she always knows what to say. She changes personalities depending on who she’s around and can talk to just about anyone, like Mum. I’m just a plain old lizard, darting into the corner of every room I enter.
While they talk, I get distracted by the countdown on my phone. Fifteen minutes.
That’s when tickets to the biggest video gaming convention of the year are released. Dad promised he would go with me if I could get us both tickets. I’ve been saving up my birthday money for it.
The thing is, they can sometimes sell out in minutes, so you have to be quick.
‘Hurry up, Safiya!’ Mum calls. I look up and find her at the door of the coffee shop tapping her feet, impatient to leave.
Mum and I look so similar we could almost be twins, apart from our hair and my glasses. We both have olive skin and brown eyes. Except Mum has black curls that float down her back, whereas my hair hangs by my waist in limp waves.
‘Mum, the play doesn’t start for another half-hour,’ I protest. Secretly I want to stay here long enough to buy the tickets before we go inside. But if I tell Mum that she won’t understand.
‘I want to find our seats early, get comfortable!’
‘And that takes half an hour?’
Mum sighs, opens her mouth to retort, and then storms out of the coffee shop.
I can’t help but roll my eyes. Mum can be so hot and cold sometimes, like a sunny winter’s day. Things can be going really well, then suddenly everything changes.
The truth is, even though Mum and I look alike, we’re not very similar in other ways. Often it’s like we’re on different pages of the same book, always just missing each other as the page turns.
‘Come on, Saff,’ Elle says, reaching for my hand. She’s used to mine and Mum’s bickering now.
When we get into the theatre foyer it’s packed, and I walk with Elle until we find Mum outside the hall, tickets in hand. She hasn’t seen us yet.
Elle says she’s going to pop to the toilets quickly so I stop, for a moment, and watch Mum standing there alone. Her eyes are far away, like they’re in a different world entirely. Mum’s been so intense about this show, more than I’ve ever seen her before. You’d think we were going to the West End, not the local theatre in our tiny town.
A member of staff approaches her and Mum’s eyes focus again. ‘No thank you,’ she says when the woman asks if she needs any help. ‘I’m just waiting for my daughter and her friend.’ Then she comments on how lovely the woman’s earrings are and her face lights up as she tells Mum that she made them herself. Soon enough they’re in a full-blown conversation about jewellery-making, even though Mum knows nothing about it.
Mum’s good at talking to people, being a lawyer. She knows exactly what to say at all times. I’m different. I only know how to express myself in video games. Instead of words, I use spells and incantations.
Once the woman leaves, Mum’s face falls into a frown. She checks her watch and glances anxiously across the foyer, just as Elle taps me on the shoulder. Then Mum sees us. Except she sees Elle before me, because she stands out way more than I do, with her bright red mane like a beacon of light.
‘There you are!’ Mum says, relieved, but I can hear the annoyance in her voice too.
I check the time. Five minutes until the convention tickets are released.
‘I’m just going to the toilet!’ I say. ‘Be back in a second.’
Mum lets out a noise that sounds like a monster is living inside her. She hands me my ticket, barely looking at me now. ‘You’ll have to find your seat alone,’ she warns, like I’m five years old, and not thirteen.
Once Mum and Elle have disappeared inside the hall I run back outside the theatre and into the coffee shop again, where they have Wi-Fi. I log in to my account and watch the countdown.
Two minutes.
‘Did you want a drink?’ the person behind the counter asks.
I stare at him blankly.
‘You’re not really supposed to be in here without a drink,’ he clarifies, a little more sternly.
I hate being told off.
My eyes dart between the coffee-shop guy and the countdown on my phone, and I panic, frozen. I try to open my mouth but it’s like it’s glued shut. I am not good under pressure with strangers. So I just shake my head and run back out on to the street.
Stupid, Saff, I think, feeling embarrassed. If Mum or Elle were here they would have been able to talk to him and say, ‘Yes, just an orange juice please,’ and buy the tickets to the gaming convention, and everything would be fine.
Instead I stand on the street for fifteen minutes, where the Wi-Fi doesn’t work, and there’s hardly any signal. I try to load the page over and over, until all the tickets have sold out and the page shows a big sad smiley face with a pop-up bubble that says ‘Maybe next year’.
To make everything worse, by the time I get back to the theatre the play’s already started. Mum’s going to be furious!
I slip into my seat after stepping on about five people’s toes, almost knocking a drink out of someone’s hand, and getting a few tuts from older men and women. And when I’m finally in my seat I shrink so low I’m surprised I haven’t morphed into a turtle, hiding inside its shell.
I look over at Elle and she gives me a small thumbs up, before turning back to the play. Mum’s next to her on the other side, ignoring me. I watch the two of them whisper to each other during the play like best friends.
At the interval Mum goes and grabs her and Elle an ice cream – vanilla for Mum, strawberry for Elle. She doesn’t ask me, even though she knows chocolate is my favourite.
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I didn’t realize you wanted one. We both said we would get them before the play started, but you weren’t here.’
Mum’s all smiles and warmth, but her eyes are a warning, like a lioness ready to pounce.
‘Anyway, did you count?’ Mum asks, turning to Elle.
‘Yes!’ Elle says. ‘You were right.’
Mum nods, satisfied.
When the play is over I’m the first out. I wait for Mum and Elle, but they take ages.
‘Saff, your mum said I could come round tonight for dinner,’ Elle says when she finally catches up with me.
‘We’re going to watch The Wizard of Oz,’ Mum chimes in. ‘It’s my favourite, Elle. You’ll like it, I think. I’d love to see the theatre performance of Wicked one day . . .’
Elle and Mum walk off, talking about the rest of the play, heads bobbing enthusiastically. I hang back a step or two. They’re both confident, so it makes sense that they get along, that their relationship is easy. I should be glad, but it’s a bit like playing my favourite video game, Fairy Hunters, and my team wins even though I didn’t cast a single good spell. I want to be happy, but then I feel like I don’t belong, like I’m not good enough. And the bad feeling takes over the good.
I know it’s weird not wanting Elle to come round, because she’s my best friend. But Saturday nights are supposed to be our night. Mum and me.
Ever since Mum and Dad divorced, and I decided to live with Dad, they set up these Saturday visits as part of the custody agreement. Mum and I hang out in the afternoon, and then we have dinner together and a sleepover. Usually Mum cooks, sometimes it’s a takeaway, but it’s always just been the two of us.
Until today.
I can’t help but think that maybe Elle’s the daughter Mum should’ve had, the daughter she would’ve wanted.
But instead she ended up with me.
‘Roar!’ I growl, leaping out from behind a mirror.
Elle squeals and giggles and then she hides behind a rail of clothes.
We’re shopping in London today, using vouchers from our Christmas presents. I found a big fur coat so, naturally, I put it on and pretended to be a bear.
Abir and Izzy widen their eyes at one another, as if to say ‘how immature’, but I catch Izzy grinning at me.
‘You’re so funny, Saff,’ Abir says a little flatly, in a way that suggests the exact opposite.
I ignore her. She takes herself a bit too seriously sometimes.
‘Hey, Saff !’ Elle calls from across the shop. A couple of older shoppers look on disapprovingly as Elle gallops across in a zebra jacket, and suddenly I feel like shy Saff again, worried they’ll tell us off the way that man did at the coffee shop last week.
The truth is, I’ve been trying to distract myself from everything going on today. This is the first Saturday in ages that I haven’t seen Mum. Last week, after we got back from the theatre and Elle had gone home, we had an argument – a horrid argument – and I stormed out of Mum’s flat. She never called or texted afterwards, and I didn’t text her either, so I assumed I wasn’t going round today.
I glance at my phone. Nothing. And somehow that hurts more than Mum’s angry words. Suddenly I feel annoyed all over again. I switch off my phone, as if to get back at her for ignoring me.
‘OK, let’s be serious now,’ Abir says, like we’re running some sort of covert operation. ‘Meet at the changing rooms in half an hour, yeah?’
‘Come on, Saff,’ Elle says, grabbing my hand and leading the way. ‘I need your help.’
I follow Elle obediently, just as I followed her on the second day of primary school. She decided we were going to be a snake, right in the middle of the playground. Elle, of course, was the snake’s head. I was behind her, hands on her shoulders. I felt silly and embarrassed at the time. Everyone was going to laugh at us, I was sure. But Elle was confident. She hissed and ran and giggled, and soon half of the playground joined us. Elle at the front, me following right behind. And that’s how it’s been ever since.
When we’re alone again we fall into that easy sort of conversation we have when it’s just the two of us. Sometimes we even forget where we are because the Saff and Elle bubble is indestructible – even an army of goblins couldn’t break through it.
I ask Elle what she’s been reading, and she asks me about gaming. I tell her that I just ranked up on Fairy Hunters, and she describes a series of books about an undercover alchemist. It’s set in a boarding school, like Harry Potter, and sounds really cool. We agree to have a three-day sleepover, where we binge on our favourite TV shows and films over half-term, and never change out of our pyjamas.
Later, when we stop for some food, Elle gets a message. ‘It’s your dad,’ she says, frowning, showing me her screen. ‘He wants you to look at your phone.’
That’s weird. Why would Dad message Elle? As soon as I see the stream of missed calls, voice messages and texts I know something’s wrong.
Dad: [Missed Call]
Dad: Saff, can you call me as soon as you get this?
Dad: [Missed Call]
Dad: [Missed Call]
Dad: Can you catch the next train home?
I know something big has happened, and I know when I find out that everything will be different.
I grab Elle’s hand and squeeze, like maybe it’ll stop time. She squeezes back. I wordlessly hand her my phone and wait for her to tell me what to do.
‘We’ll go now, OK?’ she says, before turning to the others to explain. ‘See you later, yeah?’
Abir and Izzy nod solemnly. I hear them whisper to Elle and ask her what’s going on, but I don’t hear her response. I don’t even say goodbye.
We leave in a rush, our food half eaten, and head to the Tube station.
I quickly text Dad before we go on the Underground. My hands are shaking.
‘Shall we ring your dad first?’ Elle asks.
I shake my head. I can’t here. Not now. I need everything to stop, just for a little while. Because the truth is, I don’t want to know what Dad has to say.
Saff: Getting on the Tube. I’ll ring you from the train. Be about 20 mins.
Elle holds my hand the whole way down, even as we go through the barriers.
Four stops to King’s Cross. Four stops for me to imagine the worst. Dad must be OK. I don’t have any grandparents, or aunts and uncles, apart from Mum’s sister . . . Is it Mum?
One. Mum cycles everywhere. Did she get hit by a car? Does she wear a helmet? I can’t remember.
Elle and I don’t speak. She just squeezes my arm every few moments. I don’t cry, but my heart is beating so fast I feel like I can’t breathe.
The Tube is too hot. I might pass out.
Two. Maybe she just tripped and broke a leg, and I’m overthinking it all? Dad’s just ringing to make sure I don’t go straight to her flat. Right?
But why is he telling me to get the next train?
Someone gets up and Elle wrestles me a seat.
Three. And why would he ring Elle too?
I bury my head in my hands. Elle is stroking my hair. It helps.
Four. I’m sorry for yelling at you, Mum. I’m sorry, sorry, sorry.
‘When’s our train?’ I ask as we step off the Tube.
‘Ten minutes. We’ll make it.’
But I’m not so sure we will. I feel like a broken puppet, my strings hanging uselessly by my side, with no control over my legs or arms. As we make our way up the escalators I walk around in a daze. Eventually Elle picks up my strings and leads me, like all those years ago.
I don’t recall going through the ticket barrier, searching for our platform, or making my way on to the train.
But suddenly I’m in my seat and my phone is in my hand. Dad’s contact details are up on my screen.
‘You can do this,’ Elle says, squeezing my hand. And it’s like time has started all over again.
I call Dad.
The phone rings.
And rings.
He doesn’t answer.
The train is filled with excitable children, fuelled by sweets and fizzy drinks. They laugh and it sounds weird. Wrong. I want to switch places with them, to pretend everything’s OK. How are they so happy, so full of life when mine feels like it’s about to end? I watch two of them chase each other, giggling uncontrollably. But then one of them accidentally trips the other and suddenly both of them are in tears, each of their parents cuddling them for comfort.
Elle and I find a quiet corner and watch the world go by as the train pulls away from the station.
My phone vibrates in my hand moments into the journey. My fingers ache from squeezing it so tightly. ‘Hello?’ I say, my voice shaky.
‘Safiya?’
‘Dad, what’s happened?’ I ask. There are already tears in my eyes ready to fall. I take a deep breath, and then another.
‘It’s your mum,’ he says, and it’s like a lead brick slams hard against my abdomen. ‘She’s . . .’
Dead, I think. Just say it. Just tell me. But I can’t speak.
‘ . . . in a coma.’
‘But she’s alive?’ I wipe my eyes and cheeks with the sleeve of my coat.
I can sense Elle’s body stiffen, as she connects the dots of the one-sided conversation she’s hearing.
‘Yes.’ Dad exhales as he speaks. ‘Where are you now?’
‘On the train. I’ll be at the station soon.’
‘OK. I’ll pick you up. I tried to see her but it’s too soon for visitors.’
‘Dad?’
‘Yes, Saff?’
‘H-how . . . What happened?’
‘They think it was a stroke,’ Dad admits, his voice shaky. ‘I don’t know anything more just yet.’
I nod, and then realize he can’t see me. ‘OK,’ I say. It comes out strangled, more a wail than a word. More tears follow. They fall easily now.
The ticket lady starts to make her way down the carriage. ‘Tickets, passes and railcards!’
‘I have to go now,’ Dad says. ‘I’ll speak to the doctor, then head straight to the train station. Are you with Elle?’
I swallow before replying; it’s like gulping down a stone.
‘Tickets, passes and railcards!’
‘Saff?’
‘Yes, I’m with her.’ I wipe snot on my sleeve.
‘Good. Not long now, I promise.’
I put the phone down and stare ahead at the chair in front of me. A piece of mint-green chewing gum is lodged between the back of the seat and the tray.
‘Tickets, passes and railcards!’ the woman repeats, marching down the aisle with purpose. When she reaches us Elle whispers something to her.
She glances at me before nodding at Elle.
‘Come on,’ Elle says, grabbing my arm and my things. We crawl to the back of the train, my vision blurred from the tears. She slides a door open, and it’s only when I walk through and feel the heat that I realize she’s lead me to the posh carriage.
No one’s in here, just us.
‘Is your mum . . . ?’ she asks, trailing off. ‘Is she . . . ?’
‘She’s in a coma.’ I whisper the words, testing them out on my tongue.
And that’s when I know things will never be the same again.
The next day we’re at the hospital I was born in. We couldn’t see Mum last night because the doctors were busy operating on her brain. For some reason, when I imagine it happening, all I can think of is that old-school game, Operation, where you have to remove different body parts without setting off the buzzer.
They called Dad this morning to let him know how it went, and to say that we would be able to visit Mum in the afternoon. So, I guess, the buzzer never went off. It’s not GAME OVER.
‘She’s in the intensive care unit,’ Dad explains, leading the way.
We follow the yellow line on the wall like Dorothy and the Scarecrow on their way to Oz. Except, instead of the Wizard, we’re going to see Mum.
My mouth is all dry and I feel sick. It doesn’t help that everything smells like antiseptic.
Still, we walk and walk and walk, until we turn a corner where a reception desk sits in the semi-darkness, surrounded by rooms.
‘James and Safiya Fisher to see Aminah Al-Adwani,’ Dad says.
Aminah. I forget that’s her name sometimes. I’m so used to her being Mum.
‘Are you a relation?’ the nurse asks. I look down at his badge and read the name Edward Hussein.
‘I’m her ex-husband, but I’m still her emergency contact. I was, uh, I was here yesterday.’