Читать книгу The Secret Lives of the Amir Sisters - Nadiya Hussain - Страница 11

CHAPTER FIVE

Mae

‘Mae, put the camera away,’ Fatti whispered into my ear.

Was she mad? This was prime videoing time; all these faces, the hospital, the tension.

‘Put it away or I’ll throw it in the bin,’ exclaimed Mum.

Everyone in the waiting room looked at Mum. Didn’t look like she cared. I tucked the phone under my leg as Dad gave an exhausted sigh. Fatti got up and made her way towards the door, outside, where Farah was sitting on her own. Looked like Dad was lost in a world of his own, so I got up and walked towards the door too with my phone. I’d just got a message from the girls from school.

Omg. Jus saw on your snapchat that your bro inlaws been in an accident. Are you alright?? Hashtagged on Twitter #Pray4family. Lemme know if you need anything. Xxx

I knew it wasn’t ideal to video all of this but it was my GCSE assignment. Plus, it’s weird how people find my family so interesting. Whenever I put something on Snapchat about them it always gets loads of hits, because some people appreciate creativity – and not the Bubblee kind, but the real, gritty, my-generation kind. What my fam fail to understand is that they don’t actually have peripheral vision. Yeah, in the literal sense they have it, but not in the metaphorical sense (I’m going to ace my GCSE English too). For example, as I walked up to the door, Mum and Dad in the waiting room couldn’t see how Fatti looked, sitting next to Farah. I sneakily got my phone out again. Of course Farah’s going to be crying and all sorts but when I zoomed in on Fatti, just a little, there was something more than upset there. A look no-one would’ve noticed if it weren’t for me and my trusted camera.

The doctor came and paused in front of Farah and Fatti as they both looked up. She started saying something about Mustafa being in a medically induced coma.

‘A coma?’ said Farah, looking confused.

‘It’s just a precaution to avoid nerve and brain-stem cell damage that can be caused by the swelling of the brain,’ she said.

‘But he’s going to be okay, isn’t he?’ said Fatti. ‘I mean, he’s going to come out of it.’

The doctor removed her glasses. ‘It’s too early to tell. The injuries to the head have been severe. We’ll have to wait to see the extent once the swelling has reduced and we take him out of the coma.’

‘Oh, God,’ said Farah, clutching her stomach.

‘So, the coma’s not permanent?’ said Fatti.

‘No, no. Just temporary and reversible.’

Farah shook her head. ‘I told him,’ she said to Fatti. ‘Always use your head-set. You’ll get caught by the police. You’ll have an accident.’

I felt a lump in my throat but pushed it back. Fatti rubbed Farah’s back, not saying much. She did look a little slimmer at this angle.

Every1s asking what’s goin on with ur bro-in-law. U should tweet sumthin.

I tweeted:

Bro-in-law in coma. In hospital with amazin staff.

#Pray4Family

‘Who was he speaking to?’ asked Fatti.

Farah shook her head. ‘Don’t know. His phone’s dead—’

She stopped and did this weird staccato intake of breath as if she’d forgotten how to breathe. I realised only then that I didn’t think I’d ever seen Farah cry. Fatti cries all the time. I know because I sometimes hear her in her room. All it takes is me offering her a salad before her eyes fill with tears. Bubblee cried the day she said she was moving to London. Those were more tears of rage, though. What a drama that was. I should watch that video back one day – ‘You’re stifling me! We’re human beings, not just girls who are made to get married and churn out babies …’ On and on it went.

Fatti took Farah into a hug and I zoomed in on Fatti’s face again, looking so sad and sorry that I decided to switch the camera off. Though I did wonder: what’s she got to be sorry about?

When Bubblee came running down the corridor, Farah looked up as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. Bubblee slowed down to a walk as she approached us and took the seat next to Farah. When I was a child I used to pretend that Farah and Bubblee were the two ugly step-sisters (except they weren’t ugly, obvs) and Fatti was my fairy godmother.

‘You came,’ said Farah. Not like she sounded grateful or anything – just surprised.

Bubblee gave a tight kind of smile. Smiling never did come naturally to her.

‘What do the doctors say?’ Bubblee asked.

‘Severe head trauma,’ replied Farah, pressing her hand to her forehead.

I couldn’t help it. I had to get my phone out again. I put it on video and then tucked it into my shirt pocket so it recorded everything without anyone going, Mae, turn it off. Mae, stop it. Maeeeeeee.

‘But what does that mean?’ asked Bubblee.

Farah looked at her. ‘It means they don’t know if he’ll make it.’

‘Oh,’ replied Bubblee.

‘He’ll be okay,’ added Fatti. ‘You’ll see. He’ll be just fine.’

Unlike Fatti’s eating habits, her voice is kind of even. Some might say it’s monotone – they’re people who have a problem with consistency – but right then her voice had a note of panic.

‘Why are you being so weird?’ I asked her later when she got up to use the bathroom.

‘Am I? No, I’m not.’

She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror.

‘It’s not that bad,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘Your face,’ I replied, laughing.

She sighed. ‘You should go and sit with Farah.’

‘And say what? Sorry your husband’s in a coma?’

‘Mae.’

Fatti closed her eyes and splashed her face with some water. The problem with Fatti is that she’s a worrier. Every little thing will have her crease her eyebrows, look from side to side and probably throw up.

‘Poor Farah,’ she said, under her breath. ‘She doesn’t deserve this,’ she added, looking at me.

‘You’re telling me.’

‘And Mustafa. Lying there with all those wires going through him, not having a clue that his wife’s crying her eyes out.’

I squirted some disinfectant soap and rubbed it into my hands.

‘He’s too nice to be in a coma,’ she added.

‘Yeah, well, it’d be great if only murderers and rapists got put in comas, but I don’t think that’s how it works.’

She paused, leaning against the sink. ‘Did you finish your history homework?’

‘Not exactly top of my list of priorities right now,’ I said.

‘You’ve had all week. You’ve got subjects other than media and English, Mae.’

‘Have I?’ I said, leaning forward in shock as if I’d just found this out. I leaned back and rolled my eyes. ‘Don’t know how I’d keep up if it wasn’t for you.’

Fatti dragged me by the arm as we came out of the bathroom and sat me down in the waiting room.

‘My poor daughter,’ said Mum. ‘My poor sister.’

I glanced at Fatti as Bubblee walked into the room. ‘Has anyone called Mustafa’s mum to let her know?’

We all looked at each other. No-one had enough of their head about them to actually call Mustafa’s mum in Bangladesh.

‘She won’t forgive me,’ said Mum.

Bubblee sighed and got her phone out. ‘You didn’t drive into him, Amma. What’s her number?’

‘No, no. I’ll call her myself.’

With which Mum got her special calling card out and left the room. Dad got up a few moments later and followed her out of the room.

‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ said Bubblee. ‘Her sister’s son is married to her daughter and they still only speak to each other once every few months.’

‘Weird, for sure,’ I mumbled, scrolling through Twitter, reading all the messages I was getting about Mustafa.

Bubblee nudged me and looked over at Fatti who was wringing her hands. She’s mostly like a human but also a bit like a puppy – especially when she looks up at you like she did just then.

‘I don’t want Farah to be unhappy,’ she said.

Er, obviously.

‘Then you’d better stop looking like someone’s about to die,’ said Bubblee. ‘Because that’s the last thing Farah needs.’

*

We all came home that night – Bubblee volunteered to go home with Farah so she wouldn’t be sleeping alone. Mum, Dad, Fatti and I went to bed but when I got to my room and put my hand in my jeans pocket I realised I’d forgotten my phone, recording and propped up against the bread-bin in the kitchen. Walking past Mum and Dad’s bedroom, I heard them muttering. I’d have just walked past but something made me lean in and listen.

‘Did you see how short she’d cut her beautiful, long hair?’ I heard Mum say to Dad from outside their bedroom.

Amazing, isn’t it? Their son-in-law’s done in and in a coma, and Mum wanted to chat about Bubblee’s hair.

‘I spoke to Mrs Bhatchariya about boys for her. She said she’d send me some details, but you know what I think. We shouldn’t have let her go to London,’ added Mum.

‘Why couldn’t she be like our Faru?’ said Dad.

I was surprised they didn’t say Fatti. Nothing Fatti does is ever wrong. Speaking of the expanding devil, she came up the stairs and saw me crouching outside Mum and Dad’s door.

‘What are you doing there?’ she whispered, crouching with me.

‘Shh. I thought you’d gone to bed.’

‘Is that Mum crying?’ she asked.

I nodded.

‘Do you think Dad’s comforting her?’ she asked.

I let out a stifled laugh. ‘Yeah, right.’

Fatti began shifting on each leg until she couldn’t take it any more and sat back, leaning against the wall.

‘Why do you think that’s weird?’ she asked. ‘They’re always chatting in that room.’

‘Are they?’ I asked.

‘You might notice if you weren’t on your phone all the time.’

‘I only know what I need to know, thanks,’ I replied.

Fatti shook her head at me.

‘You think he’s going to be okay?’ she said.

‘Who?’

‘Mustafa.’

I shrugged. ‘Dunno. Hope so.’

‘What if he’s not, though?’ Fatti looked at me, fear in her eyes. ‘What if he … dies?’ Tears welled and were in danger of rolling down her cheeks.

‘You always think the worst’s going to happen.’

Fatti looked like she was about to say something when we heard Dad speak.

‘Malik is getting on a flight and coming as soon as possible.’

Our aunt and uncle are too old to travel and so their third eldest is coming instead.

‘Maybe this is why it’s all happened,’ said Mum. ‘Malik will come and then …’

Fatti struggled off the ground, interrupting my eavesdropping with her deep breaths and suppressed sighing.

‘Do you think Bubblee and Farah are okay on their own in Farah’s house? Maybe I should’ve stayed with her instead?’ she said as she hovered over me.

‘They’ll be fine. It’s not like they’ll kill each other – not while Farah’s husband’s in hospital,’ I replied.

‘You shouldn’t be eavesdropping,’ said Fatti, putting both hands on her hips.

I shooed her away. She was killing my buzz as I continued to listen in to my parents’ room, so she plodded away.

‘But is it the right time?’ said Mum.

Right time for what? I leaned in closer as they both went quiet. Then Dad spoke.

‘It doesn’t matter that he’s coming. Mustafa is here and you never worry about it.’

‘Mustafa is different. He’s the same as us now,’ said Mum. ‘Maybe Malik will also be like us one day. It will be the answer to our prayers and then we could tell her.’

‘We’ve waited very long,’ said Dad.

What were they talking about? Annoying Fatti who made me miss half the conversation with her anti-eavesdropping morals. Before I knew it, Mum and Dad began talking about shopping that was needed and how Farah should stay with us while Mustafa’s in hospital. Then I heard the creaking of the bunk as they both seemed to get ready to sleep.

I went downstairs to get my phone and switched off the recording. Before I deleted it I thought I might as well check what it had caught and, sure as anything, there was Fatti, stuffing her gob with mashed prawns and cream cheese.

*

‘Has someone tried to call Jay?’ asked Bubblee. ‘Farah’ll want him to know.’

I looked at Fatti. Fatti looked at me. It hadn’t occurred to any of us that he should be told, given that he never knows what’s going on in the family anyway. Mum and Dad were walking down the hospital corridor where we’d congregated. Farah was in Mustafa’s room. When we asked them, Dad said: ‘No, no. Better to keep him out of it for now.’

‘He’ll just worry,’ said Mum. ‘Such a busy boy, trying to make something of himself.’

Bubblee scoffed as she folded her arms. Mum looked at her and raised her finger, while Dad mumbled something about needing some tea. It’s not as if Bubblee actually said anything, but God forbid anyone even suggest that Jay’s a waste. Which, as the youngest, I can appreciate without feeling too bothered about it. Bubblee’s bothered about everything, though. It’s just who she is.

‘Your amma is already worried enough. Don’t worry her more,’ said Dad to Bubblee. ‘And she isn’t wrong.’ He looked towards Mum who was staring at him. ‘You’re getting old and must think about getting married. Look at Mustafa and think how things can turn out.’

It’s not like he raised his voice or anything, but it was a bit off-topic.

Even in the middle of a hospital Asian parents have to speak about marriage. #Obsessed #Marriage #Coma.

Bubblee went to protest but Fatti nudged her as Mum looked at her.

‘Our son is trying to be a man,’ she said. ‘You should try to be a woman.’

Dad looked at the ground and followed Mum as they both walked away, leaving Bubblee, basically bubbling with anger. Who can blame her? I mean, bit harsh telling her that the only way she’s a woman is if she gets married. Plus, what did that make Fatti, who’d turned a shade of red too when Mum said that. Our amma needs to get with the programme. Can’t fight these oldies though, they’re stuck in their ways. Shame, really. Mum’s all right when she’s chilled out and not worrying about the fact that Farah’s not had a baby, the rice has run out or that Bubblee’s not married. She’s even interesting when you listen to the stories she tells about her childhood.

‘Unbelievable,’ Bubblee exclaimed as soon as they were out of earshot. The nurse behind the desk shot us a look. ‘Our brother-in-law’s in a coma and all Mum can think about is me getting married.’

I think it was a good idea to have a hidden camera running – you have to love media equipment. This would’ve been the time I’d have had to switch it off otherwise. Fatti fidgeted with her hands. I put my arm around Bubblee.

‘You’re twenty-eight, Bangladeshi and single. What else are they going to think about?’

Bubblee looked at me as if she was about to tell me to go to my room, before glancing at Fatti.

‘I don’t understand why they’re not on your back,’ she said to Fatti, shrugging my arm off her shoulder. ‘You’re two years older than me.’

‘Mae, go check if Mum’s okay,’ said Fatti to me.

‘You check,’ I replied.

She gave me her fairy godmother look so of course I had to listen. I swear, being the youngest in the family sucks.

‘All right, Ma?’ I said, slouching in the seat next to Mum and resting my arm on her shoulder.

‘Mae – sit like a girl.’

‘Oops, sorry,’ I said, putting my hands in the air before crossing my ankles. I pointed at them to show Mum how careful I was with her instruction. She ignored me. I tell you, it takes some kind of resilience to put up with this stuff.

‘So, er, Jay,’ I said.

‘Tst, Jahangeer,’ pronounced Mum. ‘We give him this beautiful name and you spoil it.’

Talk about touchy.

‘He’s the one who prefers it,’ I replied. ‘He hates his name. Jahangeer. Jahangeeeeeer,’ I said, spreading my arms out in dramatic Bollywood fashion. I sat back after Mum slapped my leg. ‘I mean, who can blame him?’

She chose to ignore this before she said: ‘Go and see where your abba is.’

‘But I want to talk to you, Amma.’ I gripped her shoulders and shook them. ‘See how you’re feeling, talk about what’s going on in here,’ I added, patting her bony chest.

She didn’t brush my arm off, so that was something. Mum stared at the wall in front of us that had disaster warnings of AIDS and Meningitis and all the diseases under the Wyvernage sky.

‘You girls don’t understand the struggles we’ve gone through.’

‘Okay,’ I said.

‘You know how easy your life is?’

I wanted to say easy’s not the word I’d use, but best not to rattle cages in hospitals and all that. Mum turned to me, her eyes softening. If I could’ve angled my video camera right then I’d have focused on those eyes.

‘You were such a good baby.’

This had me straighten up in my chair with pride.

‘And then you started speaking,’ she added. ‘Every time I would tell you to be quiet, Fatti would take you and talk to you.’ She smiled at the memory. ‘Oh, I forgot to tell her I brought some of her cheese for her.’

She rummaged in her handbag to look for it, found it and put it carefully in one of the bag’s pockets.

‘Now check if your abba is fine,’ she said finally.

‘All right then. Good talk, Mum.’

I lifted myself off the chair and went in search of Dad who was standing in front of the vending machine, looking a little hard done by.

‘Every time,’ he said. ‘You put in money and nothing comes out.’

I nudged him out of the way and grabbed both sides of the vending machine, shaking it. That didn’t work so I bent down and shoved my arm up to get hold of his packet of Maltesers that had got stuck between the Bounty and M&Ms. It was too far up for me to reach. I saw him shaking his head at me. With one last try I flung myself at the machine, hitting it with my arm, and out fell the Maltesers.

‘You’re welcome, Pops,’ I said, handing him his packet of e-numbers.

He looked at the packet, turning it around in his hands. ‘You know, sometimes your amma is a little harsh.’

‘No kidding,’ I said.

‘But it’s only because she wants the best for you girls,’ he added, shaking his Maltesers at me.

He handed them to me and said: ‘Now go and give these to Faru.’

I sighed and walked down the quiet, grey corridor, cleaning my hands at one of the hand sanitisers attached to the walls. Farah was sitting on the green leather chair, next to Mustafa’s bed, staring at him.

‘Hey,’ I said, looking around for Bubblee and Fatti.

I opened the packet of Maltesers and handed them to her. She put them on her lap.

‘How’re you doing?’ I asked.

She nodded. What did that mean?

‘You’ve got to hope for the best,’ I said, looking at Mustafa.

I wanted to prod him, just to see what reaction, if any, I’d get from him: would he twitch? Give a deeper intake of breath? Just stay motionless? But I don’t think Farah would’ve been too happy about that. I’d have been accused of not taking anything seriously. It’s just that, granted he wasn’t dead, but he wasn’t exactly alive either, was he? It was kind of fascinating – all of us watching a man in limbo.

‘Jay’s the one who calls himself Jay, isn’t it?’ I said.

She looked at me. ‘What?’

‘Mum goes on at us as if we’re the ones who’ve spoilt his name.’

She looked at me like: What the hell are you talking about? ‘Has he called?’

‘No, I mean he doesn’t like being called Jahangeer, does he?’

She looked at me, confused, but I was just trying to make conversation that didn’t have to do with Mustafa.

‘Mae – go and see if Mum and Dad are okay.’

You’ve got to wonder, don’t you? Who’s making sure I’m okay? So I took out my phone and decided to check my Twitter account – and what do you know? I got thirty-two new followers.