‘Oh yes,’ Dad says. ‘Impossible, when he felt like it.’
‘Couldn’t get any sense out of him about his future,’ Mum adds.
We all laugh and, when we stop, we’re all crying. It’s like now we’ve finally acknowledged his death it makes it so much easier to talk about him – flaws and all. It’s easier to remember Akash, rather than the memory of Akash.
‘He was loud and annoying and stubborn, but he could definitely make us laugh,’ I say, sniffling. ‘He’d do something to cheer us up if he was here.’
Dad nods.
‘He’d make some comment about this cake for a start,’ I say. ‘What were you thinking, Mum? You could serve that at a wedding!’
‘Don’t you worry, your wedding cake will be three times this size,’ Mum says, her face brightening a bit. ‘Vanilla sponge, cream icing, strawberry jam. Classic. It will melt in people’s mouth like butter.’
‘Not my wedding,’ I say, rolling my eyes. I can’t help briefly thinking about Josh though. ‘A wedding, Mum.’
‘Come on, stop all this talk of weddings and let’s eat more of this cake,’ Dad says, chuckling.
Mum cuts more slices. ‘We’re going to the hospital in a while. There’s food in the fridge for lunch,’ she says. ‘I made chicken with aubergine. And there’s naan bread. I didn’t have time to make roti – you just need to heat it all in the microwave.’
She looks nervous suddenly, fingering her dupatta. ‘Or maybe Dad should stay with you today.’
‘It’s OK,’ I say. Tomorrow is Monday and then … ‘The exams start on Thursday – I’ve got plenty to do.’
‘Art first?’ Dad says.
‘Yeah. I could do with some practice – I haven’t painted for ages.’
Dad nods. ‘But I want you to know that there’s no pressure, OK? You don’t have to sit your exams if you don’t want to. Only do them if you’re ready. I’ve been acting like … like the whole of our future depends on it.’ He shakes his head. ‘I shouldn’t have put you under so much pressure. I just didn’t want you to miss out on anything; I thought I was helping you focus, but I realize now that … I’m sorry, Neena.’ He leans across and kisses me on the forehead.
I stare at Dad, and then at Mum, and take in a long, deep breath. Their eyes are swollen and red. They’re worn out. My throat hurts as I realize – really realize – how much I’ve put them through. How much we’ve all been through. And, although I haven’t had this conversation with them before, something about it is familiar. The way they’re looking at me. Their gentle voices.
It’s how it always was when I was a kid. Before Akash was a teenager and started drinking, and before they started fighting. Before he encouraged me to do the same and I began to hide things from them, stopped talking to anyone.
‘Thanks, Dad,’ I say, remembering that this – actually talking about things – is a better way. ‘But I think I’m ready.’ And, as annoying as Dad’s been at times, I now wonder if I’d still be ready if he hadn’t obsessed about my schoolwork. Even if it was another pressure, another possible trigger, to making me ill.
Mum looks suddenly uncomfortable. She wraps the corner of her dupatta round her little finger. ‘I don’t know – maybe I should stay with you today?’
I roll my eyes. ‘Really, I’ll be OK!’
Dad pushes a spoonful of cake into his mouth and leans over to pat Mum’s arm. ‘Listen to your daughter. She’ll be OK,’ he says. ‘Give her some space.’
It’s such an unexpected thing for Dad to say that we all laugh.
‘Actually,’ Mum says when we stop, ‘we … we’ve also been talking, Neena. About counselling …’
‘Yes, Mum,’ I say. ‘I know I need it. I’m doing well.’
She nods. ‘Yes, but there’s something else … We were wondering … If … if it’s OK with you, we’d like to get some as a family.’
‘Counselling?’ I ask, shocked.
Mum nods. ‘We’ve all been struggling. And I still am – it’s difficult every time I leave the house …’
I look at Dad. ‘You too?’ I ask. Somehow I can’t imagine him sitting in a room and talking openly about his feelings.
But Dad nods. ‘I think it would be a very good idea,’ he says.
‘I thought you were both thinking we could pray this away,’ I say, only half joking.
Dad smiles. ‘We will still pray!’ he says.
‘But we’ve seen the difference that medicine and therapy has made to you already,’ Mum adds. ‘And we realize that we all need it.’ She laughs. ‘Better late than never?’
‘It’s a great idea,’ I agree, my chest filling with so much relief that they’re finally beginning to get it. And, as I look at Mum and Dad, I already feel a bit closer to them. Weird, but this will be the first time we’re doing something as a family, even if it is therapy sessions! And that makes me feel … well, a bit less alone … and a bit more together. It feels like a fresh start.
‘Right,’ Mum says, standing up and clearing the dishes. ‘I need to get some clean clothes together for Raj,’ she says to Dad. ‘I’ll pack a bag, and then we’ll go.’
Raj. Hope. I’m beginning to feel more than just a bit of it. And suddenly I realize that art preparation can wait.
‘Can I come too?’ I ask. My heart is racing. ‘I’m ready.’
The Neonatal Intensive Care Unit has white walls and grey tiled floors. It’s clinical and serious, and the blue patterned curtains do nothing to hide that. I’m not sure what I expected. Those wicker baskets you sometimes see babies in? Maybe even nursery rhymes playing in the background? Instead, in every direction I look, there are machines, tubes, leads and tiny babies. I clutch Mum’s arm.
‘Why are they in those boxes?’ I ask.
‘They’re incubators,’ she says. ‘They’re like heated cots, to help them maintain their body temperature.’
I think I knew that really, but it’s still weird seeing all the incubators lined up, with all the little babies inside. I don’t know why but it makes me nervous. I guess because they seem so fragile. I take deep breaths as I follow Mum and Dad to the far end of the room.
There, a nurse in a white uniform is cradling a baby in her arms. She peers at us through her black-rimmed glasses. She looks efficient and tough. I get a good feeling from her.
‘Morning, Mr and Mrs Gill. I’ve just changed his nappy and checked his temperature,’ she says, her voice low. ‘Good news – I think we’ll be moving him from ICU to Ward 76 very soon!’
‘Oh!’ Mum says, smiling widely, and Dad makes a little noise of delight too. ‘That’s wonderful news!’
I’m not exactly sure what this means, but it’s clearly good so I smile too.
Mum squirts some antibacterial gel on to her hands and passes me the tube. We’re all standing round the efficient-looking nurse and the baby.