“You’re burning up, darling. I’ll go down and get you something. Just let me wake up a minute.”
Her eyes were half-shut, and rather than waking up, she looked like she was about to fall asleep right there, sitting up on my bed. I waited a couple of seconds, watching her head nod gently forward, her eyes getting heavier and heavier. I swallowed once, twice, but I just couldn’t hold it in any longer and I turned on my side and threw up over the edge of the bed like I was being seasick on a boat. My carpet, duvet, bedside table, and Mum’s right arm and leg were all splattered with vomit.
“Oh Matthew! Brian! BRIAN!”
I knew she wasn’t really angry, just exhausted from the pregnancy and being woken up in the middle of the night. Dad appeared in his pants, his hair all sticking up.
“Oh Matthew! Urgh, look at it all … Come on then, let’s clean you up.”
Dad stripped my bed while I managed to get myself to the bathroom and vomited in the toilet as I shivered with fever.
The next morning I woke up feeling even worse. My skin prickled and every inch of my body ached—from my eyelids to my fingertips. I got myself to the bathroom, and when I saw myself in the mirror I let out a little yelp. My face was peppered with bright red spots—I was smothered with them. I lifted up my shirt and stared at my chest. It was as if they were erupting out of my skin before my eyes. I screamed out for Mum but this time Dad got to me first, his face full of panic, but when he saw my chest he laughed.
“You’ve got chicken pox! That’s all it is. It’s just chicken pox, Matty.”
Mum appeared behind him.
“At last! I thought you’d never get it,” she said as she stood there smiling. Dad frowned at her and nodded toward her pregnant stomach, but Mum waved an “it doesn’t matter” hand at him.
“It’s fine, Brian. I’ve had chicken pox before. I’ll get dressed.”
Considering the baby was due in a week’s time, Mum was amazing. She looked after me like a proper nurse: putting cool washcloths on my forehead when my temperature was high, giving me any food I wanted when my appetite came back, and rubbing pink, chalky lotion onto my spots, which were driving me insane from the itching. But after a few days, things weren’t going so well. I was lying on the sofa downstairs reading a comic when I overheard her talking on the phone in the kitchen. She was trying to keep her voice low, but she sounded panicked.
“There’s blood, Brian. I’m scared … Yes, yes, a cab’s on its way now … I know, I know, but I’m really worried … Penny and Gordon are coming to watch him …”
Her voice cracked and I could hear her crying quietly in the hallway. She must have composed herself, as there were no tears when she came into the living room to reassure me that everything was going to be okay.
Penny and Gordon arrived and Penny helped Mum into the back of the cab. She put two bags into the trunk, one for Mum and one for the baby, and then the car pulled away. As Penny shut the door, I bit my lip so I wouldn’t start crying. In her rush, Mum had forgotten to say goodbye to me.
I wiped the tears from my face and I looked up at Dr. Rhodes.
“He died because of me. I was sick on my mum and then the baby died. If I hadn’t been ill, if I had kept the germs away, Callum would be here now.”
I put a hand over my face and sobbed. Dr. Rhodes passed me tissue after tissue until I calmed down.
“It wasn’t your fault, Matthew. Bad things happen to people all the time, and sometimes there just isn’t a reason behind it. But I can tell you this for sure: Your brother dying didn’t have anything to do with you being sick or the chicken pox.”
I nodded at her. I understood what she was saying, but a huge part of my brain still didn’t believe it. It was as though that section had its own wiring and was just making up what it wanted to torment me.
“You’ve done so well telling me about this today. Have you ever told your parents about it?”
I shook my head.
“Why don’t you think about telling them, Matthew? It would help them to understand how you’re feeling.”
I didn’t say anything, but I nodded and wiped my eyes again. I was so tired I could have curled up and gone to sleep on her soft sofa right there and then.
She talked about how the only way I could overcome my fears was to confront them head-on and put myself into situations where I felt most uncomfortable. I had to do the opposite of what my mind was telling me. Then I would be retraining my brain to understand that the things I was so frightened of weren’t so scary after all. Over the next few weeks she said we would come up with some exercises for me to do, and if I worked really hard and was really committed, then I’d see results pretty quickly. I told her that this sounded utterly petrifying and she smiled. I glanced at the clock and saw it said 10:27. The unlucky minute had passed and I hadn’t even noticed.
“You’ve done so well, Matthew,” she said as she smiled and closed her notebook. “What are your hopes for the future?”
I think I was supposed to say something like how I hoped to travel the world, get married, have a couple of kids, a black Labrador, a nice Audi in the driveway. That kind of thing. But I just shrugged.
“I don’t know,” I said.
Putting her notebook on her desk, she said that before we finished, she wanted to tell me a quick story. Placing her glasses on the top of her red hair and leaning back, she looked like she was about to read me a bedtime book.
“Once upon a time there was a young boy named Timothy who was about your age and was like you in many ways. Each morning he would get ready for school just like all the other kids, but after he’d said goodbye to his mum he would grab a bright orange bobble hat that he left on a hook by the front door. He’d put it on, check himself in the mirror, and then head off to school.
“As you can imagine, wearing an orange bobble hat in class all day and every day meant that he got quite a lot of grief from the other kids. They never tired of pointing and laughing and hurling rude words at him in the hallways, but it didn’t put Timothy off. Every time he left the house, without fail, he wore the hat.
“One morning, before the teacher arrived to give an exceptionally dull geography lesson, a nasty girl named Tabitha stood up with her hands on her hips and shouted across to Timothy, who was sitting at the back of the class with his bobble hat on as usual.
“‘Oi! Timothy! Why d’ya wear that hat every day?’
“The whole class erupted with laughter and everyone stared at Timothy, sitting on his own in the corner, the bobble hat pulled down so low it rested on his eyebrows. He looked up, and he smiled at the faces around him and everyone fell silent.
“‘Why? Well, to protect myself from the poisonous snakes, of course.’
“The entire class fell into more hysterical laughter, and when they eventually quieted down, Tabitha piped up again:
“‘But you’re so stupid! There aren’t any poisonous snakes in the school, are there?!’
“Everyone hushed again, eagerly awaiting Timothy’s response. The boy grinned back at them all.
“‘Aha, that’s right!’ he said, a knowing smile on his face. ‘But that’s only because I wear my lucky orange hat, isn’t it?’”
That evening I stood at the top of the stairs, listening to Mum and Dad watching TV. A sitcom was on and every now and then Dad chuckled.
I looked in the office and out onto the street. Old Nina’s lamp was on, her front room flickering as she watched TV too. I thought about what she’d said to me, about not waiting for a storm to pass but to go out and dance in the rain. I knew what she meant. I couldn’t sit this one out; I had to tackle it head-on. Taking a big, deep breath, I made my way downstairs.
“Matthew? What’s the matter?” said Mum, her eyes wide as I stood in front of the TV.
“Sorry, but I need to talk to you,” I said. “There’s something I have to tell you.”