The Aftermath, Gail Schimmel [sneezy the snowman read aloud .txt] 📗

home in the evening, we didn’t talk about Miriam waking up. We didn’t talk about anything much, and Mum just pushed the omelette I’d made around her plate, although she carefully thanked me for it.

‘It’s nice coming home to a hot meal,’ she said, even though she didn’t eat it.

‘Don’t get too used to it,’ I said, laughing. ‘When this baby comes, you’re going to do all the cooking.’

That perked her up slightly. ‘Maybe I’ll take some time off work.’

‘Like maternity leave for grannies,’ I said. ‘Graternity leave.’

She smiled. ‘I’ll put in for graternity leave first thing tomorrow.’

This morning when I wake up, I think about what my mum said about the hot meal, and realise that I haven’t been helping much. I’ve noticed that the towel cupboard is a mess, so I start there. My lower back is a bit sore, but I really want to get the towels sorted, so I keep going. I want to organise the towels in piles of different colours and with the most worn out ones at the bottom.

This, I tell myself, will make my mother’s life much easier.

Helen

I phone Julia mid-morning to tell her that I’ve actually successfully arranged two weeks’ ‘graternity’ leave, starting as soon as the baby is born. And to remind her that I will be with Mike this afternoon and stupid-bloody-wide-awake Miriam.

‘I’ve sorted out the towel cupboard,’ says Julia. ‘And alphabetised the spices and cleaned the fridge.’

‘Are you feeling okay?’ I ask.

‘A few Braxton Hicks,’ says Julia. ‘Also, I changed all the linen. It smelt funny.’

‘Okay,’ I say, even though the linen was changed two days ago. Everyone knows pregnant women are strange. And I’m thinking about meeting Miriam, so I don’t really have the energy to ask about sheets. ‘Mum,’ says Julia, ‘I have to go. The scones might burn.’

‘Scones?’

But the line is already dead.

I look at my phone for a few seconds, feeling like I’m missing something. There’s a thought at the tip of my tongue, but it’s slippery and I lose it. I know I’m nervous about meeting Miriam. Edward and Larry have become so much a part of my life, and Miriam might not like that. And if she doesn’t like me, they won’t stay friends with me either. I’m trying to tell myself that I’m worried about my friendship with Eddie, but it’s Larry I’m picturing. If Miriam doesn’t like me, her brother won’t want to stay friends with me.

‘Friends,’ I mutter, loud enough that the people in the waiting room look up, startled. I smile vaguely and pretend to write a note in the appointment book. I can hear Julia’s voice in my head, teasing me about Larry, even though she doesn’t in real life. All Julia says about anything these days is, ‘What do I know?’

Before I can think more about Julia, Ewan comes through.

‘Okkie wants to go and see his family in Uganda,’ he announces to me and the waiting room. I feel the energy in the room shift. This is interesting. Mrs Beaumont has high blood pressure; I hope the excitement won’t kill her.

‘That’s lovely,’ I say, unsure why Ewan looks so angry. ‘I believe Uganda is beautiful. Will you go too?’

Ewan looks at me. ‘Do you know what happens to gay albinos in Uganda?’

Mrs Beaumont isn’t even pretending to read her magazine any more.

‘People with albinism,’ I correct, almost without thinking. Since becoming friends with Okkie and Ewan, I’ve become very sensitive to language and feel quite disturbed hearing Ewan say ‘albino’. ‘And anyway, is that a known sub-group? Gay albinos? Is it like a thing? Like a club?’

Ewan looks at me. ‘You’re not taking this very seriously.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m not myself today.’

‘You mustn’t let him go,’ pipes up Mrs Beaumont from the waiting room chair. ‘The Ugandans are very odd about homosexuality. This Okkie character must stay right here. No good will come of being gay with albinism in Uganda, mark my words.’ She says the last part in a dark voice, as if she personally has experience in this field.

Ewan glares at me. ‘Mrs Beaumont gets it.’ And he goes back into his office.

I suspect Okkie is about to get a phone call telling him that even old Mrs Beaumont in the waiting room doesn’t want him to go.

‘Dr Marigold is such a nice young man,’ says Mrs Beaumont, reopening her magazine. ‘I hope his friend doesn’t do anything stupid.’

The whole incident is so strange that I feel completely wrong-footed. I send Ewan an email: ‘Sorry I wasn’t sympathetic. I’m distracted. Miriam woke up.’

A minute later, Ewan bursts out of his room again. ‘Miriam woke up?’ he yells across the floor. ‘What the hell?’

‘I know,’ I mutter, aware of Mrs Beaumont’s eyes on me again. ‘I’m going to see her this afternoon. Meet her.’

‘Bloody hell,’ says Ewan. ‘That’s something for the books. Come through, Mrs Beaumont.’

Mrs Beaumont looks perkier than I have ever seen her, and I can hear her asking whether Miriam is also from Uganda before the door has even closed.

I sigh, and wonder if Ewan expects me to say something to Okkie. This is one of the things about being out of the habit of friends – I’m not at all sure what is expected.

I phone Julia and tell her the story. ‘I’m not really sure what to do,’ I say. ‘Should I say something to Okkie?’

‘What do I know?’ says Julia.

‘Well, you have lots of friends,’ I say. ‘You know what people expect.’

‘Yes, I’m a superstar with friendships, Mum,’ says Julia. ‘Pregnant with the baby of the husband of the nicest friend I ever had. You should totally follow my advice.’

‘Well, I’m not going to get pregnant with Okkie’s baby,’ I say, and suddenly we’re both laughing. I love that, even though the patients in the waiting room are looking at me like I’ve grown two heads.

‘Anyway, Mum,’ says Julia. ‘Have to go – I’m painting the baby’s room.’

‘Why? It’s already painted.’

‘It is completely and utterly the wrong colour. I don’t know what we were