All at Once

Chapter Thirty-One

Mum spent three more days in hospital before she was allowed to go home.

As Doctor Maynard signed off her discharge papers, he scribbled his personal mobile on the back of the sheet in scrawling black ink and told her to 'keep in touch'. Her newly repaired heart certainly seemed to be working fine if the rosy wash that flooded her cheeks was anything to go by.

When we arrived back home, the large bouquet of flowers I'd placed on the kitchen table had filled the house – which I'd cleaned from top to bottom in between visits to the hospital – with the welcoming smell of fresh blooms.

"Christ, Abi," my mum gasped as she walked in, "I don't think this place has looked so spotless since the turn of the millennium."

I rolled my eyes. "You mean, since I came along?"

Her quick, sharp laugh turned into a chesty cough, leaving her needing to steady herself on the back of a breakfast stool.

"Go and sit down," I instructed, taking her elbow and edging her towards the door. "I'll bring in some tea and then get started on making dinner."

Smiling as she shook her head gently, she reached out to stroke my hair. "What did I do to deserve such an angel?"

"Must have been something pretty bloody good," I joked, shrugging my shoulders.

"Seriously, Abi," she replied, her thumb rubbing lightly back and forth against my cheek. "I count my blessings every day that I've got you. You've turned into such a capable young woman. Your dad would have been so proud."

"He'd have been proud of us both," I smiled, swallowing down the small lump rising into my throat. "Now, go. Sit."

"Yes ma'am," she replied before padding slowly out of the kitchen to go and get comfortable on the sofa.

Once the fresh vegetable lasagna I'd made had gone into the oven, I checked in on mum, dozing in front of the TV, then headed up to my bedroom to change into jogging bottoms and a sweatshirt.

Throwing my red leather satchel down onto the flowered bedspread – the same I'd had since I was a teenager – the buckle flew across the room and the contents spilled out across the bed.

"For fuck's sake," I mumbled to myself.

That bag had been my sidekick since I'd moved up to London, having spent nearly seventy pounds from my intimal student loan payment on it during my first visit to Oxford Street. Throwing it away would be like saying goodbye to an old pal, but it had clearly seen better days.

With a heavy heart I emptied the last few items out onto the bed, laid my soft red leather friend to rest in the wastepaper bin under my desk, then began to sort through the mess. Among the debris, a roughly folded leaflet stood out among the various other pieces of rubbish that had lived within the depths of my satchel. Flopping back onto the bed, I read over its information once more before staring at the phone number printed on the back for at least a couple of minutes.

Finally plucking up the courage to dial the number, my mouth seemed to be getting drier with each rhythmic, electronic ring. As I was about to hang up, a woman answered.

"Hello," I began, after she had delivered her opening line with a bored, monotonous tone. "I just wanted to enquire about making an appointment this week if possible? To see about going on the pill."