Earth to Daniel Read online

  ‘I know that!’ I mumbled stroppily. Just because I thought of Mum as being a different person when she was ill didn’t mean I didn’t know that she was really just the one person as well.

  ‘OK then,’ Dad said, opening his car door. ‘If you really already know that, then that’s great.’

  ‘What’s so great about it?’ I grunted, not opening mine.

  ‘It’s great because it’s something I still find it difficult to get my head round. I find it much easier to only think about the side of your mother I feel comfortable with – the person she is when she’s well – and blank out all the rest. But it’s not like that, is it? It was your mother who got ill and acted that way. It was your mother who had that experience. And when she’s well, that experience is a part of her in the same way that all our experiences are a part of us.’ He paused. ‘Maybe if I’d been more able to face up to Mum’s illness being a part of our lives then I’d have been able to prepare you better and you’d have found this whole thing a lot easier to deal with.’

  I stared at Dad. He was talking to me like an adult now, all right. I couldn’t complain that he was trying to protect me too much from Mum’s illness any more.

  And just as I was thinking that, he added firmly, ‘By the way, I’ve decided that you’re going back to school on Monday, Daniel. Mum’s school. And when we get home, we’re going to sit down together and think about how you’re going to handle it if anyone says anything nasty to you about Mum.’

  ‘But …’ I knew from his face that there was no point in trying to argue about it. You’d think I’d be furious at having the decision suddenly taken away from me like that, but funnily enough, I wasn’t. I felt something else. I felt sort of full up inside, like my world had become pretty safe again all of a sudden. It was weird.

  CHAPTER 16

  Abby called in for me on Monday morning so we could walk to school together. Dad had surprised me the previous evening by presenting me with my very own mobile phone. I had to switch it off when I got to school but I was allowed to call Dad whenever I needed to on the way there or back.

  I had spent the previous evening going over what I was going to say if people asked me about Mum. Dad had pretended to be one of the other kids asking difficult questions so that I could have a go at answering them.

  ‘My mum’s been ill,’ I practised saying calmly. ‘That’s why she wasn’t acting like her normal self in school.’

  That got Dad talking to me about the word ‘normal’ and what it means to different people. He says that we might see Mum continuing on her lithium tablets every day as ‘normal’, but others might not agree. He says it all comes down to what our expectations are, at the end of the day. I hadn’t thought about it much before but now I think he’s right.

  ‘It’ll be OK,’ Abby kept reassuring me as I anxiously rehearsed what I was going to say on the way to school. Saying Mum was ill had been easy enough when I’d been practising it with Dad looking on encouragingly. But now that I was going to have to face everybody at school for real, without Dad there, I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to get any words to come out at all.

  ‘There was an announcement in assembly about your mum being ill, so people know that’s why she was behaving that way,’ Abby said.

  ‘Yes, but I bet everyone’s been calling her stuff anyway, haven’t they? Wacko? Psycho? Mental case?’

  Abby looked uncomfortable. ‘ “Psycho” mostly,’ she admitted. ‘But not in a really horrible way.’

  I glared at her. ‘How can you call someone “psycho” in a nice way?’

  ‘Well, you know … Like in a jokey way … Not like they really hate her or anything …’ She broke off.

  I looked at her. I mean, what could be worse than all the kids in school calling your mum a ‘psycho’ – and knowing that it was true? Let’s face it, words are pretty powerful. And however much I tried to remember that mental illnesses are just like any other illnesses and nothing to be ashamed of, I couldn’t help wishing that Mum hadn’t got one just the same.

  The first person we met as we walked in through the school gate was Calum. He started to grin when he saw me. His mates were there too. ‘Hey, it’s Daniel! How’s your mum then, Daniel? Still … you know …’ He pointed to his head and made a circle with his finger to indicate ‘crazy’.

  I was supposed to say something about Mum being ill, and leave it at that, or I was supposed to say I didn’t want to talk about it and walk away calmly. But instead something else came out of my mouth. I just blurted it out.

  ‘Oh, she’s fine, thanks. All people from the planet Pluto are like her. You get used to it.’

  Calum stared at me for a second like I was the one who had gone mad. So did Abby. Calum’s friends started to laugh, but not in a horrible way – more like they were laughing because I’d said something funny.

  ‘That was cool,’ Abby whispered as we walked away together.

  ‘I know,’ I said, trying to hide the fact that I was actually trembling.

  ‘Although you do realise Pluto isn’t a planet any more, don’t you?’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘It’s too small so it’s been downgraded. We did it in science while you were away. It’s really interesting actually …’ And she went on to tell me all the details.

  Mum came home for the first time at the end of that week. She was just home for the weekend (‘weekend leave’ they called it at the hospital) but Dad reckoned it wouldn’t be long before she’d be allowed home for good. She came into my room on Saturday morning, where I was sitting up in bed reading a book I had to finish by Monday for Mrs Lyle’s class.

  She smiled when she saw me. ‘You’re reading, I see. That’s good.’ She sat down on my bed and put her hand on my arm.

  I looked at her. I was remembering being five years old and asking Dad over and over when I was going to get my mummy back. I pulled my arm away. Sometimes I didn’t know if I could bear to have a mother who kept going away and then coming back again. Losing her once was bad enough, but to lose her again and not know when you were going to get her back, if at all … And then to have her come back and not know when you were going to lose her again … ‘Mum, you are going to stay on your lithium this time, aren’t you?’ I asked her abruptly.

  ‘Yes, Daniel,’ she answered softly. ‘I know that I really do need it to stay well.’

  I felt bad now for having snatched my arm away so I reached out and touched her hand gently. ‘You should paint your fingernails red again,’ I said. ‘They looked really good.’

  Mum put her other hand on top of mine and squeezed it.

  ‘Dad doesn’t like talking about your illness much, does he?’ I said. I’d never thought before about how hard that must be for Mum. ‘Though I think maybe he’s getting better at it. With me, at any rate.’

  ‘Good … It’s true he’s never liked talking about it, but the main thing is he’s always stood by me.’ She paused. ‘Daniel, I’m going to try some other things alongside the lithium – things to help reduce my stress levels a bit. I’ve signed up for a relaxation class and Dr White has arranged for me to go to a patient support group.’ She paused again. ‘And he’s setting up a group for children who have a parent with a mental illness, which we thought you might like to attend.’

  ‘What sort of group?’ I asked warily.

  ‘A group where you can talk with each other about how it feels for you. What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of a group where you had to talk about your feelings to complete strangers.

  ‘Well, think about it. You don’t have to decide right now.’

  ‘Mum, do you have to go back to the hospital tomorrow?’ I asked her.

  ‘Yes, but Dr White will be letting me come home for good very soon now.’

  ‘You won’t be going back to school for a while though, will you?’

  ‘No, Daniel. Not for a while. But I will eventually.’

 
; I nodded. I would just have to deal with that when it happened. Except that maybe if I went to this group I could tell them about it and that might help …

  The doorbell rang and it was the postman delivering a parcel for us from New Zealand. There were two presents inside, one for Martha and one for me, and there was an envelope for Dad.

  ‘It’s Grandma’s china doll!’ Martha exclaimed, as she opened her present and pulled out the doll from its layers of protective packaging.

  ‘I meant to bring that back with me,’ Dad said, staring at the doll. ‘In all the rush, I forgot.’

  My present looked more boring. I unwrapped it and found some books inside. There was a note too in Grandma’s shaky handwriting: I wanted you to have these for when you get a bit older. I was very impressed with your cocktail-making skills last year. Love from Grandma. I showed it to Mum and Dad. It felt weird getting that note when I knew Grandma was dead. I looked at the books. There were three of them and they looked old. They were all cocktail recipe books.

  ‘How lovely that she wanted you to have those, Daniel,’ Mum said, smiling at me. I nodded, though I didn’t think the books were all that lovely. Still, at least Grandma had thought about me before she died, which was kind of nice.

  ‘What’s she trying to do? Turn him into an under-age drinker?’ Dad grunted. ‘I think we’ll have to keep these for you until you’re old enough to use them, Daniel.’

  ‘This one is a book of non-alcoholic cocktails,’ Mum said, handing it to me to have a look. Sure enough, it was full of recipes for the sort of drinks I’d been making when we all went to New Zealand together last year.

  ‘I could show Abby how to make one of these fruit ones for her mum,’ I said. ‘She’s still in the clinic and she hasn’t had any alcohol since she went in.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Dad said softly. ‘Let’s hope she keeps it up.’

  ‘Do you think she will, Dad?’ I asked him.

  He looked at me. ‘Like I said, Daniel. I hope so.’ And I realised it was another one of those times when Dad was giving me the real answer without saying the words. The real answer was that he didn’t know. Nobody did. And I was just going to have to accept that.

  And even though it was unfair, so was Abby.

  Dad was opening his envelope now. Inside was a note from Aunt Helen and some black-and-white photographs. ‘I’ve never seen these before. Pictures of my mother when she was a child.’ His voice sounded weak like he’d got a frog in his throat (as Grandma liked to say if someone’s voice went hoarse). ‘You’d think she would have shown them to me, wouldn’t you? But she never did.’ And then he was crying like I’d never seen him cry before, with big tears trickling down his face. The rest of the photos slipped through his fingers on to the floor.

  I stared at him, horrified. In amongst all the other things that had been happening, I’d totally forgotten that Dad had just lost one of the most important people in his life – his mother. Just like I had nearly lost mine.

  Mum quickly took over. She sent Martha and me to make him a cup of tea and by the time we brought it back to him, Dad had stopped crying, though his eyes still looked watery and red. Mum was sitting close to him, holding his hand.

  Dad looked at us fondly when we came back into the room. ‘Thanks, kids,’ he said softly as he took the tea from us.

  ‘Is it too milky?’ I asked, frowning. ‘I let Martha put the milk in and she poured in half the bottle.’

  ‘I did not!’ Martha protested, glaring at me.

  Dad laughed and held up his hand like he was calling for a truce. ‘It’s perfect.’

  It was just then that Mum caught sight of one of the photographs of Grandma as a child, lying face up on the floor. ‘Goodness,’ Mum said, picking it up. ‘She looks like Martha.’

  ‘Let’s see.’ Martha and I leaned over her shoulder to have a look. The little girl in the picture had fair hair and pale blue eyes just like my sister’s.

  I looked at Mum. ‘Now we know,’ I said.

  Mum nodded. ‘Not that it really matters.’

  ‘What doesn’t matter?’ asked Martha, lifting up her new doll and tipping it upside down to see if it was wearing any knickers.

  ‘That you look like your grandma,’ Mum said, putting her arm round my sister. ‘What are you going to call her then?’

  Martha thought for a moment. Then she beamed at us, as if she had just thought of something very clever. ‘Elizabeth!’ she announced. ‘Because that’s the ward that made Mummy better!’

  I stared at her. My sister comes out with some funny things sometimes, she really does.

  The following evening after we’d dropped Mum back at the hospital and Martha had gone to bed, Dad and I sat down on the sofa together to watch an episode of my favourite TV show, even though Dad says American cop shows aren’t really his cup of tea.

  The mad bomber storyline was over and done with, thank goodness. The headstrong young detective (who, if you haven’t guessed by now, is the character I’d most like to be) had disobeyed his boss again. In the last episode he’d been ordered not to rush into a burning building to save someone, because his boss was sure it was a trap. The young detective had gone in anyway and a big beam of wood had fallen on his head and knocked him unconscious. Luckily his boss arrived on the scene just in time to rush in after him and pull him to safety and now they were both at the hospital being treated for minor burns.

  The young detective didn’t look so cool as his boss yelled at him so loudly the whole hospital could probably hear. When he sulkily pointed out that he hadn’t asked to be rescued, his boss got madder still: ‘I came in after you because you’re my responsibility whether you like it or not! And if you ever disobey my orders again, I won’t just bench you, I’LL FIRE YOU!’

  ‘You tell him, mate!’ Dad grunted.

  ‘Dad, do you ever wish you could fire me?’ I asked him.

  Dad looked up from the TV in surprise. ‘Fire you?’

  I nodded. ‘Hypothetically, I mean …’

  And he suddenly grinned and messed up my hair. ‘Nobody’s getting fired, Daniel – not on there and not in real life. Trust me.’ He pointed at the TV screen. ‘Those two are going to be hugging in a minute.’

  CHAPTER 17

  That’s just about it, as far as this story goes, except to say that I did go to that children’s group up at the hospital. The group lasted twelve weeks, but a few of us stayed in touch afterwards and it set some of us off emailing each other. They told us in the group that writing things down can help you to work through your feelings about stuff. Sometimes we had to write things down between sessions, like ten reasons why we were angry with our parent who’d been ill, or ten reasons why we still loved them. (I only did the homework if it wasn’t too slushy.) Anyway, after the group finished, I found I wanted to write down some more stuff, so I decided I’d write this.

  All of us in the group had a different story to tell. All of our parents got ill differently, so the things we experienced were different too. Some kids had far scarier stories to tell than mine. And some of us got our parents back again at the end of it whereas some kids didn’t.

  Mostly I reckoned I was one of the lucky ones.

  I talked quite a lot in the group about the thing I was dreading the most – Mum starting back at school. Most people at school had been OK to me since I’d started back myself and I’d begun to make some friends there aside from Abby. But what would they all say when I started being not just me, but the head teacher’s kid again? Correction – the mad head teacher’s kid.

  Talking about my fears helped a bit, but nothing could prepare me for the moment when Calum approached me in the playground at morning break on Mum’s first day back. I’d known this was going to happen sooner or later. Abby had gone to buy something from the tuck-shop, so I was on my own, which was obviously the reason why he’d picked this time to do it.

  ‘Is it true your mum’s back?’ he asked. ‘Because my dad says he’s not sure if he
wants me going to a school where the head is a mental case!’

  His mates, who were standing right behind him as usual, all laughed.

  I tried to think of a smart reply, but this time I couldn’t. I was too worried myself about what it was going to be like now that Mum had started back at school again. I could feel my lip beginning to tremble. I knew I mustn’t cry. Whatever else happened, I mustn’t let Calum see me cry. I turned away quickly.

  In the group they’d taught us that it’s what you tell yourself that really helps you in difficult situations, and I reckon that’s true. Because right then I told myself that maybe some of Calum’s mates – the nicer ones – wouldn’t be laughing at me if they really knew how I felt inside, or if they were less scared of being picked on themselves if they didn’t side with Calum. That helped a bit.

  I also reminded myself of something that Dad is always saying – that in some situations you just have to be brave. Which reminded me of something else I’d heard about in the group – ‘ignore muscles’. I’d thought our group leader was daft when she’d first mentioned them. I’d laughed and said that there was no such thing. But then one of the other kids had pointed out that you had to be pretty strong to ignore some of the things that other kids said to you, and everyone had agreed. So we’d all said we’d have a go at ignoring people when they were horrible to us to see if that made our ignore muscles any stronger.

  I decided to try mine out now. I walked away from Calum and all his jeering mates with my head held high, pretending I was Superman, who didn’t have any time to waste listening to stupid bullies like them. That helped a bit more.

  That’s when I spotted Mum. She was crossing the playground on her way back from the teachers’ car park, carrying a bundle of papers which I guess she’d just been to fetch from her car. She’d had her hair cut yesterday and it really suited her. Her tummy still stuck out, but I didn’t care. Suddenly I knew that there was something else I could do to show Calum that I wasn’t going to let him push me around.