disappear under the table for a minute.
It’s
definitely
my fault. It has to be.
When I came back up, I asked Dad if he knew what hospital Ruth was in, and he said no, and then he gaveme a funny look, so I stopped talking about Ruth and tried to finish my Weetabix, which tasted even more like straw than it usually does.
And now Dad’s gone to work, and I’m trying to find the courage to do what I have to do.
I have to find out which hospital she’s in. I have to ring the bell at the Wallaces’ house and ask whoever comes to the door which hospital Ruth is in.
And then I have to go and see her, and I have to tell her I’m sorry for attacking her with the milk. If I don’t, I’ll never sleep or eat again, and they’re two things I really enjoy doing.
Right, better get it over with. Wish me luck. If this diary stops suddenly, you’ll know it’s because I’m in prison.
Later
Thank goodness Ruth’s nice brother Damien answered the door. I was really hoping he would.
He smiled and said, ‘Hello Liz,’ when he saw me, and didn’t try to slam the door in my face, which I was half expecting. (So it does look like Ruth hasn’t told anyone what I did, which I still can’t understand, but which I’m not going to worry about right now.)
I told Damien that I’d heard Ruth was in hospital, and that I’d like to go and see her. I still felt a bit scared that he was going to tell me to get lost, since I was the one who’d put her there, but he didn’t. He said, ‘Hey, that’s really nice of you,’ which of course made me feel ten times guiltier, and then he told me which hospital she was in.
It wasn’t until I got back here that I realised I never asked him how she was.
I’ll go to see her tomorrow, which is Thursday, because this is one of those things that will only get harder the longer I put it off – and because I don’t want it hanging over me when I meet Chris on Friday.
The only good thing about being so worried about Ruth is that I haven’t time to worry about Chris.
I’ll take some apples with me – I’ll pick the least wrinkly ones out of the fruit bowl. I’ll tell her that I’m sorry.
Even writing it down makes me want to get sick. The thought of walking into her room, or ward, or wherever she is, makes my stomach do a flip-flop. But I have to.
What’ll she say? I have no idea. Maybe she’ll start shouting at me to go away and leave her alone, and a nurse will come running over to see what all the noise is about, and Ruth will tell her what I did, and the nurse will look at me as if I’m a criminal and make me leave the hospital, probably march me off with a hand on my arm, like the store detective in Boots, and everyone will be looking at me.
Or maybe Ruth will be too weak to say anything. Maybe she’ll just give me a filthy look with her dying eyes. I think that would probably be worse.
I wish I could talk to someone about this, but who? Not Dad, definitely. I absolutely can’t tell him – he’d hit the roof. And not Chloe – I’m not sure that she’d understand.
Bumble would understand, but he’d probably tell Catherine Eggleston, and she’s the last person I’d want to know.
I’d tell Mam, if she was here face to face. But not on the phone. I can’t say it on the phone, I can’t text it, I can’t email it. If
only
she was here.
Have I mentioned how much I miss her?
Ten to eight, next day.
Well, I did it – it’s over. It was probably the hardest thing I ever had to do in my life so far, but at least it’s over now.
Here’s what happened. I set off after lunch – I mean after the half banana that was all I could eat. (I wonder how much weight I’ve lost over the past week?)
It took me just under an hour to walk to the hospital. I could have got a bus, but it was quite a nice day – and I wasn’t exactly in a hurry to arrive.
It was a quarter to three by the time I got there. I hadn’t even thought about visiting hours, but there was a big
It’s
definitely
my fault. It has to be.
When I came back up, I asked Dad if he knew what hospital Ruth was in, and he said no, and then he gaveme a funny look, so I stopped talking about Ruth and tried to finish my Weetabix, which tasted even more like straw than it usually does.
And now Dad’s gone to work, and I’m trying to find the courage to do what I have to do.
I have to find out which hospital she’s in. I have to ring the bell at the Wallaces’ house and ask whoever comes to the door which hospital Ruth is in.
And then I have to go and see her, and I have to tell her I’m sorry for attacking her with the milk. If I don’t, I’ll never sleep or eat again, and they’re two things I really enjoy doing.
Right, better get it over with. Wish me luck. If this diary stops suddenly, you’ll know it’s because I’m in prison.
Later
Thank goodness Ruth’s nice brother Damien answered the door. I was really hoping he would.
He smiled and said, ‘Hello Liz,’ when he saw me, and didn’t try to slam the door in my face, which I was half expecting. (So it does look like Ruth hasn’t told anyone what I did, which I still can’t understand, but which I’m not going to worry about right now.)
I told Damien that I’d heard Ruth was in hospital, and that I’d like to go and see her. I still felt a bit scared that he was going to tell me to get lost, since I was the one who’d put her there, but he didn’t. He said, ‘Hey, that’s really nice of you,’ which of course made me feel ten times guiltier, and then he told me which hospital she was in.
It wasn’t until I got back here that I realised I never asked him how she was.
I’ll go to see her tomorrow, which is Thursday, because this is one of those things that will only get harder the longer I put it off – and because I don’t want it hanging over me when I meet Chris on Friday.
The only good thing about being so worried about Ruth is that I haven’t time to worry about Chris.
I’ll take some apples with me – I’ll pick the least wrinkly ones out of the fruit bowl. I’ll tell her that I’m sorry.
Even writing it down makes me want to get sick. The thought of walking into her room, or ward, or wherever she is, makes my stomach do a flip-flop. But I have to.
What’ll she say? I have no idea. Maybe she’ll start shouting at me to go away and leave her alone, and a nurse will come running over to see what all the noise is about, and Ruth will tell her what I did, and the nurse will look at me as if I’m a criminal and make me leave the hospital, probably march me off with a hand on my arm, like the store detective in Boots, and everyone will be looking at me.
Or maybe Ruth will be too weak to say anything. Maybe she’ll just give me a filthy look with her dying eyes. I think that would probably be worse.
I wish I could talk to someone about this, but who? Not Dad, definitely. I absolutely can’t tell him – he’d hit the roof. And not Chloe – I’m not sure that she’d understand.
Bumble would understand, but he’d probably tell Catherine Eggleston, and she’s the last person I’d want to know.
I’d tell Mam, if she was here face to face. But not on the phone. I can’t say it on the phone, I can’t text it, I can’t email it. If
only
she was here.
Have I mentioned how much I miss her?
Ten to eight, next day.
Well, I did it – it’s over. It was probably the hardest thing I ever had to do in my life so far, but at least it’s over now.
Here’s what happened. I set off after lunch – I mean after the half banana that was all I could eat. (I wonder how much weight I’ve lost over the past week?)
It took me just under an hour to walk to the hospital. I could have got a bus, but it was quite a nice day – and I wasn’t exactly in a hurry to arrive.
It was a quarter to three by the time I got there. I hadn’t even thought about visiting hours, but there was a big
Similar Books
