Freia Lockhart's Summer of Awful by Aimee Said Page B

– not least because we’re bringing her breakfast – and she’s probably coming down from the drug-induced high and beginning to realise the awful truth about what’s happened to her. A better daughter would have been thinking about
that
last night, instead of fantasising about her boyfriend. But the more I think about getting out of bed, the more paralysed I feel, as if an invisible force is pinning me down. Until Boris starts his hacking again. I sit up just in time to avoid the wad of cat spit, fur and undigested grass that flies out of his mouth and lands near my pillow with a moist splat. Boris eyes it with the feline equivalent of a smirk before turning his attention to washing his tummy.
    After I put my sheets in the washing machine, I head for the bathroom. I can tell Ziggy beat me to the shower because the floor is saturated, as is the bath mat, and when I go to wash my hair the shampoo’s empty. Worse, there are hairs stuck on the soap. Dark, curly hairs. I lob the soap and the shampoo bottle past the shower curtain towards the bin and start mentally composing a stern lecture for Dad to give Ziggy about how he’s going to have to pull his weight around the house till Mum’s better.
    There’s no sign of Ziggy by the time I get downstairs, but I can see exactly where he’s been. The kitchen that was spotless when I went to bed looks like it hasn’t seen a bottle of surface cleaner in weeks. A trail of chocolate-brown dust leads from the open Milo tin to the empty milk carton to the dirty spoon on the counter to the half-drunk glass surrounded by crumbs from the hunk of brownie he helped himself to.
    If Ziggy left the kitchen in this state when Mum was home, he’d be on kitty litter duty every day till school goes back, but he knows Dad won’t pull him up about it. Even if he wasn’t distracted by worrying about Mum, Dad would prefer just to clean it himself rather than have a fight with Zig. I consider telling Mum, but even as I think it I know it’s the last thing she needs to hear right now. Instead, I take the chore roster from the fridge door and write Ziggy’s name in place of mine in the “Boris’s Bathroom” column.
    Dad comes into the kitchen whistling, something he only does when he’s either extremely happy or extremely stressed. His eyes are smiling but they are also a bit glassy, and he’s wearing the shirt that Mum reckons he looks sexy in (yeah, love is blind, as Gran always says) but he hasn’t ironed it. Happy or stressed? I can’t tell.
    â€œGood morning, good morning, good morning,” he croons when he sees me standing with a knife poised over the brownie tin, trying to work out how to salvage what’s left after Ziggy’s attack. “Good to see you’re up and raring to go. We’ll head off five minutes early, if you don’t mind. I want to stop in at the twenty-four hour florist on the way and get something un-pink for Mum’s room.”
    I don’t know if Dad should be driving in his current state, but there’s no tactful way to tell him that. “Actually, I’m going to take my bike. I have to drop off what’s left of these brownies to Jay afterwards.”
    â€œSuit yourself. Travel safely.” He resumes his whistling, grabs Mum’s muesli from the pantry and heads for the garage.
    â€œYou too,” I call after him.

14
    Mum’s sitting up in bed, staring out the window. She still has the drain but the IV stand is gone and the beeping monitor is switched off, and she’s wearing one of her own nighties instead of the hospital gown. All in all, she looks much more like
Mum
than the frail patient I saw yesterday.
    â€œHello, darling,” she says when she realises I’m standing at the door. “Isn’t it a glorious day? I told your father, when I’m better we’re going to take up bushwalking on the weekends – days like