Taking Flight by Sheena Wilkinson Page A

whole days since we were here. I try to look at all the buildings as we drive round the one-way system. They’re all called after mountains. I wonder how they decide on the names. Is Donard for madder people than Slemish because it’s higher?
    Colette slides the car into a spot right outside the building. Croob. I never heard of that.
    â€˜Is Croob high?’ I ask Colette.
    She gives me a weird look like she thinks I’m thick. ‘It’s where the River Lagan rises,’ she says. ‘It’s only a bit of a hill really.’
    â€˜Oh. Good.’ I sit back and undo my seatbelt. Slowly.
    â€˜Don’t forget the magazines.’
    I take them and look at the titles. Good Housekeeping. Ulster Tatler . Both glossy. No way will Mum read those. I suppose Colette’s running out of magazines.
    Why can’t she see I don’t want to go in alone?
    â€˜You don’t want me around all the time,’ is what she’s been saying. ‘You and your mum need a bit of time to yourselves.’ How crap would it sound to say, ‘Don’t leave me alone with my own mother’? So I just grip the handle and pull and try not to drag my feet too much as I go from the safety of the car to the door.
    It’s a small building, square and low. Not as scary as the hospital in some ways. But at least the hospital just looks like what it is. People in bed and stuff. Here you have to ring a bell to get in. You could say that makes it more like a normal house, or you could say they have to lock the people in. I wipe my feet for ages on the stained doormat even though they’re already clean.
    A nurse lets me in. She’s the one I met on Tuesday and she says, ‘Hello, there. Your mammy’s in the day room.’ Mammy. What age does she think I am? ‘Do you want to go on in?’
    No , I think. The day room is huge. The TV’s blaring at one end. At first I look round in a panic because I think Mum’s not there and then I see her sitting beside this grossly fat woman. They look weird together. They aren’t talking, just sitting. The fat woman is singing under her breath. Mum’s face is botchy and old. She looks the worst I’ve ever seen her.
    Worse than when the police came to the door for me.
    Worse than when Barry dumped her.
    Worse than when Gran died.
    â€˜Right, Mum?’ I say.
    She doesn’t answer. She picks bits of skin off her hand. There’s a red raw mark where she’s been doing it.
    â€˜Here.’ I push the magazines at her. My hand’s sweaty. I rub it on my school trousers.
    She looks at me for the first time. ‘Colette get out of coming today, then?’ It’s a new voice, not the flat, dull one. More sour.
    â€˜She’s outside.’
    â€˜Huh.’
    She’s jittery as hell. She lights a cigarette with a shivering hand. The hand that isn’t holding the cigarette plays with her hair. There are cold sores round her mouth. She looks like shite. She doesn’t even try to talk to me. Fatty keeps singing.
    It’s up to me. ‘So – um, how are you?’
    â€˜How do you think?’
    I don’t answer. I mean, how the hell do I know? It’s just something to say. I try to tell her about the work experience, but it doesn’t spark anything. ‘It’ll be dead good,’ I say. My voice sounds stupid because I’m trying too hard. ‘I’m not scared of the horses or anything. They’re wicked. And Mum, guess what?’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜I rode Vicky’s horse on Wednesday!’ I can hear my voice getting stupider and stupider – all enthusiastic like some kid.
    â€˜Oh.’ She sniffs. I think she has a cold.
    â€˜It was brilliant.’
    â€˜Huh. Well, you needn’t be getting used to that sort of thing.’
    It’s like someone emptying ice cubes into your stomach.
    She lights another cigarette. It smells lovely. I haven’t smoked