The phone rings from school.
“Mum, I’m done. Heading home now.”
The journey home takes thirty minutes. An hour and a half passes. I call again.
“Hello?”
In the backgroundshouting, swearing, chaos.
“Where are you?”
“Be there soon, wait.”
The line goes dead.
I call back. No signal.
Mums, how long does it take for you to spiral into that state where your throat tightens and your hands wont stop shaking?
For meten seconds flat. Maybe a little longer.
Then my imagination runs wildhes gotten into a fight. Been mugged. Something awful. Something irreversible.
Pull on clothes. Run. Where? Along the bus route. Check every alley nearby. Call the form tutor. No, the police first. No, call the family friend, the detective from Scotland Yard. They can track his phone. Can they track it if its switched off?
Staring out the window, scanning the street. Two entrancesracing from room to room. Dialling again and again. Still no signal.
Another twenty minutes of unbearable waiting.
Yank on jeans. A jumper. Grab my passport. Keys. Tearing the flat apart looking for my phone. Throwing everything into chaos. The phones vanished. Rip the duvet off the bed. Somethings in the wayoh. There it is. Oh. Ive been holding it this whole time.
Snatch my coat off the hook. Dont cry. Please dont cry. God, I yelled at him this morning for not making his bed. What does the bed even matter? WHAT DOES IT MATTER, YOU FOOL? Never, never, never scolding him again. My boy. My sweet boy.
The intercom buzzes.
“Yes?”
“The French Foreign Legion sends its regards!”
“Where have you been?!”
“Mum, just let me in, people are waiting,” the French Foreign Legion backtracks.
Shake off my coat. Stomp to the door.
“Ill kill him,” I mutter grimly.
The lift opens. A lanky beanpole of a kid. A backpack that probably weighs more than he does. His jacket pocket bulging suspiciously.
“Where were you?” I hiss like a furious dragon.
“Mum, I stayed behind for extra history.”
“You couldnt tell me?”
“Wasnt planned. Didnt think in time. By the time I realised, the bell had gone.”
“Couldve texted! So I wouldnt panic?”
“Mum, you know phones arent allowed in class!”
“You called me laterthere was swearing in the background!”
“Oh, that was just some drunks arguing at the bus stop. Wanted to tell you, but my phone died.”
Standing there, gulping air.
“Here,” he pulls an ice cream from his pocket. Grins wideso wide.
His smile is mine. And my fathers.
Three years ago, when money was tight, hed go out with friends, taking just a fiver. Hed come back with a chocolate bar. No idea how he managed it. But he always did. Handing it to me on the doorstep.
“Mummy, this is for you.”
This is for me. Mine. About me.
Thisfor life. For my whole, blessed, joy-lit mothers life.
If only I could stop myself spiralling like this.
