Blood Loss by Kerena Swan (brene brown rising strong .txt) 📗

the television so I can call Lucy. My anxiety goes up a notch as it rings out then goes to voicemail. She must have her phone on silent.

I wish the hill in the middle of Bow Brickhill wasn’t so steep. I run as fast as I can and try not to topple over. Mum is more important than a skinned knee but if I fall it will delay me. When I get to the bottom I charge along the street and up the gravel drive, panting as I throw open the kitchen door. Grace is standing at the sink, washing the pots and pans from last night’s dinner. I barely register that it’s not her usual day to be here. She turns to look at me.

‘Are they back?’ I can’t breathe properly. ‘Any news?’

‘Not yet.’

I scrabble in my bag for my phone but Grace dries her hands and gently takes my arm.

‘Come and sit down, Jenna. You look wrung out. I’m sure they won’t be long. Maybe they needed to stop off somewhere.’

‘They know I’m waiting to hear the diagnosis.’

Grace looks away again. ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ she says.

‘I’m sorry about the mess. I was going to do it when I got in. I didn’t know you were coming.’ I rest my arms on the table then lower my head onto them. The suspense is unbearable.

‘I called in to drop off your mum’s dry cleaning and thought I’d wash a few dishes while I waited for you to come back.’

I’m embarrassed by my lack of coping skills and about to make an excuse when Grace says, ‘I know it’s hard for you at the moment. You’re holding down two jobs as well as looking after your horse, so all this on top is a lot to deal with.’

I’m pathetically grateful for her empathy, especially after Lucy’s judgemental stance earlier.

‘I’m really pleased you’re here, Grace. In fact, I wish you could come more frequently.’

Grace tilts her head to one side. ‘I suppose I could come in one extra afternoon a week – if your mum agrees of course.’

‘I’m sure she will. She struggles to do much at all at the moment.’

‘You must find it difficult to watch that when she’s always been so capable. Let’s hope the hospital has good news. I know how much your mum means to you both.’

Grace looks away, as though to hide her emotions.

‘Lucy told me your mum died. I’m sorry, Grace.’

‘I lost her suddenly. There was no warning or time to get used to the idea of being an orphan.’

‘What happened?’

‘She choked to death.’

‘That’s terrible. Was anyone with her?’

‘She was on her own. It was horrible.’ The kettle clicks off and Grace jumps to her feet, seemingly eager to end the conversation.

A moment later I hear a car on the gravel and all thoughts of Grace’s history leave my mind. I rush outside and study Mum’s face and then Lucy’s face as they climb out of the car. When I see them side by side I notice how yellow Mum’s complexion is compared to Lucy’s and my heart sinks.

‘Why didn’t you call me?’ I say to Lucy.

‘Mum asked to visit the tree cathedral at Willen Lake. She said she’s always wanted to see it but never had the time.’

‘We didn’t want to call you at work,’ Mum says with an undecipherable expression on her face.

I know now what they’re going to say. We go indoors and sit at the table, and I have a strong urge to clap my hands over my ears and sing, ‘La, la, la,’ at the top of my voice.

‘Jenna, love,’ Mum says taking my hands in hers.

No. Don’t say the words. I don’t want to hear them.

Mum gently rubs the back of my hands with her thumbs and says, ‘I’ve been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.’

Chapter 30

The Previous March | Sarah

‘You’ll be late for work,’ Mum says, her voice flat.

Only she isn’t my mum. Not my real mum.

I stop pacing the living room and stare at her, open-mouthed. ‘I don’t know what to call you now.’

Tears fill my eyes and my voice trembles. I watch her as she sits on the sofa with her elbows on her knees and her shoulders slumped. One hand clutches her glass of vodka and the other is tangled in her dirty hair. She may not have been the best mother in the world but she’s the only one I’ve ever known.

‘I can’t go to work like this,’ I say. ‘I need answers.’

Mum releases the hold on her hair and shakes her head slowly. ‘I don’t have answers, Sarah. I am your mother. The test is wrong.’

‘It can’t be wrong.’

‘They can make mis― Wait there!’

She bolts off the sofa and stumbles to the stairs then rushes to her bedroom, pulling herself up by the banister. What’s she fetching?

While she’s gone I mull over the results. They have to be correct. John and Rosemary are not my parents. Did they adopt me and never have the courage to tell me? Maybe the adoption was all Mum’s idea and Dad went along with it to keep her happy.

Mum’s back within minutes, clutching a dusty, old cardboard box. She flips the lid open and thrusts her hands in. She scoops up a double-handful of old photographs and drops them on the floor then kneels down and spreads them out, flipping some over as she does so. I watch in fascination. It’s been years since I looked at these but now they’ve taken on a deeper meaning. Will there be clues within them to reveal my true identity? I kneel down next to her and pick up a photo of me aged around five, clutching the handle of a scooter. I remember that day. I’d been desperate for a bike like the one my friend next door owned but Dad had insisted I was too young to learn to ride a bike so they’d bought a second-hand scooter out of the paper. My serious face in