I begged Mum to take me to the doctor for months before we finally went. And even after I was diagnosed, Mum still acted like I was making a big deal out of nothing. Every time I tested my blood sugar, she’d roll her eyes. Fern, on the other hand, read up eagerly on diabetes and became an expert, often pointing out what I could and couldn’t eat to Mum. It made Mum wild. There was something about us sticking up for each other that set her off.
Like the time we were ten. Fern and I had just got in from school and we were sitting side by side at the kitchen table with our homework books open. Mum usually napped at this time of day, so we’d both been startled when we heard her pottering around. After a few minutes, she came into the kitchen. Immediately, I knew something bad was coming. Her eyes looked strange. They always looked strange when something bad was coming.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I know what you’ve done. If you come clean and admit it, you won’t be punished. But if you don’t admit it, there will be consequences for you both.’
Fern looked at me with a puzzled, questioning look in her eyes. I tapped my bracelet against hers and tried to choose my words carefully.
‘What . . . is it, Mum?’
‘Don’t insult my intelligence, young lady! You know exactly what I’m talking about. Look at that face – all innocent. You think I don’t know what a conniving little bitch you are?’
I ran through a list in my head. Had I unknowingly shrunk a piece of her clothing in the dryer? Eaten something she’d earmarked for herself? Been too loud? Too happy? Too miserable? One option was to pick one of those things, but if I was wrong, then I’d be in trouble for two things. I thought until my head hurt. When I couldn’t come up with a response, I couldn’t help it. I cried.
‘Here come the waterworks,’ Mum said, rolling her eyes. ‘It’s not going to work this time, Rose! We’re not leaving this room until one of you admit it.’
I knew Mum meant it. Once, she had locked us outside for hours until we confessed to another crime (stealing her jewellery, that time, which she later found behind her dresser). It was the peak of summer and we didn’t have sunscreen on, so we’d huddled under the one tree in the communal yard, following the shade as it moved. I remember watching some other kids from the building squealing as they ran through the garden sprinkler. We didn’t dare ask to join them, so instead, to pass the time, Fern recounted the plot of the Agatha Christie she’d been reading to me. She was quite good at that, the storytelling. Mum didn’t let us inside until after dark, when the mosquitoes had feasted on us and we’d scratched our ankles so hard we were bleeding.
‘Right,’ Mum had said this day. ‘Well, I’ll just have to pick one of you to be punished. Eenie. Meenie. Miney. Mo.’
She pointed at Fern.
‘It was me,’ I said immediately.
Fern looked surprised, but Mum didn’t. As usual, Mum knew exactly what she was doing. She knew I’d never let Fern get in trouble.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘Go to your room and don’t come out until I tell you,’ Mum slurred.
After an hour or two, the doorbell rang. Pizza delivery. We’d never had pizza delivered before. It smelled amazing. Mum didn’t call me for dinner, nor did I expect her to, but I was surprised when Fern hadn’t come to bed by 8 pm. I’d been in my room for hours by then, without food and with only half a glass of water that had been sitting beside my bed. I’d been diagnosed with type 1 diabetes a few months earlier and I knew if I didn’t eat, my blood sugar would become dangerously low. I searched the room for food – the pockets of my clothing, and Fern’s. There was nothing.
Still, Mum didn’t come. I waited. And waited. By midnight, I had a headache. By morning, I was shaky, drenched in sweat and I felt like a sledgehammer was thumping at my temples. The half glass of water was gone. I was freezing, which I knew meant I was hypoglycaemic. I needed sugar. Juice, preferably. I needed to test for ketones. I needed to eat.
Around 9 am when the door flew open, I didn’t even have the energy to lift my head. Mum was standing in the doorway. In her hand was a glass of orange juice. She watched me for a long time. I remember thinking, She’s worried. She’s realised how sick I am. She’ll be horrified by the state of me and she’ll rush to my bedside. She might even drive me to the doctor.
Instead, she calmly sat on the bed. But instead of offering me the juice, she placed it on the bedside table just out of my reach and then held out a wad of cash – tens, twenties, even fifties.
‘You lied,’ she said quietly, holding it out to me. ‘You didn’t take the money. I just found it, in my dresser drawer.’
At first, I was confused. I’d almost forgotten the reason I was in here. So that was it. She thought I’d stolen her money. The idea, of course, was laughable. Of course I didn’t take her money! But she already knew that. She’d merely fabricated it to create some drama.
‘Sometimes I don’t know what is wrong with you, Rose. Why didn’t you just tell me you didn’t do it? You could have saved everyone a lot of trouble.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, or at least tried to, but my throat was too dry to project it.
Mum considered this a moment. A long moment. I glanced at the juice.
‘Well,’ Mum said, after an eternity. ‘I’ll forgive you this time, but don’t lie to me
