I try swallowing the hard lump that feels like popcorn sticking in my throat, but it won’t go down. I cross my fingers. I touch the little wooden table by my bed for luck.
Me 2, I text.
Pip. Pip. We have 2 face facts, Mima… It might happen. We have 2 prepare 4 the worst. There’s nothing we can do. That’s what my mum keeps saying. What U doin for UR end of term presentation?
More things smash and explode in front of my eyes, shooting worry fireworks through my veins. I am facing facts. I don’t have any choice. I know very well that our dads might die or come back really hurt. I don’t need Jess to keep rubbing it in.
Not thinking bout presentation. I hate speaking in front of every1.
Pip. Pip. I’m really excited bout it. I want to do something really cool. Night. Hope U sleep. C U at the car boot.
Wish I could get excited bout it, but I just get too scared. Night. I text back.
I creep into Milo’s room. He’s fast asleep with his mouth wide open like a fish. He’s cuddling a toy tank, and hasn’t even noticed the thunder that’s raging outside. I creep downstairs to spy on my mum and dad through the crack of the open door to the sitting room. My heart is a tennis ball in my chest, pounding on concrete. My neck is sticky with sweat from the storm.
They’re snuggled together on the sofa watching the late-night news. She sobs and wrings a damp hanky in her hands. He sighs and strokes her hair, twisting the threads of gold.
“The worst year for killings since the war in Afghanistan began,” the newsreader is saying.
On the TV screen loads of people have gathered in the street. They’re watching the coffins of dead soldiers coming home from war. A woman holding flowers and crying rushes forward and presses herself against the big black hearse. She places her red, red roses on its roof and then crumples in a heap on the floor. A policewoman scurries closer and helps her up. Everyone is crying. Everything on the TV is so, so sad.
My tummy twists like my mum’s wet hanky. Tying up in knots. Stopping my insides from falling out.
The thunder rumbles through me. Lightning flickers on the stairs. I start to spin so I steady myself on Dad’s kit. It’s been stacked in the hallway for days. He’s obsessed with it. It’s become his life raft on the rough and stormy sea of emotions that have been raging through our house for months. Every few hours he picks up his helmet. He smoothes it. He rocks it. He strokes it. Then he settles it back down like a precious baby nestled on top of the pile. He fusses with the straps on his bag. He straightens and sorts. He unzips and peers inside. He fiddles and straightens and sorts some more. Like a frantic bluebottle. Buzzing. Worrying. Picking at flesh. Milo loves it too. He helps with the checking. He wanders about the house with Dad’s precious helmet wobbling on top of his head.
“He’s mine, remember?” I hiss at the bag. “Not yours.”
Mum switches off the news. She heaves her huge dome of a belly round to face my dad. He rests his hand on it and smiles. He lowers his ear to listen to the secret baby world inside.
“Hello, little Bean,” he says.
“It’s so cruel,” my mum says. “You’ve been away every time I’ve given birth.” She grips Dad’s hands and her eyes well up again. “Please come home safe, James,” she says. “Please, I couldn’t handle all this without you. I find Jemima so difficult when you’re away. She misses you so much and tries so hard to hold it all together that she kind of closes in on herself. If I didn’t know her for the sweetheart she is I’d go as far as to say that I sometimes find her behaviour quite weird. And I feel I don’t do her justice. I wish I could manage her like you can. I wish I had your touch.”
“Jemima’s easy, Bex,” he says. “She just needs a bit of reassurance, that’s all. She likes to talk. To get things off her chest.”
“It’s all right for you,” Mum sighs. “You’re away. You don’t see how much she changes. To be honest, she can be really hard work when you’re not here and I’m dreading it. And bless her – I know it’s not her fault. She was just getting settled at school, starting to make friends, and now you going away has somehow unhinged her again. It’s unhinged us all.”
Unhinged? I’m not unhinged! I hate them talking about me and I know I shouldn’t be spying, but I can’t help it. Mum sighs.
“I don’t know how much longer I can live like this, James. I have this constant worry chipping at me when you’re away. You’re on my mind twenty-four seven. It drives me crazy. I can’t stop myself from constantly looking out of the window. It’s like I’m expecting bad news. Like it would almost be a relief if it came because then the worrying would stop.”
Dad runs his hand through his hair and takes hold of her hand.
“You have to get it in your head, Bex,” he says, “that I’ve been really well trained. They wouldn’t let untrained soldiers set foot in the place. It’s my job to protect people, to look after those who need my help, and I do my best to do my job well. It’s what I’m committed to and I need you to start trusting that every day we’re all doing our best to keep safe. I’m coming back home, Bex. I won’t leave you. I promise.”
His words bite me. I don’t trust them. How can he be so sure that he’ll come home safe? Like Jess says, some soldiers do get killed. It’s a fact of war and we have to face it. I don’t trust my mum either, talking about me behind my back. And I’m not unhinged. I can’t help it that I feel safe when my dad’s here and scared when he’s not. I can’t help it that I keep looking out of the window too and if she took the trouble to really get to know her own daughter well, then she’d know that I’m a worrier too. I wouldn’t be such a puzzle for her to solve.
Mum pushes Dad away from her tummy.
“How can I trust you when we’ve just watched four coffins flying back from the very place you’re flying out to tomorrow?” she snaps. “For God’s sake, James, I’m not stupid, I know what happens in war. It’s me you’re talking to now, not the kids. Don’t patronise me, please.”
Dad looks at her and sighs. He says nothing to comfort her.
I creep back upstairs. If lightning strikes our house tonight my dad will keep us safe.
But not if it comes tomorrow.
Later, when the black storm rages right over our roof, my dad comes into my room. He rests his hand on my back. He rubs soft warm circles, round and round, like he did when I was small. I want to curl into him like a kitten, but I’m scared I might break like the clouds.
“I’m sleeping, Dad,” I lie. “Leave me alone.”
“Hey,” he whispers, leaning right over me so he can see my face. “Don’t do this, sweetie, not now. I know it’s late, but I just wanted to check you’re OK with the storm, to tell you that you’re safe. I’ve checked all the windows and locked all the doors. Nothing’s going to happen. I promise. Let’s say goodbye, shall we? Just one last time.”
“Don’t say things like one last time, OK?”
I turn over to look at him and drink him in like an ice-cold lemonade on a hot summer’s day. I must never forget him. The dark whiskers sprouting from his chin. The map of blue veins like motorways on his hands. The puddle of curry stain yellowing his shirt. The waft of smelly underarm odour that’s drifting up my nose. I must memorise him, just in case… and I’ll keep him safe and undisturbed in a beautiful heart room where he’ll shimmer in the light.
“Don’t go, Dad,” I squeak. “Please?”
“I have to, sweetie,” he says, nuzzling tickly whiskers in my neck. He plants a kiss on my cheek. “Promise