And five other mums shot out of her.
I swear to Christ it was the freakiest thing I’ve ever seen. There was me with wee in me knickers, with six of me mums standing there smiling at me like nutters. Me Main Mum said that the reason she was showing me her true self was ’cause she reckoned that I was a photocopier like her and that we’d know for sure in a couple of months.
I reckon I spent most of that year spinning on the spot in the front room with me six mums cheering me on, and me Main Mum telling me to spin faster or that I wasn’t trying me hardest or that I needed to want it more. Course I never went
It was just me getting dizzy and trying not to throw up on me mums’ carpet. But still, every day, I kept practising me spinning, faster and faster on that very same spot, hoping to Christ that one day me mums’d say I’d done good.
After that year me six mums sat me down and me Main Mum told me that they reckoned it was time I gave up me spinning. She said they’d been talking, her and me other mums, and that they’d figured that I’d never be like them. Me Main Mum said they reckoned that it was about time I concentrated on being ordinary.
I remember when I first asked Hestia about her fingers. She’d been shy about it which surprised me. I mean it’s not like she’d ever tried to hide them from anyone: her fingernails were stone – it was obvious.
She told me it had started when she was little. She’d wanted a hug from her dad and he’d said no, he’d told her to stop acting like a baby.
‘I felt it in my fingers and inside,’ she said. ‘It was cold and hard. And when I woke up next morning, this had happened.’
She held out her fingers to me and I wrapped my hands around them. They were rough against my skin and they were cold too.
Hestia’s ankles were stone as well. When she was eight she’d not been invited to her best friend’s birthday party. She was so sad, she said, that she’d cried from the moment she’d walked out of the school gates to when she’d fallen asleep deep into the night. She told me that, the morning after, when she’d gone to pull her socks on, she’d found that her ankles were exactly the same as her fingernails. Cold and rough and not really alive. She said she’d have cried if she’d had been able to, but she was dry.
To be honest I found her limp cute at the beginning, when we first met, when I told her it wasn’t a problem, that we’d work something out. I think I have a thing for girls like that; in imperfection lies beauty, or something.
And I think that’s why I like Amy. It’s the braces and her lisp – I’ve always been a sucker for speech impediments.
She’s a nice girl too. The best bit’s her skin – I like how it’s all smooth and warm and how she doesn’t mind me touching it.
I guess I’ve got a problem, and that’s what exactly to do about Hestia. I mean, I know I should tell her, but it’s difficult. I worry about how she’ll take it, about what it could do to her. You’d have thought that after eight years I’d know exactly how to handle her, how to handle this, but the truth is I’ve got no idea. I’m scared too. Recently her left breast became stone, completely without warning.
Maybe it’s best to leave it, or maybe it’s better to wait and see. Like I said to her all those years ago: we’ll work something out.
The first time she wore that hat was on her hen night. She was eighteen then. ‘You’re too young for marrying,’ her dad said to her. She’d only been seeing that one for a few weeks. ‘I’m pregnant Dad,’ she said. Her dad nodded because he understood. That night she took that pink Stetson out with her. She held it in one hand while she sipped lemonade through a stripy straw and watched all her mates having fun. ‘Put your hat on,’ some bloke said to her. She did. She put that Stetson on her head. That’s when time stopped. That’s the night that she snaked in and out of frozen people. Then she was tired and it was time for time to carry on.
The second time she wore that hat was when little Ruby was five months old. She wanted a bath. She wanted the screams to stop. She wanted her breasts to not be so leaky. That afternoon she put little Ruby on the bathroom floor and she climbed into that white bath. ‘Put your hat on,’ she said to herself. She did. And time stopped. That’s the afternoon where she got to lie in a bath till her hands looked like her dead granny’s. Then she missed little Ruby’s noise and it was time for time to carry on.
The third time was at her dad’s funeral. It was packed full of other people’s grief. She took her hat along because it was a secret between her and her dad. It was sitting next to her on the pew. People saw that hat, pointed and smiled at it. ‘Did William give you that?’ a bloke asked. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Put the hat on,’ some woman said. She did. She wore it for her dad. And time stopped. That’s when she sat for hours, maybe days, wishing that she could talk with her dad for one last time. His dying had been sudden. ‘If I’d known you were ill, Dad,’ she said, ‘I could have changed time.’ Then she felt hungry and it was time for time to carry on.
The fourth time she was in bed with her husband. ‘Let’s try for another Ruby,’ he said to her. She didn’t want another Ruby. That’s when she suggested the pink Stetson and her high heels. ‘You kinky cow,’ her husband said to her. She smiled. ‘Put the hat on,’ her husband said to her. She did. And time stopped. That’s when she climbed off her husband’s erection and went to take those pills that he didn’t know about. That’s when she sat on the bed for days and days, making sure that those pills were in her blood. Then she needed to be satisfied and it was time for time to carry on.
The fifth time was on the day Ruby started school. She wasn’t ready for that change. ‘I’ll miss you today,’ she said to Ruby. Ruby smiled and twirled around in her brand new school uniform. ‘Shall I wear my pink hat to take you to school?’ she asked Ruby. ‘Yes Mummy,’ Ruby said. She did. And time stopped. That’s when she pulled Ruby to her and held her stiff little body as close as she could. She savoured every minute. Days passed. Then she missed Ruby’s warmth and it was time for time to carry on.
Then there was that last time. That time when she was lying in bed with him. Her husband thought she was out with her mates, another hen night that needed her pink Stetson. She wasn’t. That night she was lying naked in his bed. She was twenty-four then. She was old enough to know that she was in love for the first time. ‘I love you,’ she said to him. ‘I know,’ he said to her. That’s when she realised that his eyes weren’t looking like they usually looked. That’s when he told her. He said, ‘This can’t go on.’ She didn’t speak. ‘I’ve met someone who