Chapter 11

11

Gio had been discharged from hospital almost a fortnight ago and December had crept up on them all with one day much the same as any other now he wasn't at work.

To say he was frustrated was an understatement. He'd had surgery to fix his knee and allow for the return of function but whenever he asked the healthcare team, nobody would tell him when or how long before he got back to the job.

Gio's healing could now be done from home with visits from the physiotherapist. He was diligently icing the knee to stop pain and swelling – which would've been a hell of a lot more pleasant in summer than winter – the bruising was beginning to subside, but he had a brace on his leg when he moved around to stop it twisting or being subject to unnecessary impact. He was told he had to have the brace for at least two but possibly as many as six weeks, but it was better than wearing a cast. At least he could remove the brace when he was sitting or lying down – it meant he didn't have to imagine his limb shrivelling up beneath plaster either; his muscles were still there, he could see them rather than think about them .

Gio was doing his utmost to stay positive, to think about getting back on the job, but the whole situation was making him far rattier with his mother than he needed to be and she was watching him like a hawk, something he was neither used to nor needed.

‘I thought you were working until six,' he said when she came through the door at four.

‘Not today; I started at 7a.m., remember.'

‘I forgot.' He was still on the sofa, this morning's session with a physiotherapist basic to onlookers but even moving his foot up and down at the moment was painful and a unique kind of torture.

He watched his mother closely as she unlaced her trainers, her face hidden as her ponytail of dark-grey hair that was once the same colour as his fell over her shoulder. ‘How was work?'

‘Tiring,' she said, not making eye contact as she lifted her shoes in her fingers and took them back to the hallway and the rack.

He had a sinking feeling in his stomach that had nothing to do with his recent surgery or the fact he was facing a long time before he could return to the job he loved. He looked at her when she came back into the room, but rather than the eyes he expected to be dancing with an alcohol-fuelled enthusiasm she was desperately trying to hide, she really did look exhausted.

She caught him looking as she set down her handbag. ‘You want to ask whether I've had a drink.'

‘No.'

‘Gio…'

Having her here was a pain, a worry, but in the moment, he found himself smiling. ‘I don't want to ask you but I was suspecting.'

She sat down on the armchair opposite the sofa. ‘I suppose I ask for that with my history. It's what you boys probably came to expect.'

‘It's what we saw, Mum.'

‘It's hard for you to shake off your doubts. And it's hard to get rid of my own too. I'm always waiting to fuck up again. Sorry, excuse the language.'

Having listened to him swearing his head off since he came home, he couldn't very well complain. He'd moaned about everything – the pain, the swelling, not being at work, not being able to stand and make himself a meal, sleeping on the camp bed in the small dining room next to the lounge, the inconvenience of not being able to use the shower upstairs because he couldn't get up there. He was having to make do with the one downstairs that he'd never got around to replacing. He was pretty sure that the owner before had used it to shower their dog after long, muddy walks and the thought, despite the fact he'd lived here for a while and the shower had seen many cleans, made him feel even worse every time he got under the weak-as-piss jets of the shower head.

He pushed himself upright, looked at the crutches resting against the wall. Already, he couldn't wait to see the back of them.

She must have seen him do it. ‘What do you need?' Her hands were on her knees as if poised and ready to leap into action.

‘I need to do things for myself, that's what I need.'

‘Stop being so hard on yourself. What do you want?'

Reluctantly, he admitted, ‘I could murder a can of Coke from the fridge.'

Marianne went to get the drink and brought it back along with a couple of painkillers.

‘Don't need those.'

‘Yes, you do. I saw you wincing when I came in the door. '

The physio had reprimanded him earlier for saying he no longer needed painkillers. She'd explained that it would hinder him in the long run if he didn't take them; it would leave him in pain and unable to do the exercises. That meant he'd suffer more stiffness and a slower recovery. He'd also been told not to do too much too soon, so he couldn't really win, could he?

His mother disappeared and for a blissful moment, he enjoyed the cold, fizzy drink. The heating was on and it didn't matter that it was almost winter beyond the doors and windows of his home; for now, he could close his eyes and imagine himself anywhere. Tropical preferably, with fully functioning legs.

He opened his eyes when he heard his mum come back. She'd brought down a pillow. ‘Sit up a bit more, put your leg on the sofa on top of this. You should elevate it when you're sitting.'

He should but sometimes he forgot, or he didn't bother.

‘Thanks.'

She pulled the blanket from the other sofa – the purple blanket from the end of the bed that she'd tried to cover him with yesterday and the day before and the day before that – and she tried to wrap it around his shoulders.

‘All right, that's enough, Mum,' he snapped, almost adding that it was too late to start fussing around him now when she hadn't bothered when he was a boy, but even he wasn't that much of a tosser, despite the fuss doing his head in.

‘Sorry, just trying to help.'

‘The heating is on, I'm plenty warm enough.'

She huffed and puffed and busied herself taking out a lunch box, which he heard her washing up, being none too delicate with anything in the kitchen, taking out his resistance to her helping on anything she could find. And then she went for a shower while he settled back and watched television, the ridiculous number of programmes doing nothing to make him happier about his current position. If anything, they made him feel worse, particularly when he found a show set in a fire station; it was as though broadcasters had put that on on purpose.

‘Mum, could you do me a favour?' he called over to her when she came back downstairs. He hoped the request would settle things between them. He didn't want to be the one to piss her off, the one who drove her to distraction, risked making her want a drink.

‘What is it, love?'

‘Can you get the key for the back door – it's in the junk drawer – and open it up for me? I'm going to use my crutches and go outside for some air.'

‘Are you sure that's…' She broke off at his expression. ‘Okay. I'll open it up. But at least put a coat on. I'll get that for you.'

‘Appreciate it.' He'd rather do it all himself, but if it placated her, so be it.

Within five minutes, he was bundled up warm, and he managed to use his crutches to cover the fifteen or so metres from the lounge to the back door and went outside to sit on the bench that sat on the highest part of the patio in front of the steps leading down to a lawn.

It felt good to be out in the cold, early-evening air. He looked into the darkness and he hadn't been sitting there long when he heard the familiar sound of a helicopter. Sure enough, when he looked up, he spotted the yellow and red Whistlestop River air ambulance passing overhead. He almost wanted to wave, as ridiculous as that was – who would spot him all the way down here? He wondered whether Bess was on board. He wondered whether she'd been thinking about the day she'd come to see him in the hospital. She'd stopped by to see him here at the house a few days ago but he'd been asleep and she hadn't been back since. She had her own life. They'd texted, the usual banter between them, but he'd love to see her smiling face right now. And, if he was honest, check out that tattoo again.

Mind you, he'd make lousy company at the moment – he'd been cheerier in the hospital, maybe because the pain medication was stronger, who knew. But reality had hit since he left and it wasn't a reality he particularly liked.

By the time he went inside for dinner, he felt less tense. He let his mum take the crutches from him and sat at the table. Up until now, no matter what she did to help, all he could think was that it could never make up for the years she'd missed, but the night air had given him a bit of perspective. Because she was here now, she was trying.

‘Thanks, Mum.' He picked up his cutlery to dig into the cottage pie she'd bought, heated up and served with a side salad.

‘It's my pleasure,' she said.

Sitting next to her now, sharing a simple meal and conversation, he almost felt like a young boy. He and Marco hadn't had this, not in the latter parts of their childhood after their father walked out. But watching her now, sober, eating a proper meal and safe and warm in his home, made Gio realise that it wasn't only he and Marco who had suffered for so long. She had too. And didn't they all deserve a chance to heal?

The next morning, Gio had breakfast with Marianne before she went to work on the 10a.m. until 7p.m. shift. Just like with last night's dinner, it was good to sit at a table with her, watch her, know for himself that she was doing okay. But after a bowl of muesli and a couple of slices of toast, the conversation – or rather the questions about Marco and when he was next coming to visit – got too much and Gio excused himself for a shower .

‘The physio will be here before 10a.m. I need to make sure I'm ready,' he explained.

‘I'll clear the dishes; you leave them to me.'

The hidden benefit of the tired downstairs shower room, which was more of a wet room, was that the shower didn't have a frame and so had all the space in the world in which to put the plastic chair to sit on while he washed himself the best he could. At this stage, it was better, easier and safer than trying to do it on the one leg he could weight-bear on and he kept repeating in his head that he needed to face his limitations. This was one of them. But it wouldn't be forever, right?

By the time he finished his shower, his mum had gone to work, so Gio got dressed and gave Marco a call.

‘When are you coming here again?' he asked as soon as they got the hellos out of the way.

‘I wasn't planning on it any time soon. Work, you know.'

‘Well, I did…'

‘Sorry, didn't mean to?—'

‘No, I apologise, that was unnecessarily touchy.'

‘Mum doing your head in?'

‘Kind of,' he sighed. The last thing he wanted to do was moan about her to Marco. He didn't want to put him off visiting even more than he already was. ‘It's a bit full on, that's all, and I can't escape. And she's got two days off from tomorrow. You could come for the day, bring the kids; she'd love that.'

Marco didn't say anything.

‘She's in a good place, Marco.'

‘Yeah, but for how long?'

He couldn't argue with the logic. So many times, they'd thought she'd turned a corner but she'd always returned to the same street, the one she walked with booze and the loss of another part of herself .

‘Is she in AA again?' Marco asked.

‘She is.'

‘She still has a job?'

‘Yes.'

‘Are you sure she's going there?' Gio had told him the truth about the pub job so it wasn't a surprise when he asked this question.

‘I haven't followed her to make sure but she's out every day. She's been paid – I've seen the evidence in her bank account because she used my iPad.'

Switching his thinking had been hard for Gio but he got to see his mother's progress first hand; Marco didn't. And until he did, until he came to see for himself, Gio wasn't sure that Marco would ever believe that their mum was turning things around.

Gio was about to ask again when Marco could visit when the shrill fire station alarm in the background stopped their conversation in its tracks.

‘You need to come some time, Marco,' he got in before his brother said goodbye and hung up the call so he could do his job. Gio imagined him pulling on his boots and his jacket, jumping onto the fire engine and heading off to a shout.

Gio would give anything to be doing the very same right now.

A little before lunchtime, Marianne called, but rather than it being to tell Gio she'd walked out on her job or that she couldn't stick it – he'd had those phone calls more times than he cared to remember and had braced himself – she called to tell him she'd seen a room advertised for rent. After she told him the price, she added, ‘That's including bills so I don't have to worry about those on top, and it's furnished. '

Floored at how together she sounded, Gio quickly rallied and picked up his iPad. He wanted to check the place out online for himself.

She told him the approximate area where the house was. ‘I can get the bus like I do now,' she explained.

It was a short bus trip to work at the moment; she reached the office of the cleaning firm in less than thirty minutes and from there, the cleaners went off as a team to their various jobs in a little van. She'd even talked the other night about one day getting her driver's licence – she'd never said anything like that before.

Looking at the area on a map, it was further than he'd thought. ‘It'll be quite a trek to work.'

‘Stop fussing. Be pleased for me, Gio.' With a huff, she pointed out, ‘This is what you want, isn't it?'

‘I want you to be safe and happy, Mum, that's all.' His voice came out small and she mellowed.

‘It's really not that far.'

‘No, I suppose not.' But it didn't stop him asking her for the exact address so he could find it online while she went back to work.

When the call ended, he let himself be happy that she was taking charge. He loved how elated she'd sounded – but then it reminded him of how she used to get that way after a couple of drinks. After two or three, she'd come alive, be good company, but then the really drunk Marianne showed up and it was another thing entirely.

Gio searched on the address and room to rent, found the advert online, and she was right; the price was reasonable. This would give his mum her independence back because it had to be hard having your son watching your every move. It would restore his sanity too, at least as much as it could return when he wasn't operating at full throttle with his wretched knee.

He looked on the map attached to the listing and zoomed in on where the house with the spare room was located and it was indeed near a bus stop so it could work even if the bus ride was longer. But on closer inspection, he spotted a couple of flies in the ointment – namely an off licence on the street corner and a pub at the other end of the road. He didn't want to be negative, but wasn't that tempting fate? One bad day could see her slipping into the off licence or into the pub and that would be that. Her sober days' total would be no more and she'd have to start all over again. And nobody wanted that.

With nothing much else to do, he kept his leg elevated and on his iPad searched for other rooms to rent, but they were all so expensive. At these prices she'd have no money for food and he was pretty sure that bills included didn't mean you ate for free.

By mid-afternoon, Gio was going stir crazy. He had to get outside again. He'd already done several rounds of the daily exercises his physio had shown him and now, he took the painkillers even though his knee didn't feel too bad. There wasn't much daylight left but he didn't care; he had to do this to keep his head straight. He'd go to the end of the path on those damn crutches, turn left and go round the block. He could walk it in fifteen minutes usually, run it in five, but he suspected it was going to take a heck of a lot longer than that this time.

He underestimated how long everything took when you were compromised. It wasn't just getting out and about. Putting on his coat should've been a five-second job, but he'd ended up having to sit down to do it when he stumbled. Putting on his shoes went in a similar vein. Then he'd forgotten a key, and getting from front door to kitchen took longer than usual, especially when his crutches caught on the coffee table and sent a mug flying. Luckily, it was empty.

Eventually, he opened the front door to the bracing December winds and set off down the path.

At the end of the street, he rested at the bench. Two young women walked past and he knew they were checking him out – he'd seen that same look from women when he was out on a job. They saw the uniform, they knew what was underneath – strength, stamina, bravery – all the things he hoped he still had, but right now, he felt as though he wanted to dress in a costume which was no longer custom-made for him. It didn't fit, and he hated that.

He carried on to the end of the road. He wished Merry Christmas to passers-by, and nodded to a guy who every year put a nativity scene on his front lawn for local kids to appreciate. Who was he kidding? Gio always stopped and gawped at the nativity scene for ages – it wasn't only for the kids. When he was four and Marco nine, they made their own nativity scene at home using a cardboard box, their Lego figures, and straw from the guinea pig hutch at the foot of the garden. He remembered it as a good Christmas, and the boys hadn't had that many.

Gio crossed the road, walked parallel with a field and acres of countryside beyond. Every now and then, he stopped, pretended to look across and admire the Christmas lights on houses, when really he was stopping because he was pushing himself more than he should.

But nothing good ever came from sitting back and doing nothing. He had to work hard at this.

There was no other choice.