A Day Off That Wasn't a Day Off

Mum came back from work before lunch with her right wrist strapped and an expression that warned everyone not to be alarmed. Leila, who had stayed at the hotel that morning to finish written coursework, became alarmed immediately.

“What happened?”

“Caught myself awkwardly. I slipped on a step.”

“Where?”

“At a visit. I've had it checked.”

“Did you fall?”

“Leila. I'm standing here.”

The answer was unfair, and Mum seemed to realise it as soon as she had said it. She set her bag on the bed with her left hand and tried again.

“I hurt my wrist. It's going to need rest. The coordinator's rearranging my visits. I haven't broken my neck or concealed a major emergency from you.”

Leila stared at the strap. It made a small part of Mum's body look official and fragile. The rest of her was familiar: the worn shoes, the trousers, a strand of hair stuck to her cheek. Leila had never properly considered how much of their life depended on those hands being able to lift, drive, wash, carry and fasten things without a meeting about it first.

“What about work?” she asked.

“They're sorting the next few days. I need to speak to them again later.”

“Will you get paid?”

Mum closed her eyes briefly.

“I need to check exactly what happens. I will. Right now I want to sit down and eat something.”

Leila went to the food bag. She found bread, cheese, a packet of tomatoes. Making a sandwich should have been simple, but every movement felt too large for the room. She dropped a tomato and chased it beneath Toby's folding bed. Mum watched for a moment, then began laughing.

“What?” Leila demanded from the floor.

“Nothing. I'm sorry.”

“It isn't funny.”

“The tomato's making a considerable effort.”

Leila retrieved it, banged her head lightly on the bed frame and swore. Mum laughed harder, then winced when the movement pulled at her wrist. For a few seconds, the whole situation became so ridiculous that Leila laughed too. It did not mean she was less frightened.

They ate sitting side by side. Mum used her left hand badly and complained about the design of the sandwich. Leila cut the next one into smaller pieces without asking. Mum thanked her, then asked what coursework she had been doing.

“English.”

“Show me.”

“You don't need to look at homework.”

“I would like to think about something that isn't an incident form.”

Leila brought the laptop over. They read the paragraph she was struggling with. Mum did not know the text well enough to help with the interpretation, but she could tell where the sentence had become so long that Leila no longer knew what she was claiming. They broke it into two. The second sentence turned out not to say anything and was deleted.

At two, the work coordinator rang. Mum took the call in the corridor because she wanted to discuss the arrangements without Leila listening to every word. That hurt more than Leila expected. She knew it was reasonable. She still stood near the door until she caught herself and moved away.

When Mum returned, she explained what had been agreed for the next few days. There were details to confirm, but she was not expected to continue the visits with one hand. Janice would help with shopping. Another colleague could bring something from the office. Leila listened, looking for a gap she could fill.

“I can cancel Saturday with Micah,” she said.

Mum looked up.

“Why?”

“To be here.”

“What do you think I'm going to do while you're gone?”

“I don't know.”

“Neither do I. Possibly read. Perhaps become irritated with the television. Toby's going to Janice's for the afternoon.”

“You might need something.”

“I have a phone. And a left hand with limited enthusiasm but adequate basic skills.”

Leila folded the corner of the empty sandwich wrapper. She wanted a task because tasks had edges. Fear did not. When she could not find something practical to do, she began imagining what could happen next: Mum unable to work for weeks, the flat becoming unaffordable, all the carefully assembled possibilities falling apart because of one slippery step.

Mum watched her face.

“Say it,” she said.

“What?”

“The worst thing you're thinking. It's taking up most of the room.”

Leila looked at the strap.

“What if you can't work?”

“We deal with what the clinician and my employer actually say. We ask questions. We don't make a whole future out of this afternoon.”

“But—”

“I know. There are things to worry about. I am worrying about them. I am also allowed to have a sore wrist without it proving that I can't keep us going.”

Leila's face warmed. “I didn't mean that.”

“I know you didn't.”

Mum leaned back against the pillows. She looked suddenly older, not because of the injury but because Leila could see the effort of remaining the reassuring person while being frightened herself.

“I don't need you to become another adult in charge of me,” she said more gently. “I need you to pass the remote because it's on the side I can't reach.”

Leila passed it. The smallness of the request helped.

When Toby came back, he stared at the wrist and asked seven questions in a row. Mum answered the first three, then asked him to sit down before continuing. He wanted to know whether she could still make dinner. Leila began to tell him not to be selfish, then stopped. Dinner was how he measured the ordinary world. He was checking whether it still existed.

“We can make dinner,” she said. “You and me.”

“Actually make it?”

“Within the limits of the microwave.”

He accepted this as a reasonable technical condition.

That evening, they worked together in the breakfast room. Toby read the packets and set timers. Leila carried the hot containers. He spilled a little water, cleaned it without being told and then asked whether they could bring Mum's food up on a tray.

Mo found a tray with a faded advertisement for a brand of coffee the hotel no longer served.

“Return it,” he said. “It's part of our historical collection.”

They carried dinner upstairs. Mum was asleep with the television on and her glasses sliding down her nose. Leila stood in the doorway holding the tray. She wanted to draw her exactly like that: tired, unguarded, one hand open on the duvet. She also knew that making the picture would not give her permission to show it to anyone.

Toby whispered, “Should we wake her?”

“In a minute.”

They put the tray on the desk, cleared a space beside it and sat quietly until Mum opened her eyes.