Fatherbrotherhood

By Jade Hamilton

When Marc comes back early from his gap year after his mum's stroke, he takes over the care of his little brother Chris, who has multiple disabilities. 21 and effectively a father, Marc tries to keep his family together and build a relationship with the gorgeous Tony: a Polish boy who makes his heart race and soothes his soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9780244108830

Book preview

Fatherbrotherhood

FATHERBROTHERHOOD

By

JADE HAMILTON

© Jade Hamilton, 2018 © Raspberry Wireless Productions, 2018

For Ila Golden- always. And for Deo, the two Charlies… And James. Just because.

Life is what happens when you’re making other plans." John Lennon on the death of Brian Epstein

"Does anybody have a map?

Anybody maybe happen to know how the hell to do this?

I don’t know if you can tell,

But this is me just pretending to know.

So, where’s the map?

I need a clue.

Cos the scary truth is:

I’m flying blind

And I’m making this up as I go."

Pasak and Paul Anybody Have a Map?

PROLOGUE

When Dad asked him to move in with him after the divorce, Marc told him to fuck off.

It was the first time he’d ever said that out loud. It felt scary and daring, like letting of a firework.

He watched. Slightly detached as his dad glared, fists clenched .  Bloodshot grey eyes flashing. What did you just say to me?

You heard.

CHAPTER 1

Chris? Chris!

Marc paces the hospital corridor, legs automatically breaking in to a run. Glances round, then down at his watch. Nine minutes forty-five seconds, ten minutes, ten minutes fifteen- shit! Where is he?

Then he hears a toilet flush somewhere and a door opens and shuts and  he looks down to see a familiar figure in a Batman T-shirt with grey-green eyes and  a  dark brown  French crop staring up at him.

Chris, you idiot! How many times do I have to tell you not to wonder off?

His little brother looks  down at his shoes, brows wrinkled. I needed a wee. Are you cross?

Marc sighs so hard he’s surprised there’s actually any air left in his lungs.  No, mate, I’m not cross.

He steers Christopher in to an orange plastic chair. It looks wrong, too bright with mushroom brown lino and walls the colour of school semolina. Weird.

I’m gonna check on Mum and then I’ll be back, alright? Try not to get yourself lost for five minutes.

Marc?

Yeah?

If I’m good, can I have a Coke?’

Marc rolls his eyes but fishes around in his jeans anyway. Chris isn’t really meant to have Coke: it makes his hyperactivity worse. But, like Mum says: There’s nothing wrong with being a bit of a Tigger now and again.

He finds a quid, hands it over. You can have a Coke if you stay here and wait for me.

OK

He walks up the corridor: turns right, through the double doors, then left, then right again.

ITU.

Mum’s wired up to machines, heart monitor beeping: she’s breathing on her own, but in these whispery little gasps. She’s very weak, poppet, a nurse said earlier. Smile pasted on, like he was Chris’s age. She needs to recover.

Grandma’s sat by the bed in her best blue wool coat, holding Mum’s hand. She reckons this is all Dad’s fault and- privately- Marc reckons she’s got a point. The way he sees it,  Dad’s ego couldn’t handle a son who came out and a son who was disabled, so he buggered off. Leaving Mum to pick up the pieces.

How is she? He has to keep swallowing, his throat’s like sandpaper. Why is it  so hot in here?

Grandma shakes her head, manages a weak little mouth twitch that’s probably supposed to be a smile. You couldn’t fetch me a cup of coffee, could you, sweetheart?

He nods. Sure.

The coffee’s watery and smells disgusting, but he doubts Grandma will notice. She barely remembers to drink it.

Marc? Christopher pulls gently on his jumper sleeve. He looks shattered and scared and much,  much younger than eight. I want Mum.

She’s sleeping, mate.

I want Mum!

Please God, not a meltdown. Not here. Please.

I know you do. So do I. And we’ll go in and say goodnight to her before we go home, I promise. He knows he’s stalling, playing for time, like Homer Simpson when the nuclear power plant nearly blew up. Eeny, meany, miney mo.

Then, suddenly, he’s got it. But, we need to get you that Coke first, don’t we?

Am I allowed it, then?

Yeah, you are. Cos you’ve been so good. You stayed put and waited for me just like I asked you to, didn’t you?

Yeah, Christopher  says. He’s already grinning. I did, didn’t I?

They get the Coke and Christopher sits on another plastic chair, slurping from the ring pull hole in the can. He reaches over, passes it to Marc. "Want some? 

No, it’s OK, mate. You have it.

Christopher shakes his head vigorously, suddenly serious. We’re brothers and brothers have to share. Mum said.

Marc shrugs and laughs and takes the can. He’s trying to remember when he last had something to drink. Coffee on the Eurostar, maybe, but that was hours ago.

Thanks, mate.

Christopher gives him a huge grin and does a double thumbs-up. No worries.

After they’ve told Mum goodnight, they’re walking back to the car in silence. Grandma’s striding ahead, Marc’s behind her;  dazed and cold and so bloody knackered it’s like he hasn’t slept in about two months. Is trainlag a thing? Maybe it’s just shock.

Christopher is bringing up the rear. His shoes have come undone and Marc watches him trying not to trip over them. Face scrunched up with pain and tiredness. Trying to be good. Trying not to whine. Eventually, he says:      My legs hurt.

Marc scoops him up in to his arms. Piggy back?

Yeah.

Marc feels Chris’s hands in his hair, legs on his shoulders.

Can we play Batman when we get home?

After you’ve eaten some tea and had a bath, mate.

Grandma falls asleep in front of ‘Newsnight’ as soon as they get in, so Marc cooks. He makes Chris’s favourite dinner: lamb burgers,’ letter chips’, carrots, broccoli and baked beans.  He tells Chris that it’s a special brave boy’s dinner. For calling the ambulance, for keeping Mum warm, for being so good at the hospital.

Christopher starts to tell him about it, between bites of burger. Mum was helping me make my lunch and then her voice went funny and she fell over.

How did you know to call the ambulance, mate?

A lady came to tell us at school about it and I remembered.

Well done, mate. I’m proud of you.

They do the washing up,  he runs a bath, pours a capful of bubbles in to the water and tells Chris to undress and  get in.

He stays just outside the door, the way Mum does, just in case. Stepping in to wash his hair  and his back. Mostly, though,  Chris is fine, splashing lazily and singing ‘Yellow Submarine’ under his breath.

Then, he hears a shout and a splash. A big one.

Chris? Why didn’t you call