Lifesaving for Beginners

up tossing a coin for it.
    I have to stand on my tiptoes on a kitchen chair to reach the top branch.
    When I’m finished I turn off all the lights downstairs and then I plug in the fairy lights. They’re all different colours and they flash like mad, and if you look at them too long your eyes go funny. You can’t really see the rip in the star from here.

 
    I text Ed. ‘Do you want to do something today?’
    Ed texts back. ‘I am sick.’
    I ring him. He tries to be huffy but he’s not very good at it.
    ‘Hi, Ed.’
    He doesn’t say ‘Hello, Kat.’ Just ‘Hello.’ That’s how I know he’s huffy.
    ‘What’s wrong?’
    ‘I’ve got a cold and a cough.’
    ‘Do you want to come over?’
    He says nothing.
    ‘I’ll pick you up.’
    He says nothing.
    ‘I’ve got The Wizard of Oz on DVD.’
    He says nothing but I can feel him falter. The Wizard of Oz is one of his favourite films. It’s the lion who thinks he has no heart that does it for him. Every time.
    ‘I’m going to order pizza and drink Coke and eat Skittles.’ I’m not going to drink Coke. I’m going to drink wine. But Ed is a sucker for Coke. The fizz of it.
    ‘Did you get a family-size bag of Skittles?’ He’s nibbling at the bait.
    I let out more line. ‘I got two.’
    Another pause but not as long this time. Then, ‘OK.’ I reel him in.
    The outside world is unchanged and yet seems unfamiliar to me. For starters, there’s Christmas. It’s like Santa’s sack has exploded and left the debris of Christmas all over the place. Christmas looks awful in the daylight. Cheap and tacky and miserable.
    It feels good to be in the car. I hold the wheel with one hand, a cigarette with the other. I pull into a garage. Get a black coffee. I like garages. Nobody has a clue who you are and, better still, they don’t want to know. I hate corner shops. There’s often a jolly, fat woman behind the counter and she always thinks she has the measure of you. ‘Still smoking? Even after the hike in the budget? Isn’t it well for you?’
    In the garage, nobody says anything, apart from, ‘Any petrol or diesel with that?’
    I pull in at the top of the road and ring Ed. I say, ‘I’m at the corner.’
    He says, ‘Are you not coming in?’
    I say, ‘I’m at the corner.’
    Dad walks Ed down the road, even though he’s perfectly well able to walk that far by himself. Ed gets into the front passenger seat and puts on his seatbelt. Dad opens the driver’s door and says, ‘Well?’
    I say, ‘Hi, Dad,’ like nothing happened.
    He says, ‘I’ve been trying to get in touch with you.’
    ‘Sorry. I’ve been busy.’
    He stands there. Looks at me. He must be frozen. He’s not wearing a hat or even a coat. He doesn’t look cold. He looks like he’s got a puncture. Like someone let the air out of him.
    He says, ‘I gave Faith your number.’
    I look in my rear-view mirror. ‘I’d better go.’
    He straightens. He says, ‘I forgot. You’re busy.’
    ‘Do you want a lift back up the road?’
    He shakes his head. ‘I like the cold.’
    Ed says, ‘See ya, Dad,’ and Dad nods and waves and I drive away and don’t look back.
    For a while, neither of us speaks. I know Ed is getting ready to say something. I recognise the signs. His mouth moves (I call it ‘picture but no sound’), and he’s checking off things on his fingers. So far, he’s checked off three things.
    Then he says, ‘Milo is cool, so he is. And he’s good at the Wii too. He’s not as good as me but I told him he just needs to practise as much as I do.’
    When I don’t say anything, Ed goes on: ‘Is Milo a bit like my little brother now? Or my nephew or something?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘I’d love a little brother. I’d show him how to play the Wii and bring him swimming with me and everything.’
    I say, ‘You’re my little brother and I never showed you how to play the Wii.’
    Ed says, ‘You showed me other stuff.’
    ‘Did I?’
    ‘Yeah, you showed me how to tie my laces, remember?’
    I nod. I remember. He was ten and he still couldn’t do it. It took a whole weekend to teach him. That’s the thing about Ed. It takes a while. But after that, he never forgets.
    In the apartment, I want to put on the film but Ed is still talking about Milo. ‘He’s got loads of hair and he never brushes it because his mam is dead so he doesn’t have to anymore. And his best friend is Damo and their favourite game is Bulldog Takedown. He told me how to play it and I showed