Milo

“Katy.” My call echoes through the empty house and I stare at the drawings spread across the table as I wait for a response. Several pairs of Natalie's eyes stare back at me, blank and empty. 

I'm searching for a way to prove Nia wrong. To prove to her that I can get the emotion in my work she thinks I lack.

But it's proving harder than I thought.

Sagging into my chair, I grab my phone and flick through my photos for yet another photo of Natalie I can draw from. Nia made a point of Natalie not being in my work as if this is the key to my success. As if Natalie would be the one to spark that inspiration. To allow me to knock down my walls when I draw and let the charcoal express my emotions.

But each drawing is just as emotionless as the last.

"What?" Katy appears in the doorway, munching on some crisps.

"Homework," I mutter, abandoning my phone in favour of my untouched sandwich.

"No." Katy's hands fly into the air. "I cannot work like this."

"Like what?" I follow her movement as she yells into the room for the speaker to turn off.

"Give me your phone." She curls her fingers at me. "It's urgent."

My lip curls, and when I make no move to hand Katy my phone, she leans across my lap to claim it.

"Whoa." I grab her wrist and yank her away from me. "What do you need it for?"

"I'm putting some better music on."

I narrow my eyes but give her my phone since she always wins this fight. She climbs onto a chair, folding her legs under her before putting my pin in. Letting her do her thing, I turn back to my drawings. 

"Who's this?"

"What?" My question comes out as an incoherent noise through my food, but Katy turns my phone to a photo of Nia and me. I swallow as I study the photo. "Nia."

"She's pretty."

"Mhm." Pretty doesn't cover it, but I'm not having this discussion with my eight-year-old sister. She'll tell the whole world.

"I like her freckles."

"Me too." I snatch the phone from her tiny hands. "What did you want on?"

"Mamma Mia," she tells me as if this is the most obvious thing on the planet.

"No."

"Yes."

"It'll mess up my music algorithm."

Katy's awful choice of music is already deeply embedded in my library. There's nothing I can do to change that now.

"What?"

"Go get some homework, and I'll put it on."

She scurries off to find her bag, and I regret giving in when she returns singing at the top of her lungs. I have no idea who got her onto this.

"This is so lame," I moan as the first song comes to an end.

“No.” Katy grins at me. "This is perfect."

And I can't argue. As long as she's happy.

Before she has a chance to comment on my drawings, I gather them up and turn to my homework. But I’m distracted. By Katy, by Nia, by the reason I can't find what I'm searching for.

I move to my room after Katy goes to bed, and, with my headphones on, I submerge myself into getting that perfect drawing.

For days.

But it never comes.

With a sigh, I push from my desk for something to eat as I scour my photos for one of Katy where I haven't asked her to relax her face. I've got plenty of her laughing, and I flick between a few to get a good one. But sitting between two of Katy is one of Nia. That sadness claims her entire face, and I pause on the stairs as I study it. Shaking my head, I swipe back to Katy and lock my phone as I approach the kitchen.

A figure stands at the island, pouring wine into a stemmed glass. I approach cautiously, not wanting to startle her. "Mum?"

She glances up, surprised by my presence. "Hey, baby. Didn't realise you were in."

She steps around the island for a hug, and I fall into her arms. I bury my face into her hair, inhaling the hint of jasmine that always comforted me as a child. I squeeze my eyes shut, taking the comfort I didn't realise I was so desperate for.

I'm willing to grasp at any amount of support Mum has the strength to offer. She holds onto me as if she knows how much I need this, but she lets go before I'm ready. I don't cling to her and step away. I study the shadows around her eyes and the tension she holds in her lips and eyebrows.

I open my mouth to tell her I'm pleased to see her out of bed today. She's wearing outdoor clothes and looks like she's showered too. But I'm not sure how to act around her anymore. I'm not sure what will scare her back into bed for days at a time.

Talking openly about our feelings stopped a long time ago. A darkness settled over this house when Dad lost his last job years ago, snuffing out any of the light and happiness we possessed.

As a result, I no longer know how to share with Mum or how to create that smile I used to crave to see when I finished school. Nor do I believe she knows how to make me smile like she used to.

Instead, I keep my mask solid on my face as I step back and rest a hand on the fridge door.

"I don't have work or swimming tonight." I pull open the fridge and scan the empty shelves for something to satisfy my cravings.

"Didn't want to go out with friends?"

I pause my line of thought and frown at the freezer door, wondering when she thinks I last had time to see friends. I peer at the bottle of wine. About half a glass sits in the bottom of the bottle, but whether this is her first or if it was opened before is unclear. I flick my gaze to hers as she stares at the tiles, unfocused.

"All busy tonight," I tell her and turn back to the fridge, snapping off two of Katy's tiny yoghurts. I straighten, grab a teaspoon, and take a barstool opposite Mum.

A weak smile caresses her face when she eyes the yoghurts. She takes a sip of her wine and lifts her gaze up to me. "Remember when we used to sit up here with ice cream and share all our secrets?"

How could I not?

They are some of my best memories.

I could never forget those days. When Dad's work kept him out of the house for weeks at a time. Mum and I were able to run riot in the house without the constraints usually upheld.

I love Katy, but I miss the mum I grew up with.

"Yeah. I used to love doing that."

I inwardly groan and jam my spoon into the almost empty pot. This was the wrong thing to say. Mum's smile drops, and her stare turns blank again, turned to the floor, as she continues to drink her wine. I study her face. Her eyes don't focus on me. Her cheeks are cut out and hollow. The corners of her lips are turned down.

Dad took my most favourite person on the planet and ruined her. Turned her into an empty shell of someone she used to be.

I'm grateful I no longer have to look after her as much as I used to. Until I realised it wasn't helping her. That no matter how many hours I held or played with Katy in her bed, Mum was never going to make it out. That the only option I had was to leave her, decaying in the darkness.

I fought, and I failed. Until I dragged her to the doctors to start a new cycle.

It gives me hope to see her down here. That maybe, finally, we might have broken that cycle.

"Chunky monkey still your favourite?"

I nod as the smile returns to my face, and hers lightens again. It's subtle, but I notice the lift of her lips and eyes. It's enough for me today.

"You seem better today." I keep the smile plastered in place, unsure this was the right thing to say.

"I feel better." She takes a sip of her wine and muses over something. I turn my gaze back to my yoghurt as I peel off the next lid. "I think the tablets are finally making a difference."

My head shoots up at her words, and I fumble my yoghurt. The smile I was trying so hard to force comes naturally, mixing with the shock. "You're taking them?"

"Yeah. Every day since you said I should." Her smile is full of pride and it reflects on my face.

I don't mention the fact that I've reminded her to take them every day for the last two years. Nor do I tell her that she feels better because she's finally taken them long enough to make a difference.

Because none of that matters. It doesn't matter how she's reached this point, just that she did. There's a shadow of my mum sitting opposite me.

"That's great, Mum."

"Thank you, baby."

We sit in silence as I finish my yoghurts, and for the first time in years, I'm comfortable. I'm not thinking about what I could be doing better to make sure Mum is okay.

"How's swimming?"

I pause as I consider how to approach this. I can't and won't tell her that it could be improved if I had more time. That I could compete at the level I want to if I didn't have to work or look after her and Katy. I don't have it in me to lay any more guilt on her.

It doesn't feel fair for me to do so.

"Alright," I say eventually. "Same as always. Still doing well."

"I always knew you'd make it in swimming."

I smile at her comment without knowing what else to do. Her words are empty. My dad's words have more power. My coach's have more meaning.

I haven't made it anywhere. I'm stuck competing at a level I'll never make it out of.

She reaches across the bar and tucks a long strand of hair behind my ear. "Doesn't your long hair get in the way?"

"Sometimes. But I shove it all in a cap." I push it all back off my face, the way I prefer it, smoothing back the piece Mum dislodged. "I like it like this. At least when I'm not in the pool."

Mum grabs a strand of her shoulder-length hair, running it through her fingers as she inspects the ends. "Katy could do with a haircut too."

"You've been in to see her?" I stand to rinse out the empty pots for recycling and put my spoon in the dishwasher.

"Yeah." Mum turns in her stool as I walk around the kitchen, still clasping her wine. "She was flat out, clinging onto about ten different teddies."

I release a small chuckle as I launch the plastic into the overflowing recycling bin as a basketball shot. It bounces off some cardboard and drops to the tiled floor, leaving droplets of water in its wake. "I hope they're still all on her bed in the right order."

Mum doesn't comment, probably because I don't remember the last time she put Katy to bed. I can't imagine she even knows any of her teddies' names. But that's not her fault.

It's Dad's. 

I would do anything to bring my mum back.

I just wish I knew what that was.

Mum finishes off the wine in her glass and pushes to her feet. I can tell the social interaction has left her worn and tired. I follow her movement as she empties the bottle into her glass and the disappointment that settles over her when the bottle is empty.

"I'm going to take this upstairs now, baby."

"Okay." I force my smile despite the sickness churning at my stomach. I don't know what her drinking means. I can't tell if this is a one-off or a long-term thing I have to deal with.

I don't know if I'm meant to stop her or be grateful she was in the kitchen fully dressed.

"It was nice talking to you. I miss you." The words slip out without meaning to. No matter how much I miss my mum, I swore never to mention it to her. As if it would protect her. As if not telling her would lessen the guilt I know she carries.

But as my father repeatedly tells me, I'm too weak to keep that to myself. I'm too weak to not let her see.

"I miss you too," she mutters. And the pain in my heart swells. The edges of the hole that Dad created long ago burns at her words.

She walks around the bar and pulls me into another hug. I'm too weak to resist it or not to fall into the hold. I need my mum so much, and I'm not strong enough to refuse this small gift she's giving me.

"Night night, baby."

Again, she pulls away from me too soon, and I hold my mask up strong. I refuse to let her see my need for her. I refuse to let her see my pain.

She already has enough of her own pain to deal with. Sharing mine won't help anyone. I watch over my shoulder as she disappears down the hallway and upstairs before I sag against the breakfast bar.

The talk with Mum has left me weak. Like I've been holding a wound closed, and without her, I can't keep it hidden.

And now she's gone, the blood is pouring freely, and there's nothing I can do until I'm drained dry.

Because I'm too pathetic, too weak, to be able to hold myself together all the time.

I kick the bin causing the cardboard to drop to the floor. I stare at it before heading back upstairs, leaving it lying beside the empty yoghurt pots.

I'm proud of Mum. I have to be.

I really try to be.

But I'm not sure that I really am proud of her for something as simple as making it out of bed anymore.

Because that really isn't enough.

And I hate that I wish she was better. That she did more. My chest burns, and my stomach churns full of guilt and shame when I think like this. When I wish more from Mum. It's not her fault, and I know that. I don't blame her for the way she's lost in the darkness.

But my dad is right. I'm weak. I'm useless. I'm pathetic.

Sinking into my drawing, I pull my phone for the photo, but Katy’s smile isn't what I want to draw anymore. A swipe to the side shows me Nia expressing everything she hides.

I zoom in on Nia's eyes. There's a subtle hold around them that may not be noticeable to everyone who passes without the rest of her face, but it's there.

Her pain. Her sorrow. Deep within her eyes. That depth and emotion Nia tells me I'm missing.

I prop my phone up against the wall and claim my favourite pencil to begin sketching out her eyes. I spend longer on Nia's than I did with any of Natalie's, but I have to. Her eyes hold so much more than any of Natalie's. So much more depth that I want to make sure I capture.

Nia's portrait takes days to perfect, but that emotion that drove me to begin with never leaves me. It clings to me, hanging over my head like a dark cloud.

Because the truth is, I can't escape it. I've not been able to escape this feeling in years.

And it might also be the first time I'm accepting this is how I feel.

I get a glimpse of the sunshine through the dark clouds when Nia flashes me a smile. Her freckles twinkle like stars as if the sun is really reflecting off them.

A single flame in my darkness.

But finally, I sag back in my chair and stare at the finished drawing. I lay it side by side with Natalie's face. I'm happy with how each of them came out. But I see what Nia sees.

That depth and emotion – it's personal.

It has nothing to do with who I'm drawing and everything to do with how I'm feeling. My drawings are shallow because I don't want anyone to know what pain I hold. My drawings are shallow because that's how much of myself I allow to be seen.

Except with Nia.

Leaving the scatter of papers on my desk, I drop into my unmade bed. And despite the tiredness clinging to my bones, I toss and turn. Nia's truth runs through my mind until I reach for my phone to satisfy my curiosity.

I’ve read about the implications of only one kidney multiple times, but there was something I missed. Something I glanced over because it didn't relate to Nia. Kidney disease. But, the more I read, the more I see Nia.

A reason why she can't eat sweets or chocolate. A reason why, on some days, her eyes are puffy or her cheeks are swollen. A reason why she chooses to hide.

And in seconds, all hope is lost. The accomplishment of seeing those rare smiles or listening to that laugh seems insignificant. Because I thought I was making headway and helping Nia.

But this discovery is confirmation that I can do absolutely nothing about it. Just like my mum.

All I can do is watch Nia suffer from afar. And I'm not sure that, if she were to confirm my suspicions, I'd have the strength to support her.

Not anymore.