Free The Baking Life of Amelie Day by Vanessa Curtis Page B

this.
    â€˜Mother,’ I say. ‘You of all people should know by now that I am not Most Kids.’
    Mum gives me a look that I find hard to read for a moment and then I realise that she can’t speak because if she did, she’d start to cry.
    I give her a weak smile and we eat the rest of our lunch in silence.
    ***
    After another two hours of hanging about drinking endless cups of tea and coffee and high-calorie milkshakes, Mr Rogers finally comes out of his office and calls us in.
    â€˜Sorry you’ve had such a long wait,’ he says. ‘I’ve had to wait for the various results to come in from other departments. We want to make sure that we’ve got all the information before we talk to you.’
    He ushers us into his office. Because he’s a senior consultant he’s got posh furniture and much larger pot plants than everybody else. I sink down into the soft, expensive leather armchair and Mum takes the one next to me.
    â€˜OK, hit me with it,’ I say, before Mr Rogers can start trying to dress up whatever he’s about to say with lots of medical speak. ‘I’ve got some cake tins waiting for action at home.’
    Mr Rogers twinkles at me with his kind eyes over the top of his glasses and then returns his attention to the files on his desk.
    â€˜The usual evidence of mild liver disease,’ he says. ‘Nothing to worry about at this stage. And all the other blood tests came back fine. But your lung function tests are down on last time and your loss of weight is quite marked. I gather Diane has spoken to you about gastrostomy. Any questions you might have about that?’
    I shake my head. I’ve got a leaflet about it in my bag and I kind of understand the idea behind it.
    â€˜What about my lungs?’ I say. ‘Do I need to do even more extra physio? Tom said three times a day would be enough.’
    Mr Rogers exchanges a quick look with Mum. Then he clicks on a machine next to his desk and holds up my chest x-ray so that I can see it lit up again.
    He points to an area of criss-cross lines in front of my ribs.
    â€˜See these?’ he says. ‘Because you’ve had chronic infection in your airways, they’re now full of infected mucus and there’s air trapped in your lungs, which is why your chest looks expanded. The long word for this is “bronchiectasis”. The worse it gets, the more trouble your lungs will have clearing carbon dioxide from your bloodstream.’
    â€˜Wow,’ I say. ‘Another long word for my collection. Cheers, Doc.’
    Mum flinches at my casual way of addressing Mr Rogers.
    â€˜How do we stop it getting worse?’ she says. ‘Is it a question of more physio?’
    Mr Rogers takes off his glasses and rubs at his brow for a moment. He looks tired. I wonder how many patients with CF he sees a day and whether they’re all wise-cracking and sarcastic like me, or whether he has kids weeping and sobbing all over his desk. I note that he’s got a box of white tissues with the top one sticking out in my direction like he’s predicted I’m going to need it.
    Tissues always remind me of the soft layer you find stuck underneath an almond macaroon. I love macaroons, the way when you bite into them they’re chewy instead of crisp. I love the way that the sugar slightly grates the roof of your mouth while it dissolves and then there’s the strange delight of eating edible paper from the bottom of the biscuit.
    â€˜No, not really,’ he says. ‘Of course you must carry on with the physio – that’s very important. But the further deterioration of your lungs is hard for us to prevent. You may find it hard to walk anywhere much soon without oxygen and I guess that’s going to have quite an impact on your quality of life, as well as on your schoolwork.’
    I picture the school football team and a lump comes into my throat. Then I picture myself travelling