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

supermodel. Her skin is back to a normal light olive colour rather than pasty white and when she takes a deep breath she smiles and relaxes rather than burst into fits of rattling cough. The only thing she has to worry about is baking her best and looking good on TV.
    Oh bother. Now I’m getting tears coming up into my eyes. I can’t even look at Mum. I know exactly what her face will look like. She’ll be biting her lip to try and stay in control and sensible and adult. Her eyes will be kind of imploring Mr Rogers to say something helpful and positive and not-too-scary.
    We both know what he’s going to say next. He said it last year at my annual review too, only then he said that we probably had another year or two before we needed to seriously consider it.
    ‘I think we should speak again about putting you on the transplant list,’ he says.
    And with that the entire bottom falls out of my world, except that the way I see it in my head is somebody getting a huge sack of flour and then stabbing it at the bottom with a big knife so that all the flour trickles out and blows away.
    ‘Mel, what do you think?’ says Mum, reaching out to hold my hand.
    They wait for me to answer.
    I just can’t speak.
    ***
    On the way home I eat a Mars Bar in the passenger seat while Mum negotiates the rush-hour traffic. The CF centre is only ten miles from where we live, as Mum had all this in mind when she chose the house we live in now, but with the traffic it takes an hour to get back.
    Neither of us says much in the car.
    There’s not really that much to say.
    After Mr Rogers mentioned the transplant we spent another session in his office talking it all through and we decided that I would have to put my name on the list.
    I don’t have much choice really.
    If I want to live for a good while longer, I’ve got to have it done. Time is running out.
    Mum indicates and pulls in through the old stable arch and into our parking space at the back.
    We sit in the car in silence for a moment, trying to find the right words.
    In the end I try to make light of it because Mum looks so stricken.
    ‘S’pose London’s off, then?’ I say. My voice sounds like a baby lamb, all thin and bleating. The thought of lamb makes a thin rush of hunger rise up in my chest, despite everything. Perhaps I’ll see if there’s any lamb mince in the freezer and make burgers instead of fish and chips. Burgers with blue cheese melted on top and thick, chunky fries and home-made tomato sauce. Yum.
    Mum turns to face me. She takes both my hands in her thin, cold ones.
    ‘Yes, Amelie,’ she says. ‘I’m really sorry, but you’re just not up to it at the moment. London is most definitely off. End of story.’
    She gets out of the car.
    I follow her inside in silence.

Chapter Nine
    After the annual review I spend a week feeling miserable.
    My health continues to get worse. I struggle for breath and it’s an effort to get to school. The school nurse keeps an eye on me, but she hasn’t got time to single out one pupil for special attention, so mostly I monitor my own health and take pills and puffs of inhaler whenever I think I need them. I get the bus home and walk slowly up the road from the bus stop feeling like an OAP, all tired and out of breath. Sometimes Gemma walks with me. I’ve told her about the annual review and I could see the sympathy in her eyes mixed with relief that it wasn’t all happening to her. I suppose most people that know me feel like that so I can’t really blame her.
    I’ve started to have some thoughts about Gemma and I don’t like the way in which they are going. I’ve admitted to myself that I’m the tiniest bit jealous of her being so well all the time. She never even seems to catch a cold. And she’s my best friend, so when I get these feelings I feel all swamped with guilt and self-loathing.
    A date comes through for the day surgery to fit my gastrostomy so that I can have night feeds through a tube. It’s for next