Free Writing in the Sand by Helen Brandom Page B

sixty. This is hotter than we ever have it, but I’m worried about getting things really clean – I need to get the stains out. If my jeans shrink, too bad.
    After all this effort, I’m more aware how heavy and painful my breasts are. Hard instead of soft. I worry what they might look like, and whether Mum will notice if they’re obviously different. I remember a stripy pashmina Kirsty gave me. It’s wide and very long. I could try flattening my chest by winding it round. I wonder if an ice pack would help. Maybe frozen peas if we’ve got any – though they’d defrost, of course. I settle on the pashmina.
    I put mugs ready on a tray, then go upstairs. I hope the pashmina is where I think it is. And it is – on a shelf at the top of my cupboard. I pull it out. Good, it’s every bit as long as I remembered.
    I start winding it round my breasts, but with each tightening pull it hurts more and I hope I’m not making things worse. I secure it by tucking in an end. I look in the mirror. It shows under my pyjamas. So I pull on a sweater and realize I’m going to absolutely boil.
    I sit on Mum’s creaky old bed for a while, trying not to look as hot as I feel. We have the tea and cereal together, and I help her get dressed. Knowing I’m not feeling too great, she does more for herself than usual. I normally do her hair, but today she won’t let me. Even so, I feel exhausted.
    Back in my room, I slowly heave myself onto my bed. And think.
    Last night seems like a dream, but a vivid one where you remember every detail. It’s not like the dreams where you grasp at strands in case you forget. And you do forget. With those dreams, you stop thinking for a moment, and what you most want to remember slips from your grasp.
    Today, so far, I’ve managed to avoid picturing what must have gone on at the Kellys’ after they shut their door last night. Kirsty’s mum would know exactly what to do. She’ll have unwound the baby from the red cardigan and found it’s a boy. With his cord attached, and so tiny, she’ll know he was newborn.
    For the first time it hits me: they’ll have called the police.
    While I’m picturing a police car racing to the Kellys’, Mum comes into the room. “How’s your tummy?”
    I put my hand somewhere round my middle. It’s not flat like Kirsty’s, but it’s flatter than it was. “It’s okay. Better than yesterday.”
    â€œGood.” She pauses. “Aren’t you hot in that sweater?”
    â€œNo – I’m kind of comfortable.”
    It’s such a relief when we’re sat downstairs with the telly on. We watch people buy houses at auction; then couples being given a choice of houses they might like to buy. A bit later there are people getting their houses ready to sell.
    I pull a face. “None of this will ever happen to us.”
    â€œNone of what?”
    â€œWondering what house to buy.” I think of another programme. “We’ll never even have enough bits and pieces for a car boot sale.”
    She says, “Never say never—” and the phone rings.
    Does it show – that I’m starting to shake? What will they say – the police?
    Amy Preston, can you explain why you abandoned your baby?
    Mum says, “I’ll answer it.”
    â€œNo.” I turn the TV down and, with my heavy breasts hurting under the pashmina, I pick up the phone. “Hello?”
    â€œHi. Are you okay?”
    â€œHi, Kirsty. Yeah, just feeling a bit off. Think I’ve got this bug after all.”
    â€œPoor you… But listen—”
    â€œI’m worried about Maths tomorrow—”
    â€œAmy?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWait till you hear this.”
    I look at Mum and wish she wasn’t in the room. She’s looking expectantly at me. She likes Kirsty a lot.
    â€œLast night…”
    I hold my breath.
    She says,