It didn’t help that, as I got older, the periods of sanity became far and few between, and the periods of depression and mania became more severe. Over the last few years, we frequently ended up at the hospital when she made some sort of suicide attempt or thought she could do something ridiculous like fly.
Each time I took her to the hospital, they would just patch her up and make some changes to her medications, not that they ever seemed to make much of a difference.
So yeah, I can’t say I’m surprised at the scene currently in front of me. Not that that makes any of this easier. All I can hope for now is that she has finally found some peace.
If I’m being honest with myself, part of me is relieved that it has finally happened. I hadn’t realised until this moment that every time I left the house, this feeling of dread would coil in my stomach at what I would come home to. Part of me has been waiting on tenterhooks for this day to come; and as devastating as it is that that day is here, it has lifted some of the weight off my shoulders that I hadn’t realised I was carrying.
Eventually, I manage to pull myself out of my trance, fishing my brick of a phone from my bag and calling the police. Once I’ve relayed the necessary details, I head back outside and sit on the brick wall surrounding our tiny square of outdoor space. I can’t bear to be in that house any longer.
Fifteen minutes later, blue flashing lights illuminate the street, as emergency services arrive. I sit and watch, still in a state of shock, as a police car pulls up onto the curb across the street and the ambulance parks in the middle of the one-way road, preventing any other traffic from getting down the street.
A policewoman gets out of the car, crossing the street to stand in front of me.
“Are you Sophie Prescott? You phoned emergency services?”
Struggling to find my voice, I just nod in confirmation.
“I’m Officer Murray. Can you tell me what happened here tonight?” she asks me gently, giving me a reassuring smile.
I give her a brief run-down of everything that has happened since I locked up at the pub an hour ago. God was that only an hour ago? It feels like a lifetime ago.
Once I’ve finished updating Officer Murray and she’s taken whatever notes she needs, she leans in to squeeze my arm in an act of comfort and silent support. “I’m sorry about your mum, Sophie. It can’t have been easy on you, finding her like that. The paramedics are in with her now, and they are going to take really good care of her, ok?”
I just nod, not having anything to say.
“This is what we’re going to do now,” she continues, laying out a game plan, giving me something to focus on other than the fact that my mum, the only family I have, is dead. “I’m going to contact a social worker, and we are going to pack up some stuff for you so you can stay with a foster family nearby tonight. Something more permanent can be sorted in the next few days. Alright?”
Was it okay? I don’t think anything was okay right now and the last thing I wanted was to spend the night in some strangers’ home. But since I’m not yet eighteen, I’m guessing I have no actual say in the decision.
So, as the paramedics lifted my mum out of the house in a black bag, I climbed into the back of the police car and was driven to a foster home a few streets away.
Chapter 2
The foster home I was taken to was a small house belonging to a pleasant older couple, John and Mary Duffy. Mrs. Duffy wrapped her arms around me the minute I stepped out of the police car, shrouding me in her embrace, threatening to break the weak hold I had on my emotions.
Thankfully, she quickly pulled back, taking my arm in hers and showing me to my room, leaving me in peace so I could fall apart alone. Peeling off my clothes and dumping them in the bin, I didn’t even bother to hoke out pyjamas from my suitcase before pulling back the covers and crawling into bed.
Curling up in a ball, I finally let my grief consume me as the tears flowed down my face, burying my head in my pillow to drown out the heaving sobs, until exhaustion finally took over and I fell asleep.
I didn’t leave that room for two days. Mrs. Duffy would knock on my door several times a day, encouraging me to get up and eat, but I just didn’t have it in me.
On the third day, Mrs. Duffy knocked again, as had become her routine, but instead of leaving me alone when she didn’t get a reply, she opened the door and barged on in, throwing open my curtains and blinding me with the daylight streaming through the windows.
“Ugh.”
“Time to get up!” She announces, pulling back my covers. “I know it’s hard and you don’t want to, but I’ve given you your space and now you need to get up. Things need sorting that only you can do, so you can’t hide away anymore, Sophie.”
Leaving me to get up, she backs out of the room before I can murder her for disturbing the warm, safe cocoon I had created for myself over the last few days. She’s right. I have to stop wallowing. The funeral needs to be organised and I’ve to meet with my social worker and figure out my long-term plans.
The next few days are a blur of funeral planning and meetings with my social worker, Nicole, who asks me all sorts of personal questions. She was initially keen to try and reunite me with my father, but I’ve no idea who he is. There is no name on my birth certificate and my mum never talked about him. The few times I asked her who he was she just fobbed me off, telling me he was a deadbeat not worth knowing. Instead, Nicole has started looking into group homes and more permanent foster placements.
When I wasn’t with Nicole or making arrangements with the funeral directors, I holed myself up in my room, pretending the rest of the world didn’t exist. I was aware I was barely existing, just going through the motions, doing what was expected of me. I just couldn’t bring myself to pretend I was doing okay any more than I had to.
The days all blended together until, before I realised, the day of the funeral arrived. The ceremony was organised, burial plot picked out and headstone ordered. There was nothing left to do.
Except, I apparently have nothing to wear. The few measly bits of clothes I grabbed from my bedroom the night everything happened are scattered all over my bed, absolutely none of it suitable for today. I’ve never been to a funeral before, and it’s not like we ever went anywhere that required a nice outfit.
There is a faint knock on the door before it opens and Mrs. Duffy peeks her head in, giving me a soft smile. “Sorry dear, I didn’t mean to bother you, but I just wanted to see how you were doing today and check that you’re all sorted.”
She’s such a kind lady, one of those people with a truly good heart. I feel bad that I haven’t made more of an effort to get to know her or her husband while I’ve been staying here, but I just haven’t had it in me to be sociable.
Taking in the mess of discarding clothing all over the bed, she must realise I have no idea what to wear today.
“Ah dear, no worries, that’s an easy fix. Let’s have a look at what you’ve got. Everyone thinks you need to wear black to a funeral, but honestly, I think some colour provides a bit of much-needed warmth on a day like today.
“Let’s see…What about that black skirt with, eh, that dark purple top? I have some black tights I’m sure would fit you, and a pair of black flats you can wear.”