Sleepwalker

A Change of Atsmosphere

No one would tell me what happened while I was unconscious. When I woke up, it was only my parents remaining by my bed side and both of them looked exhausted and ill. Apparently Cody had left to go and get some fresh air, Lola had had to go back home and Max had left with the Sergeant, who hadn't said a word to my family since Cody threatened him. And other than telling me these things and asking if I was okay, my parents sat in silence beside me, avoiding eye contact.

I stayed in the hospital for two more days, just until my blood pressure was under control so I wouldn't keep passing out. During this time, I had fleeting visits from my family who only stayed for a few minutes and barely said anything, an hour's visit from Lola who talked about herself, and nothing at all from Max, who apparently was 'bogged down in work'. I couldn't help but feel hopelessly alone. When the time finally came for me to be discharged, my parents and Cody met me in the waiting room once I had changed into some clothes that they had brought with them. Everyone looked a lot better than the day I had crashed; my father had showered and shaved and was dressed in a smart suit, my mum had stopped crying and was wearing makeup and smart clothes and Cody had his hair back to normal and was smiling at some stupid video on his phone when I walked in.

However, the atmosphere between us had changed completely. The car ride home was horrifically quiet and as I looked at the behaviour of my family members, my brain soaked up the details. My dad with his knuckles white on the steering wheel, jumping every time he received an email and asking mum to read it, chewing his lip nervously and fiddling with his driving instructor's badge. My mum who was intently reading a local women's magazine and looking sadly out of the window when she thought no one was looking. And Cody, who had three loud and boisterous phone calls with his mates in the space of forty minutes.

I knew what was happening, and it made me feel sick. So when the four of us crowded into the kitchen to empty the shopping bags we'd filled on the way home, I limped into a chair, trying to stare at the floor. And then my dad made the mistake of speaking. They had just finished unpacking the shopping when my father leant on the table opposite me, propped up by his elbows, and spoke softly.

"Jessica, darling..." he began. I stared at him: my parents never used my full name.

"I just wanted to say on behalf of all of us that we are so...proud of you for—"

"No Dad. Don't do that." I said, cutting him off completely.

"Do what?"

"Have this discussion. This beautifully soppy discussion about how proud you are of your brave daughter for making it through her traumatic ordeal. As much as I can understand why you would say it, you have to mean it in order for it to work." I snapped.

"But we do mean it dear," my mum frowned at the floor, "We are so proud of you."

"Then look at me when you say that!" I yelled, punching the table in anger. "I'm not stupid Mum, I can tell that this is bullshit! You two would honestly love to be proud of me deep down like most other parents would, but you're different to most other parents."

When no one said anything, I pushed on, eager to make a point.

"Dad, you're a freaking driving instructor! Who is possibly going to want lessons from the guy whose daughter was involved in that huge smash on the news? As much as you'd love to support me through this, your business is going to fail and you're going to lose all your clients. I can tell by the way you freak out every time you get an email, thinking it might be a potential customer. I'm sorry to point this out, but you've always valued your work above me." My father's face had gone white and he looked like he was about to pass out.

"And Mum, you're even worse! I am sick of your false sympathies and you pretending to care about me when all you care about is your reputation."

"What reputation?" she snapped furiously.

"Oh come on! You are one of the most respected women in this town! You are part of a million women's institutions who do flower-arranging and make their own chutney, and you go to more dinner parties than I can count. You do yoga and Pilates and tennis with 'the girls' who consist of ladies called Belinda who have children called Felicity and Bartholomew and a black Labrador called Jasper, and all the while you get caught up in this stupid competition about who's families have done the most amazing things. I've seen it in the handmade Christmas cards you send each other. Everyone is always going on about how their families have done charity kayak journeys or their children have got 15 A* GCSEs. You do it too! Whenever Cody and I do something good, you tell 'the girls' before even congratulating us, you know.

But now, things will change. The moment someone's family does something bad, they are pushed out of the circle and left out of all these coffee mornings and white mum bingo sessions that you hold, and are gossiped about instead. And now I crashed my car, that's going to be you and you know it! That's why you were so horrified that it was in the newspapers- to save your reputation. You don't want to be another pathetic mother that Belinda spreads rumours about in the Mother's Union meetings. So don't you dare try to act like you're proud of me." I finished furiously, my face flushed. My mum was crying but I didn't care; I knew I was right.

"Jess, please stop." Cody said, at last finding his voice. "Our parents aren't like that."

"Oh shut up Cody, you are just as bad! You act like you're oh so worried about your little sister and like you've got to be a great role model, but at the end of the day, what am I? Just another story to tell your mates, that's what. Don't think I haven't heard you laughing down the phone making stupid jokes about my crash just to gain popularity. All three of you are so fake you disgust me!" I screamed, before forcing myself up from the chair and limping as fast as I could out of the room. Tears of pain and upset streamed down my face as I hauled myself upstairs and slammed the door to my bedroom, flopping down on my bed.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket, knowing who to call to cheer me up. Max answered on the third ring.

"Jess, is that you?" his voice was reassuring, like an island of calm in a violent sea.

"Max, my name shows up on your phone you idiot." I teased weakly, and he sighed.

"Jess, you can't ring me while I'm at work anymore, okay? I'm having to work longer hours and you can't disturb me. In fact, I think it would probably be good if we took a break from each other for a while. I promise it's nothing personal, just stuff I can't explain right now. So don't ring me until I ring you okay?"

"What? Max, what the hell is going on?" I asked, completely confused.

"I have to go. Thanks for understanding Jess, you're a great best friend."

"Wait, Max- I need some help. I don't know what to do." I panicked.

"Bye Jess." He said, and then hung up, leaving me completely alone and lost.

***

My routine over the next week was almost the same every day. I would wake up at 9:30am to find a tray of breakfast sat on the floor by my bed, and I would eat it whilst scrolling through my phone like a morning newspaper. At around 10am, my brother would shout his 'goodbye' through the bedroom door, and I wouldn't respond. Once he was out of the house, I would get out of bed and have a shower, before getting changed into my running gear and trainers. Then I would grab Bertie and he and I would go for a run around the local park with some time to play fetch when we got to the field.

Once we returned, I would give him his lunch and refill his water bowl and take a sandwich to my bedroom so I was out of the way before my mum returned. I would spend the afternoon reading, watching movies and sleeping before Cody would shout 'I'm home!" through the door at 5pm. I would still not answer. At 7pm, my mum would bring a tray full of dinner upstairs and into my room, where I would be pretending to be asleep. I wasn't fooling her but I didn't care. The sound of my parents arguing would alert me to the fact that my dad was home a few hours later, and then I would get changed into my pyjamas and ring Max at 10:30pm.

The first day that I rang him, he picked up and reminded me of what he'd said the day before, whilst I desperately tried to ask for his advice. He hung up on me mid-sentence. Then every day after that, he stopped answering.

The only things that made these night calls worthwhile was hearing the stupid voicemail we'd recorded together a year ago, and holding onto the tiniest hope that he might answer before I fell asleep.