Mira in the Present Tense by Sita Brahmachari Read Free Book Online Page B

tears for her and kissed her on the lips, even though he is bald and old and fat and Nana Josie is seventy-four years old and dying of cancer.
    When we get back to the flat, we walk Nana to her bedroom. She’s trying to slow her breathing. Mum eases Nana’s shoes off and helps her onto the bed. Then she opens a pot of lavender cream, and starts to massage her feet. Since we were babies Mum has always massaged our feet, so I kind of know how to do it. I take Nana’s other foot and massage the cream into her hard skin. Nana sighs the air out of her lungs as if to say, “Thank you.” Her foot is getting heavier and heavier in my hand. You can hardly hear her breathing now and I can tell, by the weight of her foot, that she’s fallen asleep. We cover her with the duvet, then Piper jumps up onto the bed and lies on top of her feet. I think he likes the smell of lavender. Usually I like it too, but right now it’s making me feel quite sick.
    I try to keep Laila entertained by reading her books, but she can’t keep still for very long; she’s always crawling into trouble. She’s drinking the water out of Piper’s bowl now, but when I bring her a cup of her own she screeches in that high-pitched way that makes you give her anything she wants.
    Mum’s in the kitchen making Nana some soup. After about an hour I can smell it all around the flat. It makes my tummy rumble and I don’t even like lentils. I hear Nana get out of bed and sniff her way into the living room…
    â€œSomething smells good.”
    We sit down at Nana’s long table where I always check out what new bit of food, jewelry, or art stuff has fallen down the cracks. Probably every person who has ever sat at this table has a bit of the food they ate stuck down the gaps between the wooden slats. Laila swallows a few mouthfuls, then discovers how to blow soup bubbles, spraying orange-brown mush all over the table so that it dribbles down the cracks to mulch with all the other spilt food. We try hard to ignore her, but Nana has to turn her face away so Laila doesn’t see her laughing. Now I really do feel like puking.
    As I follow the path of the soup along the wooden grooves, I feel…I feel something change. I wander to Nana’s bathroom, trying to make everything look as normal as possible. I thought so…the brown stain has turned to…what would it be called on one of Dusty Bird’s labels? Bloodred.

May Day Holiday
    Monday, 2 May
    Mum has spent all morning turning Nana’s front room into an artist’s studio. There are white plastic paint pots, mixing sticks, all sizes of brushes and sponges, and a palette. Now Mum clears the table and covers it in newspaper and when she’s done I help her lift the coffin onto the table. It’s quite heavy for me, but I just about manage to lug one corner up onto the tabletop, sliding the rest over by tugging at the cloth beneath. It reminds me of a magician’s trick; if only I could make this coffin disappear.
    Mum says she’ll be gone for a couple of hours, but not to worry because, if we need her, she can be with us in five minutes. Our flat, I mean Nana’s, is only one road away from Hampstead Heath where Krish does his running.
    â€œIn case you need me,” Mum whispers, handing me her mobile number.
    â€œI’ve got it saved in my phone book, Mum.”
    â€œAh! Yes, the mobile, have you used it yet?” chips in Nana. “You can always use the landline if you need to call your mum.”
    â€œBut she wouldn’t be able to call me if I didn’t have my mobile,” Mum explains.
    â€œWhich is my point. You need the mobile, not Mira.”
    Mum winks at me as if to say “Don’t worry about it.” Nana’s like that—once she gets hold of an idea, she won’t let go, which can seem a bit mean because the phone was Mum’s present to me.
    For a moment I let myself think of the