Don't You Ever Make Me Do That Again

It's spring, and Mum's red hat is beginning to appear in the frozen snowbank outside McCafferty's place on Fife. I remember when she lost it. It was January. We were walking home from the supermarket. I was trailing my little brother, Hughie, and Hughie was trailing Mum, each of us lugging a couple of bulging plastic carrier bags.

Hughie had stopped whining, so I could hear icy snow pellets pinging against my nylon windbreaker. I remember watching him trudging along and feeling kind of sorry for him. At least I had boots and mitts. Hughie was wearing sneakers, and my old coat. The wind was making the hood balloon around his head, and he had his hands drawn up inside the sleeves, so the bags looked like they were hanging from hooks at the ends of his arms.

Mum turned off Main and headed down Wheeler Lane, a short cut over to Fife. Hughie followed but as he turned the corner, he lost his footing and fell hard on the icy pavement. The grocery bags he was carrying puked out cans and boxes, and the way he screamed you'd have thought he'd caught his hand in a rat trap.

Mum and me got him upright in no time. But Hughie wasn't having it. He wasn't going to let himself be sorted out that easily. He knew an advantage when he saw one. He held up his bare hand, red with cold and covered in snow, and started balling so hard there was no making out what he was trying to say.

Mum tried being nice. She talked softly to him and gave him a hug. She blew on his hands while I dug around in the snow for the groceries. She took off her mitts and shoved his hands into them. Hughie kept balling.

Mum promised him hot chocolate and told him she'd go to the charity shop and get him some boots and mitts. She didn't even mention the fact she'd already got him boots and mitts and he'd lost them. Twice.

Finally, Mum got sick of Hughie's bleatin'. She got up off her knees and trudged back to where she'd dropped her bags. I watched her start down Wheeler, her shoulders more stooped and her arms a little longer than before Hughie fell.

"I'm cold," Hughie whined without moving. "I'm cold!"

"We're all cold," I told him. "Look, I'm carrying your bags. Get movin'. The sooner we're home the sooner we get warm."

"I'm-" I shoved him in the back with my knee. "Don't!" he yelled, but he started trotting down Wheeler, trying to catch up with Mum.

"Mum," he called. Mum kept walking.

"Mum. Mark pushed me. Mark pushed me, Mum. Mum." She ignored him. Running up alongside her, he tried again.

"Mum, Mark pushed me."

She kept ignoring him, so he turned up the volume.

"I'm cold, Mum. Mum, I'm cold. My feet are cold, Mum. Mum. My feet are cold, Mum." He shouted, "Mum!"

"Hughie, stop!" Mum snapped.

She turned onto Fife, and the wind lifted her red hat and tore it from her head. Her hair, just beginning to come back in after her last chemo, stood on end. It looked as though she'd had a terrible fright.

Still hauling the groceries, I ran after the hat. When I got close, I stepped on it. It was all I could do. Mum caught up to me. She was out of breath and her face looked thinner than when we set out a couple of hours earlier. She set down her groceries and picked up the crushed hat. Hughie was standing beside her.

"Can I have your hat, Mum?" he said. "My ears are cold. Mum, can I have your hat? My ears are cold, Mum."

Mum stuck her hat on Hughie's head. He adjusted it and started walking. I saw Mum's gloves had a couple of holes in them where her fingernails must've worn away the yarn.

"Here," I said, and held out my mitts.

"No, Mark. You-"

"Take 'em," I said, and picked up the groceries.

She gave me one of her tired smiles and slipped my mitts on over her gloves.

"Almost there," she said.

She picked up the groceries and we trailed Hughie along Fife. We hadn't gone forty paces before we heard him wailing again. He was hopping on one foot, shrieking about something being on his shoe.

We caught up to him and saw his sneaker was covered in dog shit. "Wipe it off," Mum said. "Just wipe it on the snowbank, Hugh."

In a rage, he lifted his foot and stomped it hard against the snowbank. It disappeared and he was up to his crotch in snow. He looked at us, shocked and despairing for a moment, and then his rage returned, a tantrum of tears and accusations.

I pulled him roughly out of the snowbank, and he shoved me away, tears coursing down his face.

"I'm cold!" Hughie wailed again. "My feet-" the words had barely left his mouth when Mum grabbed him by the arm and swung him around, shoving his face into the snowbank. She pushed harder and his head disappeared.

I watched in horror as Hughie's arms and legs flailed helplessly and Mum held him in place. Dropping my bags, I lunged for Mum, thinking I had to prevent her from killing him. But she was done. She yanked Hughie out of the snowbank and held him by his upper right arm. His head was bare. His hair and face were caked with snow. He blinked at Mum with huge, staring eyes.

Mum gave him a shake and leaned in close. "Don't you ever make me do that again!" she snarled. She gave him another shake. He nodded and she let him go. Then, she took a deep, steadying breath, picked up her shopping and walked on down Fife with a straight back, and a bit more spring in her step.

Hughie looked at me. I shrugged, dusted some of the snow off him and held out a couple of bags of groceries. He took them. Wordlessly, we trailed Mum home. Neither of us thought to look for her hat.

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