What's in a Name? By Christine Ashby
I arrive late in the night but the receptionist is busy. I stand in queue, tapping my toe impatiently while trying to stay calm. I don’t want to make a fuss. I tell myself that I’m over-reacting but in my heart I’m not so sure. A mother would know, wouldn’t she?
The queue gets smaller and I move forward, just one more person ahead of me now. It’s a Saturday night in the capital and the reception area is busy with people coming and going. ‘It’s like Clapham Junction,’ my dad would have said. I smile at the memory. I could do with him being here right now. But I’m alone. I’ve driven 140 miles to get here and I’m too keyed up to wait. But I do. I don’t want to make a fuss. I’m definitely over-reacting. It will be OK. My foot is still tapping. I straighten and the tapping stops just as the queue moves again and it’s my turn at reception.
I tell the man behind the Perspex screen why I am here. He is already tapping at the keyboard and staring at the computer screen. ‘Name?’ he asks. I say the name I chose all those years ago but I already know that it won’t be the answer he needs. Which name, which name, which name? I turn, looking for my son’s friends who must be here somewhere. How did they know him? Who is he here? This is my son, the chameleon.
I make a suggestion and the receptionist pulls a face. I try another and the receptionist smiles. ‘Take a seat,’ he says, ‘someone will come and get you soon.’ He’s already turned away. I do the same and find a spare space against a wall. It’s a busy Saturday night in the capital. A&E is crowded with people coming and going. Just like Clapham Junction, I think.
‘Are you Dane’s mum?’
I look into the faces of three uneasy looking individuals. I don’t know them at all, have never met them. And yet they are instantly recognisable as the type my son befriends. A motley crew, as my dad would have said. I nod. ‘Thank you for doing this,’ I say. ‘Thanks for the call.’ They look uncomfortable, bewildered even.
‘He just collapsed,’ the one with the red dyed hair said. They tell me what happened. The little one with a nose ring looks ready to cry.
It sounds bad.
‘It’ll be Okay, he’ll be fine,’ I say, ‘You know Darren.’ I try to sound reassuring but their faces say they already know better.
‘Was that his name?’ one of them asks. ‘I only knew him as Dizzy but this lot always called him Dane.’ We laugh. This is my son, the chameleon.
The receptionist is pointing me out to a nurse who comes over looking kindly but serious. ‘Are you Dane’s mum?’ she said. ‘Will you come with me?’ I want to say no, I’m not Dane’s mum, you’ve made a mistake but I know it’s pointless. Darren, Dane, Dizzy or any one of the many guises he’d created. There’s no mistake. It’s a busy Saturday night in the capital and A&E is crowded with people coming and going. I’ll put her right when she’s told me what I want to hear. For the moment, what’s in a name?
Copyright Christine Ashby 2012
http://www.feedbooks.com/userbook/25506/what-s-in-a-name to download
The queue gets smaller and I move forward, just one more person ahead of me now. It’s a Saturday night in the capital and the reception area is busy with people coming and going. ‘It’s like Clapham Junction,’ my dad would have said. I smile at the memory. I could do with him being here right now. But I’m alone. I’ve driven 140 miles to get here and I’m too keyed up to wait. But I do. I don’t want to make a fuss. I’m definitely over-reacting. It will be OK. My foot is still tapping. I straighten and the tapping stops just as the queue moves again and it’s my turn at reception.
I tell the man behind the Perspex screen why I am here. He is already tapping at the keyboard and staring at the computer screen. ‘Name?’ he asks. I say the name I chose all those years ago but I already know that it won’t be the answer he needs. Which name, which name, which name? I turn, looking for my son’s friends who must be here somewhere. How did they know him? Who is he here? This is my son, the chameleon.
I make a suggestion and the receptionist pulls a face. I try another and the receptionist smiles. ‘Take a seat,’ he says, ‘someone will come and get you soon.’ He’s already turned away. I do the same and find a spare space against a wall. It’s a busy Saturday night in the capital. A&E is crowded with people coming and going. Just like Clapham Junction, I think.
‘Are you Dane’s mum?’
I look into the faces of three uneasy looking individuals. I don’t know them at all, have never met them. And yet they are instantly recognisable as the type my son befriends. A motley crew, as my dad would have said. I nod. ‘Thank you for doing this,’ I say. ‘Thanks for the call.’ They look uncomfortable, bewildered even.
‘He just collapsed,’ the one with the red dyed hair said. They tell me what happened. The little one with a nose ring looks ready to cry.
It sounds bad.
‘It’ll be Okay, he’ll be fine,’ I say, ‘You know Darren.’ I try to sound reassuring but their faces say they already know better.
‘Was that his name?’ one of them asks. ‘I only knew him as Dizzy but this lot always called him Dane.’ We laugh. This is my son, the chameleon.
The receptionist is pointing me out to a nurse who comes over looking kindly but serious. ‘Are you Dane’s mum?’ she said. ‘Will you come with me?’ I want to say no, I’m not Dane’s mum, you’ve made a mistake but I know it’s pointless. Darren, Dane, Dizzy or any one of the many guises he’d created. There’s no mistake. It’s a busy Saturday night in the capital and A&E is crowded with people coming and going. I’ll put her right when she’s told me what I want to hear. For the moment, what’s in a name?
Copyright Christine Ashby 2012
http://www.feedbooks.com/userbook/25506/what-s-in-a-name to download