by Maria Goodin
Amber leaned down and ruffled Josh’s hair. “There’s a couple of biscuits in the tin if you want.”
“Yay!” cried Josh, running off to open the cupboard.
Amber and I exchanged sorry smiles. Then she left.
“Just stay here for a minute,” I said, sitting Josh down at the plastic picnic table in the kitchen.
The lounge was gloomy, the curtains still drawn even though it was the afternoon. Michael was lying on the saggy sofa, staring at the ceiling.
He was still wearing his suit trousers and a dishevelled shirt, even though his dinner with his father had been the night before last.
I perched quietly on the tatty armchair next to him. A wilting pot plant sat on the old coffee table they’d found outside someone’s house and carried back to the flat. They’d tried to turn this place into something of a home.
“You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” I said, quietly.
He didn’t respond.
“You have to stop seeing him,” I said.
“Would you stop seeing your dad?” he muttered.
“No, but my dad doesn’t leave me feeling like shit.”
“Yes, he does.”
“Because he’s sick. Not because he’s a total bastard. And he leaves me feeling worried not…” I gestured to Michael’s listless body, “…whatever this is.”
The place smelled of stale cigarette smoke. I wanted to draw the curtains and fling the window open wide, but at times like this Michael developed a vampiric intolerance to sunlight.
Michael’s shirtsleeves were pulled down to his wrists, cufflinks still in place, disguising the numerous tattoos his father wouldn’t approve of. His father had moved away from Timpton, but Michael was summoned, every six months like clockwork, to a different fancy restaurant in London to indulge his father’s love of fine dining. Michael struggled through each meal, spinning lies about his job, his income, his flat, his girlfriend… He said Amber was a restaurant manager instead of a waitress and showed off old photos of her at family weddings, pre-lip piercing and looking smart. She knew she was being misrepresented but was surprisingly understanding, having also come from a stuffy, hard-to-please family. She’d been understanding about everything – his drinking, drugs, mood swings, inability to hold down a job… but it seemed she had a limit.
I had no limit though. I owed him. I could never shake off the guilt of how I first treated him at school and what that bullying might have done to him. I could never repay him for getting my son to the hospital on time, for looking after Josh when I was studying or working, for being there for me at every twist and turn. I wasn’t ever giving up on him.
“Michael, I think you need help,” I said.
“I’m okay,” he mumbled, putting his hands over his face. “I’ve stopped drinking, haven’t I?”
“This isn’t about the drinking though, is it? It’s not even about your dad. This has been going on—”
“I’m fine,” he groaned. “Last week, I was in a great place, I couldn’t have been happier—”
“But that’s not normal.”
“Everyone has ups and downs.”
“Not like this, mate.”
He was silent for a moment.
“Amber’s leaving,” he muttered.
“I know.”
“She’s given up on me. And you should, too.”
“That’s not gonna happen. I’m not going anywhere and we’re going to get you some help, okay?” I said determinedly.
He removed his hands from his face and looked over at me with eyes so dead and pained that I wondered why it had taken so long to reach this point.
“We’re going to get you some help,” I repeated.
I remember there were dozens of them in the playground, lots of tiny little bodies running about in brightly coloured T-shirts and sun hats, shouting and screeching. It was almost impossible to keep track of your child the whole time.
It was a hot day, and I sat with Brenda and Dad on a park bench feeling drowsy. All of our minds were elsewhere, mulling over the doctor’s diagnosis. Alzheimer’s. What did that mean? Where would it lead? Usually I was hyper-vigilant, watching Josh like a hawk. But not at that moment.
“Help! Daddy, help!”
I was up on my feet before I was even sure it was Josh, my eyes searching frantically for him, my heart pounding. I couldn’t believe I’d taken my eyes off him!
“Help!”
I ran through the playground, ducking and weaving, searching under slides and inside tunnels.
“Josh?!”
God, where was he?! Who had him?!
I turned in circles, and in a frantic blur I spied the bushes where someone must have been lurking, the car that was speeding out of the car park, the gang of teenage boys who suddenly looked shifty, the dishevelled man who was pulling something metal out of his pocket, something that glinted in the sun…
“Daddy, help!”
“Josh?!” I yelled in a panic, causing everyone to turn and stare.
This was it! I knew it! I’d taken my eye off him for one second and someone had hurt him – was hurting him – and I couldn’t get to him because I couldn’t find him because I’d stopped watching—
And then there he was, being led across the playground towards me by a man in sunglasses.
I rushed towards him, snatching him up and away from the stranger, who went from smiling to shocked in the blink of an eye.
“He… he couldn’t find you,” stammered the man, “I was just…”
I glared at him, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
“Thank you,” said Brenda to the man, suddenly appearing by my side, “that was very kind of you.”
The man gave Brenda a smile but shot me a look which suggested he thought I was out of my mind.
“What happened?” I demanded, holding Josh tightly in my arms and checking him over for damage. “Did someone hurt you?”
“No,” Josh frowned, “my shoelace came undone.”
I stared at him in disbelief.
“You were screaming like that because your shoelace came undone?”
“Yes. Because I wanted to climb the slide. And you said once before that if I climb the slide with my shoelaces undone I could fall and break my neck.”
I plonked him down on the ground, my hands shaking.
“I can’t believe you were screaming like that because your shoelace came undone!” I snapped.
“I don’t know how to do them up,” wailed Josh, tears springing to his eyes.
“Come on, Sunshine,” I heard my dad say, scooping my son up and carrying him away, “let’s fix your shoelace and then you can show Grandad how fast you can whizz down that slide.”
Brenda gave my arm a little rub before shooting me a sympathetic smile and following after my dad.
I looked around me, catching the puzzled stares of parents before they discreetly turned away. The car that looked like it had been speeding out of the car park was only just crawling through the exit barrier. The gang of teenage boys – just three of them I saw now – had been joined by their parents, who had just walked out of the café. And the dishevelled-looking man was nothing of the sort – he just had that weary, unshaved look of a father with a toddler. He was sipping on a can of energy drink, which glinted in the sun.
I remember Josh asking: “Daddy, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I told him, struggling to catch my breath. “School jump… school jumper on, okay?”
Josh pulled his tiny red jumper over his head, arms flailing, searching for the sleeves.
I sat on the edge of the floral sofa, my head in my hands, and focused on trying to drag some air into my lungs. My forehead felt clammy against my palms. I glanced at the carriage clock on the shelf and concentrated on the second hand ticking round.
Come on, come on, come on.
Josh, his jumper stuck over his head, flapped one of his sleeves up and down like a trunk and made a loud elephant noise.
“BBBBRRRR!” he trumpeted. “BBBRRRRR!”
I tried to breathe slowly and deeply, but I could feel my chest tightening, my lungs begging for more air.
“BBBRRR! Daddy, what aminal am I? BBBRRRR!”
“Josh, shh,” I muttered quietly.
“Guess, Daddy! BBBRRR!”
“Shush!” I snapped.
Josh pushed his head through the hole and peered at me, wide-eyed.
I felt a stab of guilt. He was just trying to inject some fun into the morning, but the noise really wasn’t helping.
I waited for the knock on the door, willing it to come quickly. I felt my head growing light and as I glanced round the room, the objects seemed to shift and blur; Brenda’s collection of ceramic pig ornaments, her pot plants that were slowly dying under my care, her bookcase full of crime novels, my pillow and duvet discarded on the floor, Josh’s plastic cars and Spiderman toys, our breakfast plates still covered in crumbs… There was once neat orderliness in Brenda’s little flat. Now, since she’d entrusted the place to me and Josh, there was chaos.
“Auntie Laura!” Josh cried, jumping up.
I hadn’t even heard the knock.
I stayed where I was and let him open the door.
“Hey, munchkin!” I heard her squeal.
She followed Josh inside and stopped abruptly when she saw me.
“You look like crap,” she stated.
“I’m fine.”
I stood up quickly, grabbed Josh’s school bag and thrust it into her arms. I tried to keep my voice steady.
“Thanks. I’ve called. I’ve… I’ve told them he’ll be late.”
“Again.”
I ignored her and opened the front door, desperate for them to be gone.
“You gonna see a doctor today?”
“I’m fine, it’ll pass,” I told her quickly.
“Jay, for God’s sake—”
“I don’t have time!” I managed to spit out, wondering when the hell I was meant to get to a doctor. What was I meant to do? Take time off the job I was already barely hanging onto by the skin on my teeth?
“Make time!”
“I’m late for work.”
“Yeah, me too!” she shouted, gesturing to the smart suit she wore behind the hotel reception. I couldn’t imagine how she had conned any interviewer into thinking she had good customer service skills.
“I’m sorry,” I sighed, running my hands over my head. The bristles still surprised me.
“And what the hell happened to your hair?”
“I rubbed glue in Daddy’s hair and he had to shave it all off!” beamed Josh with delight.
“You need to get some help with this,” Laura told me, sternly.
“I don’t need help—”
“What’s the matter with you?! Why is it such a struggle for you to ever ask for help?!”
“I did! I asked you for help!”
“Not me! Not just someone who can take Josh to school! I mean medical help! From a fucking doctor! Whoops, sorry—”
“Auntie Laura said fucking.”
“And I shouldn’t have done that, Josh, so just ignore me. It’s just your daddy drives me effing mad sometimes and I don’t know why he has to be so effing stubborn all the time and why he can’t just get the effing help he needs!”
“I’m fine,” I growled.
“You know what you are?” Laura hissed. “A martyr. You would rather suffer than seek help because you get some kind of perverse pleasure from your own suffering.”
“Yeah, I love it,” I wheezed, bundling them out into the hallway.
“Bye, Daddy!” Josh called over his shoulder. Laura held his hand down the stairs, shaking her head angrily.
I closed the front door and slumped down on the sofa. For a moment I monitored my breathing, unsure whether this thing was going to take hold or not. It could go either way. Was it leaving, freeing me from the threat of its clutch?
If I left for work now I wouldn’t be too late. I needed to get paid in full this month. No deductions for poor timekeeping or missed hours.
I’d be fine. It would pass. It always did.
I grabbed my jacket, trying to ignore the band that was tightening around my chest.
I didn’t need help. I didn’t want help. I just wanted to get to work.
Chapter 17
Truth
Given the enormity of the situation with Hellie, I shouldn’t even be thinking about Libby, but as I head through the crowded streets of Covent Garden that’s exactly what I’m doing.
The morning after we watched Tyler and Theo play at the Canal House – when she showed me her attic room and I fled like an awkward schoolboy – Josh and I turned up to help her paint the wall again. Following a brief demonstration in how to slap on and roughly blend two tones of blue paint, Josh once again plugged his headphones in and took himself off to the far end of the terrace, leaving me and Libby together. But it was clear something had shifted between us. It felt like I’d overstepped a boundary the night before, mentioning the constellations, reminding us both of that private time on the boat. If I ever wondered whether she remembered that evening, there was no room for doubt now. It sat between us like an unspoken intimacy that we were both shuffling around, trying to avoid disturbing any further. Instead, she talked about Will a lot, supplying tedious details about his career, his family, his plans for the future. I told her (probably equally tedious) details about Josh’s schooling, his GCSEs, his lack of plans for the future. It was all excruciatingly polite and, most importantly, neutral. The situation’s been playing on my mind ever since, keeping me awake at night, making me feel agitated and confused.
I could entirely do without today, but there’s no turning back now.
* * *
I’m struck how much she’s changed since I last saw her. She looks thinner, her hair’s a bit longer and darker, and she’s wearing glasses. I watch her for a moment through the café window. She’s peering thoughtfully into her coffee, chewing her bottom lip, checking her watch anxiously.
I weave my way through the customers queuing for their drinks and in between the busy tables. Chatter mingles with the bang and hiss of the coffee machine and the clatter of cups and saucers. I feel hot and claustrophobic before I even reach her table.
She looks up and I see her eyes travelling the length of me, sizing me up. She stands and takes a couple of steps forwards. Hesitantly, she reaches out and places her hands on my upper arms. When I don’t stoop towards her, she stands on tiptoe to plant a brief kiss on my cheek.
“It’s lovely to see you,” she smiles awkwardly.
I stand rigid, angry at her for tearing me away from more pressing matters at home, angry at her for so many things.
But then, as always, I soften.
“Good to see you too, Mum.”
We meet once, maybe twice, a year. The conversation is always slightly stilted and awkward, and it pains me to remember the closeness we once shared. I think it pains her, too. But at least we talk. Laura – more stubborn and less forgiving – hasn’t spoken to her in years.
With time, I’ve learned more about her relationship with Jack, and it’s helped me view her leaving with a maturity I wasn’t capable of at the time. I understand that Jack was the love of her life, and that they were together, on and off, throughout most of their twenties. He was spontaneous, creative and carefree. He made her feel alive. But he had no interest in ever settling down and having children, and that’s what finally tore them apart. In the end, her desire for a family outweighed her desire for him, and before it was too late she turned to my father – fifteen years older, steady, reliable and adoring. She thought she could turn off her feelings for Jack, but instead they haunted her throughout her marriage. And maybe that’s why I understand her now more than ever. Because if there was a switch to turn off your feelings for someone and leave them in the past, I’d have used it by now. But there’s not. I get it. I honestly do now believe that she tri
ed her best.
As for Jack, I don’t feel anything for him. I no longer see him as the devil who swept in and stole my mum away from us, but I also don’t have much respect for him. For all those years, he kept her hanging on, trying to convince her that they’d be enough for each other. But if he really loved her that much, why would he expect her to give up her dream of a family? I know that my feelings for Libby, whatever they really are, are one-sided and that she’s committed to someone else, but even if I thought I stood a chance with her, I would never, ever pursue it. She wants children. I absolutely don’t. The fact that I could never give her what she wants is reason alone to keep my feelings to myself. I would never want her to compromise on something she so desperately longs for. She deserves more than I could ever give her.
“There’s something I want to talk to you about, Jamie,” says my mum, anxiously.
We’re sitting on a bench in a small, unkempt public garden near Russell Square after a slow, uncomfortable walk through the streets of London. I have the feeling that today we’re both preoccupied by other things and would rather be somewhere else.
“Jack’s sick,” she tells me. “He has cancer. It’s terminal.”
And there’s why she seems so distracted.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I genuinely am. Not for him – I barely know him – but for her. “How long does he have?”
“We don’t know. Maybe six months, maybe more. But the thing is…” she sighs quietly and shakes her head. “I don’t know how to do this… The things is, there’s something you need to know.”
I wait patiently. A pigeon jumps onto the arm of the bench and I carefully brush it away, sending it hopping onto the concrete.
My mum clasps her hands together and brings them to her lips like she’s praying. She takes a deep breath.
“Jamie,” she says, turning towards me and clearly trying, but failing, to meet my eye. “Jack’s your biological father.”
I turn to her, but she’s staring at the ground, her hands clenched tightly in front of her mouth, the tips of her fingers turning white.
“What?”