by Maria Goodin
“Ah, welcome back!” beams Rob as we enter his class.
Josh walks straight past him without an acknowledgement.
I open my mouth, about to call him up on his rudeness, but Rob sidles up next to me.
“Don’t worry,” he says, his Dutch accent creeping through, “let him work it out in here.”
“He might need more than the hour then,” I mutter.
Rob laughs. “I’ll make sure he works hard and burns it all off.”
Rob has a calm, reassuring presence about him that I think might be good for Josh today. Nothing ever seems to faze him. I can’t imagine what it takes to be that calm, but if it’s the punishing fitness regime, vegetarian diet and strict avoidance of caffeine, alcohol and sugar that does it, then I don’t think I have what it takes.
“Right,” shouts Rob to the class, clapping his hands, “so pair up, gloves and pads on, free pad work starting and ending with twenty straight punches. Go!”
Josh grabs his boxing gloves and gets ready to pair up with one of his usual partners – a guy called Nicco who’s about his age, or a regional champion called Steph who matches his size but could probably kick the crap out of anyone in this room.
“Hey, let’s partner up for a change,” I suggest to Josh.
He raises his eyes despairingly towards the ceiling but doesn’t protest.
I hold the pads for him and I can tell he’s wound up from the way he attacks them. This is meant to be a warm-up, but the thud of his gloves and the thwack of his feet against the pads ricochet off the walls, and I have to plant my bare soles into the floor to stop myself stumbling backwards. Within a few minutes he’s red-faced, sweat glistening on his forehead.
“Twenty straight!” Rob yells.
I hold the pads at shoulder height and Josh punches fast: left, right, left, right…
“You’re done,” I say, when twenty’s up.
The other pairs around us have stopped, but Josh keeps going, lost in the rhythm.
“Stop, you’re done,” I repeat. I take a step back, go to lower the pads, and THUD! a punch comes straight in against the right side of my face.
I’m bent over, stunned, when I see blood dripping onto the floor.
“Whoa!” Rob shouts, running over. “What happened?”
I straighten up, holding the back of my hand against my bloody nose, to find Josh glaring at me, panting. His anger is evident to everyone.
“What the heck, man?” I hear Nicco mumble to Josh.
But Josh just rips off his gloves and throws them to the side of the gym before striding out the door.
“This is ridiculous,” I whisper to Michael as I head out of his neat, modern flat.
“It’ll all pass,” he says quietly, “just give it a few days.”
I look behind him, down the hallway into the lounge where Josh was standing a few seconds ago. But he’s already gone, off to the spare room with a single holdall and his guitar.
“I’ve really screwed this up,” I mutter.
“Don’t go thinking this is all about you,” says Michael, leaning in the doorway. “What he’s going through is massive. His mum getting in contact after all these years… He’s gonna have all kinds of thoughts and feelings going on. Anger, confusion, fear that it won’t work out, fear that it will. He’s processing, and he’s taking it out on you because he knows it’s safe to. You might just have to be his punchbag right now.” He nods at the bruise that’s come up under my right eye and across the bridge of my nose. “Literally.”
“Well, you’re the youth worker, so I’ll take your word for it, but it’s a bit hard to be his punchbag when he’s refusing to even live at home.”
“Look, just give it a couple of days. I’ll try and talk to him.”
I nod and force a grateful smile. My eyes are drawn to the shelf in his hallway, displaying signs of cosy coupledom: two sets of car keys in a glass bowl, a photo of the happy couple on holiday in Thailand… I feel a yearning in my soul for a similar shared life, a shared love.
“And how are you doing?” Michael asks, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Apart from all this stuff with Josh? What about all the other crap?”
I shrug.
I’m tempted to tell him that I think I’m losing my mind, because I know he’ll understand how that feels. I’m tempted to tell him that I’ve lost my sense of self, that I don’t feel sure of who I am anymore, that I keep having nightmares and I have a sense of things spinning out of control, that my breathing’s got bad again… But he’s taken on enough by watching over my son.
“I’m okay,” I lie.
He smiles and shakes his head, sadly.
“Why do you always pretend?” he asks.
Chapter 20
Gone
From my head being empty, now all I seem to do is think and think and think. My feelings are elusive, escaping me every time I try to catch a glimpse of them. I’m just living in my head, asking one question after another.
Am I still me? Am I different now? Who are my wider biological family, my grandparents, aunts, cousins… Does it even matter? Do I even care? How would my dad feel if he understood that I know the truth?
And then, of course, there’s the bigger question: am I going to see Jack before he dies? I know what it’s like to have regrets, to want to tie things up and make them neat before it’s too late. Would I deny another man the peace that I’ve been searching for?
My mum phones several times a day and leaves concerned messages, but I can’t face answering her calls. What am I meant to say? Where would I even begin? I just want her to leave me alone.
And alone I am.
It’s almost two weeks since Josh left. He’s been hopping around between Michael’s, Laura’s and Sam’s places, and although we’re in contact, things are tense between us. I ache for his presence, his laughter, even his backchat. I can’t believe this is happening, that something’s come between us to such an extent that’s he’s actually moved out, that he really has that much anger towards me.
He has to come home soon. The new school year’s started and this just can’t continue. But for a little bit longer I’m willing to let him have his space. In fact, just for now, it’s probably best that he’s not here to see me. I’m lost, shattered, but I don’t want him to know that. I want him to feel I’m here for him – waiting, solid, strong. I don’t want him burdened by my sadness and confusion. And that’s why I’ve chosen not to tell him about my dad, not yet. You might say I haven’t learned my lesson about keeping secrets from him, but I simply can’t throw another thing at him right now.
I pace the quiet, empty flat in the evening, unsure what to do with myself. I was supposed to be staying with my dad for the night while Brenda’s away visiting her sister, but at the last minute, Laura stepped in. Initially I felt grateful, but now I think I could have done with the distraction. My natural reaction in times of stress is to retreat from the world, but tonight I can’t stand being with myself for a moment longer. My instinct is to head to the Canal House and surround myself with familiar faces, but I guess Libby will be there and I don’t know if I can face her. Despite having a million more pressing things to think about, our conversation in the van the other night keeps going round in my mind.
The only thing I regret is losing you…
What made me say that? It was too much. Too honest. Too exposing.
You could have given us a chance…
Did I give up too easily? Could things have been different?
All these confused thoughts are making me feel increasingly and irrationally angry towards her for the stress she’s brought into my life. I didn’t want this when I set out to find her, and I sure as hell don’t need it right now. I’ve been going to the Canal House for years. I have friends there. It’s where I talk, laugh, offload. And now I feel unable to go there because she’s suddenly decided to settle back in town?
Sod it, I think, grabbing my wallet and phone. I’m not staying away just because
of her.
When I arrive at the Canal House, I almost turn and walk straight out. Libby’s there, as expected, clearing glasses from tables, seemingly settled into her new role, and I don’t know what I’m thinking or feeling when I look at her but I wish it would just go away.
I head for a seat at the end of the bar, tucked in the corner out of the way. It’s no surprise to find that Stu and Irena are, as always, already clued up on what’s been going on in my life.
Before I sit down, Irena draws me in for a brief, firm hug. Her growing stomach feels round and hard and for a second it startles me. I could count on one hand the number of times I reluctantly felt Hellie’s stomach when she was pregnant, and we certainly had no reason to hug during that time.
Irena releases me and punches me affectionately – but quite hard – on the arm.
“We were worried about you!” she frowns.
“Crap couple of weeks, huh?” smiles Stu sympathetically from the other side of the bar.
It’s midweek and as the place isn’t too busy, Irena is happy to serve while I fill Stu in on the finer details of Hellie’s emails, Josh’s anger, my dad’s deterioration, my other dad’s dying wish to see me…
“Jeez,” whistles Stu, “it never rains but it pours, eh?” He leans across the bar conspiratorially. “You know what might cheer you up?” he asks, glancing behind me.
I turn to see Rachel and one of her Aussie friends playing pool on the other side of the room.
“I’m not sure that’s gonna solve my problems, mate,” I tell him wearily.
“Suit yourself,” he shrugs, heading off to serve a customer.
I’m gazing into my glass of lemonade, watching the tiny bubbles fizz, when I feel a presence beside me.
“Hi,” says Libby tentatively, edging onto the bar stool next to me.
“Hi,” I say without even looking up.
“I’ve been wondering how you are. I saw Michael and he told me about your dad… You know, not being your dad… And I was going to text you. I did text you, actually. Well, I wrote you about six texts, but I didn’t know what to say so I deleted them. They all sounded so inadequate.”
She talks fast, and out of the corner of my eye, I see her checking over her shoulder, scanning the room.
“How’s the new job going?” I ask, wondering if she’s anxious to get back to it.
“Oh, fine. I’m helping out in the kitchen mainly, clearing tables, waitressing, and then the painting, of course. Thank goodness it’s been dry the last couple of days and I’ve actually made some progress! Do you want to…? You should come and have a look…”
“Yeah, I will,” I tell her, a bit dismissively, “maybe another—”
“Oh sure! Another time, of course.”
We fall silent and I play with a beer mat. I was feeling better after my chat with Stu, but I suddenly feel my stress levels rising again. As if I haven’t got enough going on right now without… this. I wish she wouldn’t sit so close to me. I wish she hadn’t said those things the other night that made me think that if only I’d given us a chance we could have made it work. It’s bad enough to spend years thinking about what you lost. But to think you might never have lost it in the first place…
“I can’t imagine how you’re feeling right now,” she says. “You already had so much going on and now this. It must be so confusing.”
I tap the beer mat on the bar.
“Nothing’s changed really,” I shrug. I don’t feel this is true, but I want it to be.
“No, of course not! I mean, your dad’s still your dad, he still raised you, that’s what counts. Look at my dad. The biology’s all there, but can I really call him a dad? Being a dad isn’t really about DNA, is it? It’s about doing all the dad stuff.”
I don’t respond. This is too hard. I wish she’d leave me alone. For good.
“I’d been thinking actually,” she continues, “about asking you if I could visit him. He was always so nice to me. God, he really used to make me laugh! And he was so patient, answering my endless questions about how things worked, letting me try things out in his workshop…”
I’d forgotten how often Libby used to get involved in my dad’s “little projects”, as my mum called them. How he used to let her tinker with wires and gears and circuits, while I lingered impatiently, wanting her to myself.
“He used to like teaching you things,” I say, my anger towards her dissipating a little with the memory. “You had more interest than I did. And more aptitude.”
Libby glances anxiously over her shoulder again.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” she says quickly, “it’s probably no coincidence you became an electrician. I’m sure you learned a lot from him. But if you think it would be okay to visit him… I mean, if he’d like that…”
I don’t tell her that he probably wouldn’t know her. She clearly doesn’t realise quite how bad things are and I can’t blame her for that. But I’m touched by her offer. Generally, Alzheimer’s has an amazing ability to keep people at bay.
“I’ll have a think,” I tell her.
“Oh, sure, I mean, maybe it would be too much, but just let me know.”
I look at her for the first time and she offers me a little smile. She always tried her best to comfort me. Even when I was too angry and stressed and sad to hear her, she kept trying until I finally pushed her away.
I feel a sudden urge to talk to her now, to share my struggles in a way I never could back then, but just as I open my mouth, a man appears behind her, placing his hand casually on her shoulder. She quickly jumps to her feet.
So here’s her distraction.
“Will this is Jamie, Jamie this is Will,” she says hastily, waving her hand between us.
“Ahhh,” says Will, eyeing me as if I’m the missing piece of a puzzle. I’m the ex-boyfriend who tracked his fiancée down after sixteen years for the sake of a garbled apology she apparently didn’t need. I know what I’d think in his place: that either I’m still in love with her or I’m slightly unhinged. Well, he’d be wrong about that, because I’m pretty sure I’m both. He smiles and extends his hand. “Nice to meet you,” he says, politely, although the vice-like handshake makes it clear he doesn’t mean it.
“You too,” I say, increasing my grip in return.
He’s about my height, maybe slightly taller, slim, fit-looking, clean-shaven, with glasses, neatly cut sandy hair and an aura of self-assurance. He’s apparently come straight from work as he’s wearing a well-cut suit, although he’s loosened his collar and removed his tie.
“Libs, I should probably get going,” he says.
Libs?
She offers me an apologetic smile before following him towards the door, where they stand close, chatting. He places his hand on the bare skin of her arm and whispers something into her ear. I look away, anywhere but at the two of them.
“All alone?” I hear a voice ask.
Rachel slides onto the stool Libby’s just vacated.
“You look kind of unhappy,” she says, making a sad, pouty face.
“Nah, I’m great,” I lie, draining the rest of my lemonade.
“Let me get you another drink,” she says, beckoning Stu over.
“Actually, I’m just leaving.”
“Oh, come on,” she whines.
“What will you two be having?” Stu asks, flashing me a look of encouragement.
“I’ll have a beer,” says Rachel, “and…” She raises an eyebrow at me, questioningly.
“I’ll have a beer, too,” I say.
Stu frowns.
“But you don’t drink,” Rachel laughs.
I glance quickly at Libby and Will who are still lingering intimately by the door.
“Well, I think it’s about time I started again,” I say.
It’s actually a relief to chat with Rachel. She knows what’s been going on with me – nothing’s a secret in this place for long – but she’s either too diplomatic or too disinterested to want
a conversation about it. Instead, we talk about a bloke she recently dated who turned out to have a fetish for toes, her inability to get used to the British weather, and her lesbian boss who keeps making suggestive remarks towards her. She’s funny, lively, beautiful and, most importantly, superficial and self-centred. That suits me fine; I’ve had enough of the serious stuff in life.
As time slips by and we have another drink, she touches my arm and suggests going back to hers. I smile at her, but I don’t say yes.
“I’m gonna give up on you one of these days,” she teases, pressing her leg against mine.
I take a swig of beer. This is only my second bottle, but after so many years of sobriety I can already feel my muscles warming and loosening, my inhibitions relaxing. “Are you saying this is my last chance?”
“I’m saying you’re making a big mistake,” she says, cocking her head to the side and smiling at me, all eyelashes and glossy lips.
Just at that moment my phone goes. It’s Laura.
“Sorry, one minute, I have to take this,” I tell Rachel, thinking it could be about my dad or Josh. Unable to hear clearly, I slip out the back door and onto the terrace. I’m surprised to find that darkness has fallen. Two of the outside tables are taken by couples having a drink.
It turns out Laura’s just checking in on me. I tell her I’m fine but right in the middle of something. I’ll call her back tomorrow.
When I hang up, I look over at the wall. Even with the outside lights on it’s hard to make out the painting, and I make my way closer. I study the sky that Josh and I helped paint, the blue-green water of the canal, some brightly coloured riverboats painted in Libby’s signature cartoonish style, the winding canal path, the bridge… And when I look closer, I realise one of the boats is Isabelle Blue. I recognise the design, the swirl of the red letters on the side. I spent hours on that boat with Libby, and yet I’d almost forgotten what she looked like. Seeing that boat now though brings it all back – poring over textbooks together, our first – or rather second – kiss, lying on her narrow bed, or in the bow under a blanket…