by Maria Goodin
“I know, I know,” says Josh, miserably, looking at his socks.
“We trusted you. That was part of the deal about you staying with us, to tell us where you are at all times. We can’t have responsibility for you if you’re going to lie to us. What if something had happened to you? How the heck would I ever square that with your dad?”
“I’m sorry.”
“You damn well should be.”
It’s two in the morning and the three of us are standing in the hallway under the too-bright lights, surrounded by black bin bags. Josh’s friends have been picked up by weary, disgruntled parents.
“So, you coming with me, staying here or what?” Michael asks more gently.
I wait for Josh’s answer with trepidation. He looks at me from under his fringe.
“Maybe… I’ll just stay here?” he says almost shyly.
I shrug, making it clear it’s entirely his choice, but my heart soars.
The next day, Josh walks to Michael’s to pick up his belongings, and then spends the afternoon in his bedroom either napping or glued to his phone. Normally I’d be telling him to do something more productive, but today I’m too exhausted to worry about it. I lie on the sofa, my laptop on my stomach, watching YouTube clips on how to remove carpet stains.
And then, mid-afternoon, Josh enters the lounge.
“Can I talk to you?” he asks, quietly.
“Sure,” I say, not looking up from my screen. I’ve learned through experience that he’ll talk more openly if I don’t look straight at him.
He sits down on the edge of the ruined coffee table and I wait for him to start, but when he doesn’t say anything, I look over at him.
He’s sitting with his head in his hands, tears streaming down his face.
I sit up slowly, place my laptop on the floor, walk over to him and crouch down.
“What’s going on?” I ask, placing my hand on his shoulder.
“I can’t…” he sobs, “…I just can’t…”
“You can’t what?”
He rocks back and forth, gripping strands of hair between his fingers.
“I can’t deal with all this, Dad. All this stuff that’s coming at me. I don’t want to do it.”
Tears drip onto the knees of his jeans.
“You don’t want to do what?” I ask, anxiously.
“Any of it! I don’t want to see my mum for a start!”
I shake my head, confused.
“You don’t want to see her?”
“No! It’s just too much! It all just keeps going round in my head. I can’t sleep, I can’t think straight. I just want things to go back to how they were.” He looks up at me with tear-filled, desperate eyes. “I just can’t handle seeing her right now! I just can’t!”
“It’s okay, you don’t have to see her,” I say, firmly. “Understand? You don’t have to. It’s entirely your choice. But if and when you do want to, you know I’m one hundred per cent behind you, don’t you? And that I’m completely fine with it.”
“I just don’t want to! Not right now!”
“That’s fine,” I tell him, calmly, “then you don’t have to, that’s fine.”
A part of me wants to revel in his rejection of Hellie, wants to throw it in her face. See what you did? You’ve lost him! You’re too late!
But, actually, I just feel sad. I’d been starting to entertain the idea that they could have a relationship, that he could finally have his mother in his life. I feel sorry for him, and, surprisingly, I feel sorry for her. They’ve both missed out on so much.
“Do you want to talk to her on the phone? Email her?” I ask a bit hopefully.
“No!”
“Okay, all right, that’s fine,” I soothe.
“Maybe. One day. But not now.”
He wipes the back of his hand across his nose and sniffs loudly.
“What else?” I ask.
“All this stuff about my GCSEs. I just feel like you’re always on my back about my future and—”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” I tell him, and in that moment I truly am. Desperately sorry. “I didn’t know you were really feeling that pressured—”
“I tried to tell you!”
“I know, and I should have listened. I’ll lay off. I promise.”
My heart aches seeing him like this, knowing I’ve contributed to it, that I’ve made him feel exactly the way my mum used to make me feel; as though I had to measure up to some higher standard. How is it that the traits you despise in your parents get so easily repeated?
“I just feel like you want me to go to uni and have this great career and everything because you couldn’t, and I feel this weight, like this responsibility—”
“It’s not that,” I tell him, “it’s never been about that.”
“Then what?”
I give a heavy sigh. “I guess I’ve always felt like I had something to prove when it came to you. No one thought I could bring up a child. I was young, I was single. I felt like everyone just expected me to fail. And when you went to that primary school… all those cosy little middle-class families… everyone just seemed to look at me like I couldn’t do it. And I just… I guess I wanted to prove them wrong. I couldn’t give you much, but I thought if you could at least have a good education… but it’s my stuff, not yours. That’s about my insecurities. And I’m sorry. I should never have pushed that on to you. I’ll stop. I promise.”
“I just feel suffocated sometimes,” Josh continues, tearfully, “you’re so… I dunno… like, protective. It’s too much. I feel like you’re just so stressy all the time over me – my schoolwork, my future, where I am, who I’m with, what I’m doing… like, what do you think’s going to happen? It’s like you don’t trust me.”
“I do trust you. It’s—”
I’m about to say it’s other people I don’t trust, but I stop myself. Clearly I’ve been pushing all my fears onto him and I feel terrible about it. I didn’t even realise. I thought I was keeping him safe from the big bad world. But look what I’ve done.
For a moment I wonder if I should tell him; tell him about me and Michael and Max and Tom. About what happened. About how it changed me and how I viewed life. But that’s just more of my shit.
“Okay, you’re right,” I agree, “maybe I’ve been a bit much at times. And I’m sorry. I’ll try to loosen up a bit, okay? I don’t want to make you feel like I’m always on your back about things, I really don’t.”
“It’s just all too much stress, Dad,” he mumbles through his tears.
He slumps forward, resting his forehead on my shoulder and I rub his back.
“I know, son,” I whisper, “I know it is.”
He’s still just a boy, underneath it all.
The next day, I make a phone call to Hellie. It’s strange hearing her voice again after all this time. I notice the trace of Scandinavian accent is almost entirely gone, overridden by the American after all her years in the States. We exchange very brief how are yous, but other than that I keep the phone call purely perfunctory. It’s amazing how little two people with a child can have to say to each other.
“He doesn’t want any contact with you right now,” I tell her.
“You mean, you don’t want him to have contact with me right now.”
“No,” I say through clenched teeth, “I mean that after twelve years of not having you in his life he’s struggling to contemplate the adjustment. I’ve told him that he can call you or email you whenever he wants, and that if he wants to see you I’ll make that happen. But he’s made his choice. For now.”
She sighs heavily. “Okay, well, I’m guessing he has social media accounts, so maybe I can just message him or… I don’t know… Is there an email address—”
“Hellie,” I say, trying to stay calm, “please. Please think of him, for once in your life. He doesn’t want to make contact with you, and he doesn’t want you making contact with him. Not right now. Maybe in a year, two years, he’ll feel differentl
y. But please, for God’s sake, please do what any decent mother would do and put what he needs before what you want.”
There’s a long pause.
“Okay,” she says, sounding defeated, “okay, well, will you just let him know that I’m here when he wants to make contact and that I’m thinking of him?”
“Yes,” I tell her, relieved that, for now at least, this episode seems to be drawing to a close. “I’ll do that.”
I’m sitting at the kitchen table typing up invoices on my laptop when I hear the front door open and shut.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, wondering whether it’s all about to kick off again. I should have told Josh earlier about my dad – his beloved grandad – not being related to us in the way we always thought, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it, not when he’s been so stressed out. But the longer I left it, the more fearful I became that when he found out he’d feel betrayed again and accuse me of keeping things from him.
In the end, Laura offered to tell him, and I was too tired to argue.
I can’t imagine how the conversation went, and I don’t even dare to turn around when I hear them enter the kitchen behind me.
Josh comes over and silently places a Starbucks coffee and a paper bag on the table in front of me, and then disappears from my view again.
I hear him shuffling behind me, then feel his arms wrapping around my shoulders.
“I didn’t know you were having to deal with all that,” he says, sorrowfully, laying his chin on my shoulder. “It sucks.”
Laura sits down at the kitchen table.
“Like Josh and I were saying in the café,” she tells me, firmly, “we’re family, we stick together, and that’s all that matters.”
I offer her a grateful smile.
“That better not be lemon and poppy seed,” I say, nodding to the paper bag.
“Told you!” chimes Josh.
“Oh my God!” cries Laura, slapping her hands over her eyes. “Who in their right mind doesn’t like lemon and poppy seed?”
“Chocolate!” Josh and I both shout at the same time. “Always get chocolate!”
I sit at a table outside, the last of the summer sunshine warming my neck, sipping an Americano and gazing at the mural that surrounds the terrace.
It’s brilliant, a gentle kaleidoscope of colours that reflects everything that’s good about the canal: the reflection of the sky on the water’s glassy surface, the vibrant colours of the houseboats, the wildlife, the old bridges… On the towpath, she’s painted joggers, cyclists, families taking a stroll, dogs on leads. From left to right, the seasons change in sequence, taking the viewer from a crisp winter’s day, through to the bright greens of spring, the warm, yellow days of summer, then, finally, the reds and browns of autumn. The perspective is subtly and skilfully wrong. The houseboats slope cartoonishly, the canal meanders exaggeratedly, the ducks are oversized and the characters look soft and childish, as if they’re made of play dough.
It’s better than anyone imagined it might be.
Libby’s gone. I don’t know how I feel about that, just like I don’t know how I feel about anything anymore, but I think it’s probably for the best. Was it a mistake to go looking for her? I don’t think so. I got to make my peace, find out she was okay. And hopefully my apology meant something. At least whatever I’m left dealing with now is all mine.
I close my eyes against the light. My head hurts and my stomach is fluttering nervously.
“Hello stranger,” a voice says behind me.
I stand up, slowly, full of trepidation.
“Tom,” I say, holding out my hand, unable to believe this is really him, “it’s good to see you.”
He places his tea on the table and takes my hand in both of his.
We look at each other with some disbelief.
“Christ, when did you get so bloody good-looking?” he asks.
I glance at his soft belly. “When did you get so bloody fat?”
He tips his head back and laughs loudly before slapping me on the shoulder.
“Yeah, that’s what the contentment of married life and a sedentary job do to you, I’m afraid,” he grins, sitting himself down. “Although you lonely, single labourers wouldn’t know about that.”
I smile, amazed at how we can fall back into this pattern so easily after more than fifteen years apart.
“I can’t believe you’re married,” I say, “to someone who’s actually met you.”
“Ouch!”
Out of the four of us, Tom was the only one who was adamant he’d never settle down. He used to tell us it would be a travesty to womanhood if he tied himself down to one person. Now, he brings up a photo on his phone.
“Her name’s Kim. Well, that’s her English name. Her Chinese name’s too hard for us moronic Westerners to pronounce, so she doesn’t make us try. She’s training to be a cardiologist,” he says proudly.
“Wow,” I say, looking at the picture. “Good on you. Congratulations.”
“Yeah, we started training together before I decided my true calling was fixing people’s minds and not their bodies.”
I shake my head in awe.
“Doctor Thomas Pickering.”
“Who would have thought it, eh?” he quips.
“I would have,” I tell him, earnestly. “I always knew you’d achieve great things. The smartest boy in school.”
“Ah, yes!” he shouts, punching the air. “Finally he admits it! I win! I win!”
“Apart from me, of course,” I add.
“Aghh, whatever,” he groans, taking a sip of his tea.
“So, what made you swap from hearts to heads, anyway?” I ask. “Were you drawn to psychiatry by your incredible capacity for empathy? Your naturally sensitive and diplomatic nature?”
He laughs, almost spitting out his mouthful of tea.
“You still know me so well,” he grins.
“Clearly not.”
“Well,” he shrugs, “when you grow up in a nuthouse…”
“Are you allowed to talk about mental illness like that?”
“Only outside of the hospital.”
We look at each other, both taking in the changed features of the person opposite. We’re both so much taller, broader, with stubbled faces, man-sized hands, the early appearance of faint lines at the corners of our eyes. Where did the time go?
“It’s been too long,” he says, and I nod, wondering how we ever lost touch.
But then I remember how raw it all was, how messed up and miserable we were. Tom and I were always two of a kind, each of us serving as a mirror to the other one’s anger and bitterness.
“So you said on the phone you’d been in contact with Libby?”
“Yeah. Well, I basically hunted her down in the same way I hunted you down.”
He raises an eyebrow at me like I might have lost my mind.
I stare into my coffee, suddenly embarrassed.
“You think I need a shrink, Doctor Pickering?” I joke.
He leans forwards, folding his arms on the table.
“I’m not sure yet. Why don’t you tell me what all this is about and I’ll let you know.”
I lean back in my chair, wishing I’d brought sunglasses, less to protect my eyes than to hide the windows to my soul.
“I guess I feel the need to revisit the past and gain closure. Say sorry to certain people, make amends with others.”
Tom looks worried.
“Are you sick?”
I chuckle quietly.
“That’s what Libby thought too. Although, I dunno, maybe I am, in a way. I feel a weight, I suppose you could say. Like I’m carrying a burden I want to be rid of. I know certain friends and family think I’m closed off, that the way I go about things can be a bit… unhealthy. I don’t know. I just got to the point where I had to take action.”
“And how did you know you were at that point?” asks Tom.
I shrug. “I guess I just felt like things had reached
tipping point.”
“What constitutes tipping point?”
“I suppose I felt like I wasn’t coping that brilliantly with things. And that the ways I was behaving weren’t making me happy in the long run.”
Tom nods, thoughtfully.
“So, in what ways has this burden, this weight or whatever, been affecting your life?” he asks.
I smile at him. “Blimey, you really are a psychiatrist, aren’t you? I thought maybe you’d just made yourself a certificate in Word and printed it off.”
“You’re avoiding the question,” he smiles, wagging a finger at me.
I tip my head back and laugh, but I feel a surge of anxiety. He knows what he’s doing and he’s not letting me off the hook easily.
“I think I close myself off to relationships,” I admit, thinking about all the accusations Michael and Laura have thrown at me over the years, all the things I’ve denied but I now know to be true. “I think I sabotage my chances of happiness, I think I spend far too long agonising about the past, I think I won’t allow myself to move on from mistakes I made a long time ago—”
“You won’t allow yourself? Like you’re punishing yourself?”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat, the sun suddenly feeling too hot against my neck. I don’t like this. I want fun Tom back.
“Why would you need to punish yourself?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I didn’t say that, you did.”
“Because that’s what it sounds like to me.”
I stare at the table.
“What did you do that was so wrong?” he asks.
“Look, I didn’t invite you here for a therapy session,” I tell him bluntly, feeling my heart rate accelerate. “I asked you here—”
“Did you ever talk to anybody about what happened that night?”
“Did you?”
“No. I threw myself into my studies so fucking hard and for so fucking long that when I finally came up for air it felt like something that happened to somebody else. But that’s me. And we’re not talking about me.”
I have no idea why my hands suddenly feel shaky. I clench them tightly in my lap.