How You See Me

by S. E. Craythorne

  It was kind of you to offer me a break – I spared Dad that part of your letter – but to be honest I’m probably best placed here for the moment. And yes, you have that in writing! I need to get my strength back and see what I can do for the old man. Looking back over the past months, I am ashamed of the little I’ve actually managed to achieve. I was too busy wishing myself elsewhere. I’ve written to my girlfriend and she understands my position. I’ve made an appointment with the doctor for Monday, for me to talk to him about Dad. There has to be more we can do.

  There has been no word from Sarah and I don’t expect there to be. That’s an old dream and I have to let it go. You weren’t here when she first arrived, were you? That day when Dad came back from London with a strange girl tucked under his arm. His lifetime muse, plucked off the streets. Easy as picking a flower. I wonder what he took her from? Strange, but it never seemed to come up. It took Maggie to tell me what kind of a gift she really was; what he was really saying by bringing her here. Here, son, here is your dead mother to play with. ‘The spit of her,’ Maggie said that night, as she came in to check on me. ‘It’s not healthy.’

  It was the next day that he started digging that pond outside. I sat eating eggs and staring at the mother I couldn’t remember. Sarah drank her coffee and smiled. She asked me questions about school and put on another round of toast for me. We were so polite, sitting there at breakfast. Me in my school uniform, she in a borrowed robe and Dad outside hacking at the turf.

  Dad had cut himself out, a sharp silhouette on clean white paper; you and I were the figures that folded out of him. Hand in hand we stood. The last figure, the fourth, a little ragged, a little stained, had been snipped cleanly away. So we hung either side of Dad, the blunt-cut stumps of our fingers unable to grasp. And he tacked on another. She fitted the template. What could go wrong? How could we possibly complain? We were the model family.

  It’s strange to stumble past the portraits lined up in the studio. Me and Sarah and Dad, all gazing to the corners of the room.

  Why aren’t you part of the pantomime, Mab? Whatever can it mean? Does it even matter?

  Forgive this letter,

  Daniel x

  15th December

  The Studio

  Dear Aubrey –

  So I phoned you during a session. You usually relish interruptions. I am your employee after all; I should be phoning during work hours. You complained enough when I phoned you at home. And I’ll have you know I recovered from more than a simple cold. It was flu. The doctor confirmed it (and that’s a real doctor, not one of your pet pharmacists). And I’m feeling much better, not that you asked. The joy I’m finding is not some passing phase or brainstorm. It’s a new clarity and I’m enjoying it.

  I’m sorry that I put you to the trouble of renewing my prescription, but it can hardly be a surprise to you if I look for a chemical solution when I’m desperate. It was you who taught me that was the answer. I’m sure you can put your little white pills to better use on someone else.

  I had a letter from Mab today suggesting Dad and I take a short holiday to the coast. She’s even sorted out a house for us. It’s not far, just a couple of hours’ drive. I’m going to take her up on her offer. It will do us both good to get away from this place for a while.

  It means I won’t be bothering you for a while. Oh, what am I saying? If you’re good, I might send you a postcard.

  Daniel

  18th December

  The Studio

  Dear Mab –

  We spent today packing for our holiday!

  Dad’s bag of clothes and bathroom gear looks so small compared to the one of assorted medical supplies. I picked those up at the doctor’s the other day. I managed to get that appointment to talk to him about Dad. He was quite encouraging about the possibility of taking Dad away, but didn’t have any answers about speeding up Dad’s recovery. He just nodded on as I ran through what I do for him during the day. Do you think they practise those sympathetic smiles in front of a mirror?

  I saved the reality of the trip until yesterday, when the nurse visited. She grumbled about the lack of notice, but conceded it was a good idea. I gathered this, of course, from her conversation with Dad. Too much to hope she might actually speak to me directly. She did accept the cup of tea I made for her, though I’m not convinced she drank it. I even felt able to stay in the house as she ministered to Dad’s leg. (It’s nothing serious, just a rash that built up under the catheter bag. She’s given me some cream so I can treat it while we’re away.)

  I did catch her pushing an emergency number card into Dad’s top pocket. Obviously I wasn’t meant to see. Why does she hate me so much? Maggie, of all people, must have put her straight about the rumours.

  As I packed the car, I couldn’t help feeling as if we were preparing for an escape rather than a holiday. I can’t be sure how much Dad knows about what’s going on. I’ve been keeping to the regular routine as much as possible, so as not to overexcite or worry him, but actually he seems to enjoy the disruption. He followed me round the living room today as I picked up things for the trip and sat and watched me as I tried to explain what would be happening tomorrow morning. He watches so intently, like a child. He’s given up even trying to speak lately, unless I refuse him a refill of his whisky or try and turn down the television.

  Maybe I’m pinning too much hope on this trip. I must remember I’m packing Dad and me along with the bags. And the reason for all this careful preparation is to keep things as close to home as possible. It’s just another location. We will still be there.

  Daniel x

  19th December

  Dear Mab –

  We have arrived at last. The chalet is simple, but perfect for us. Tatty has sniffed every corner and is now, thankfully, asleep. So is Dad. I let him have a drop of whisky in his coffee. He’s yet to notice the lack of a TV.

  I am happy settled in what I have decided is my chair, a book by my side, rain on the tin roof and the smell of the sea in the air. I am determined to make this work.

  D.

  19th December

  Dear Alice –

  1/3

  Well, here we are, my darling. I always seem to be travelling further away from you. It is beautiful here – you’d love it. Tatty dragged me and I dragged Dad down to the beach this afternoon. What should have been a five-minute walk took us over half an hour, what with Tatty stopping to sniff every bunch of cord grass and Dad’s distracted snail’s pace.

  D.

  2/3

  The tide was out. A slate-grey strip of sea against the horizon. No paddling for me. The wind was at once a beast at our backs and then roaring full into our faces. Tatty ducked behind my knees and Dad followed my footprints in the sand. Dry sand lifted and danced across the wet plains. An imitation of the water it had lost.

  3/3

  Dad tired quickly and it was cold. Back to chalet for warm tea and heated beans. I must shop tomorrow.

  I miss you. I miss you. Huddle here with me as the rain begins to fall again. Wrap your arms around me and kiss me to sleep.

  Loving you,

  Daniel x

  20th December

  Dear Aubrey –

  1/2

  Well, I did promise you a postcard. I suppose I might owe you an apology too. I put you to trouble and you came through for me. I’d been ill. Forgive and forget that last letter of mine, won’t you, old friend? And let me tell you all about my new abode.

  2/2

  No donkey rides or sticks of rock. The chalet’s roof leaks into a bucket in the middle of the living room, where I am sleeping. At night, I am sometimes woken by a splash of water in the face. Not an arcade in sight, just a tiny village shop a ten-minute drive away, where I bought tins of food encrusted by years of dust. Not even a show at the end of the pier. No pier. You’d hate it. I love it.

  D.

  20th December

  Dear Mab –

  The weather is too bad to go out today. The
wind is swallowing us and then spitting us back against the earth. Us in our little tin house, sheltering from the threat of a white Christmas.

  I’ve started reading to Dad as a TV replacement. We’re currently working on the Rex Stout omnibus I brought with me. I may look like Nero Wolfe, but I make a mean Archie Goodwin. I think Tatty appreciates it.

  Dx

  20th December

  Dear Freya –

  Your mum has treated us to a winter holiday. I took Tatty down to the beach today and watched as she got chased by the waves. She is constantly infuriated by the fact that she can’t catch them in her jaws. I just hope she hasn’t drunk too much seawater. Grandad, Tatty and I are curled up in front of a warm gas fire, and Tatty’s coat is steaming in the heat.

  Merry Christmas!

  Uncle Dan

  21st December

  Dear Aubrey –

  Day three by the sea. I’m trying to get Dad out as much as possible. I’ve set him up a folding chair outside on our little scrap of lawn and I put him out there every time the sun shows its face. We’re third in a line of identical chalets, but the others are all empty. There are a couple of deluxe-looking caravans in a distant field, but I have to drive to see an unfamiliar face.

  D.

  22nd December

  Dear Mab –

  I packed a couple of Dad’s sketchbooks and today I pressed one into his hands along with a piece of charcoal as he sat in our little garden blinking at the sun. I got myself a chair and sat next to him, pretending to read the paper. I don’t know what I expected. No, that’s a lie. But the poor old bugger can’t even change a TV channel. He dawdled the charcoal over the paper a while, until it slipped from his fingers on to the wet grass. I saved the page though. The latest work by the great Michael Laird. I hope it survives, I forgot to pack any fixative.

  Dx

  22nd December

  Dear Alice –

  I left Dad sleeping today, and went for a walk with Tatty. An excuse to dream of you a little. It’s strange to be so crowded in this lonely place. You haunted me today. I kept expecting to find you coming over the next dune. Tatty set off tracking something and I was convinced it was you. I followed her for what felt like miles over the undulating and empty dune, chasing your face.

  Dx

  22nd December

  Dear Mab –

  Disaster today. Dad had a fall in the bathroom. I don’t even know what he was doing in there, except that sometimes he forgets he’s wearing the catheter and tries to go for a piss. His skin is like paper and he tore open his leg on something. There was a lot of blood, but when I got him cleaned up there wasn’t much to it. Nothing worth cutting the trip short for.

  D.

  22nd December

  Dear Alice –

  Spent my evening painting the mouth of an angry wound on my father’s leg with antiseptic. I was terrified he might need stitches. Had visions of driving to Accident and Emergency with Dad laid out on the back seat. Think it should heal up all right once it’s dried.

  Strange: in some places he has great folds of the stuff, but in others he barely has enough skin to cover him.

  Dx

  23rd December

  Dear Mab –

  Dad much better. Managed to cobble together a dressing. Felt safe enough to leave him for an hour so I could give Tatty a run by the sea. Their needs are better dealt with separately.

  The sea surprised me: it had clawed its way up the sand and shingle and our beach had become a heaving, living thing. Tatty yapped at the waves and dodged their flowing skirts. The sound was remarkable; Tatty was no match for it. The wind chased wave-song deep into my ears. I can still hear it.

  D.

  23rd December

  Dear Alice –

  I can’t believe we’ve only been here four days. And, in another way, I can’t believe we’ve been here four days. Time has left us here at the edge of everything. A walk today alone. I found a small hamlet of hunkered-down cottages and a church with a ruined tower. It was open, and I found myself sitting in a pew looking at coloured glass and thinking, of course, of you.

  Dx

  24th December

  Dear Aubrey –

  More rain and again we’re contained in our places round the gas fire. Dad is ill-tempered, picking at the bandages on his leg and hollering at Tatty if she tries to get near him. Merry Christmas Eve to me!

  Do you think it’s possible to take a holiday from yourself? Jesus, look who I’m asking!

  D.

  3rd January 2006

  Dear Mab –

  I’m so sorry, but I had to do it. I just couldn’t face going back to the Studio. I suppose I reached my limit. There are so many other ways I could have left, I know.

  I was just driving to the nearest shop for bread and milk. The radio was on and I was singing along to some pop tune and beating out time on the steering wheel, as I wound through single-lane roads with damp clumps of grass bursting their central seam. Then the road resolved into two lanes and then there was motorway being licked up under my tyres. I don’t know when I decided I wouldn’t stop, that I’d just keep driving. I know it was dark when I phoned Maggie and told her to pick up Dad and Tatty from the chalet, but I can’t have left him alone for more than a few hours.

  I know he’s all right. That was the one thing Maggie would tell me when she rang back. I also know you must all hate me right now. But you must have known. Every letter I wrote to you was telling you this would happen. I’m sorry for the upset I’ve caused, but I can’t say that I’m sorry I did it.

  Daniel

  6th January

  Manchester

  Dear Mab –

  It didn’t take you long to track me down. Yes, I am holed up at Aubrey’s. I should have known he’d sell me out straight away. And no, I’m not coming back. I’m needed here, Mab, and I need to be here. Aubrey has given me my job back in the ‘office’.

  Well, I say that; actually he said I could only have my room back if I worked for it. I’m writing this between writing-up sessions. There has been quite a backlog built up in my absence.

  You needn’t worry about Aubrey betraying your confidence in him. He’s been giving me hell. If it were up to him, I’d be swallowing pills like sweets and spending my few conscious hours laid out on his couch revealing my deepest desires to his willing ears. Just like old times. Either that or he’d have me hog-tied and posted back to Dad’s to please you. Anything to regain a little control.

  Though, I think he must be secretly pleased to see me. He has let me stay, and – unless he’s grinding them into my tea – he’s letting me stay medication-free. I just have to put up with the constant ‘chats’ about my future and my past. If that’s not torture, I don’t know what is.

  My main problem is my present. My Alice. I’ve been having trouble getting hold of her. She’s cancelled her sessions with Aubrey, as I suggested, but now she’s not answering her phone. I’ve tried to talk to Aubrey about it, but all he did was mutter jargon about relapses and destructive behaviour and then offer a brightly coloured tome from his self-help library. I have to see her and make sure she’s all right. I worry my disappearance has taken a greater toll on her than she’s liked to admit. She is, after all, vulnerable. How else would Aubrey have got his hooks into her? I hate to think she might be angry with me. That this is all some elaborate punishment for abandoning her for so long.

  I know this must be hard for you to understand. You won’t believe either of us could have feelings this strong after knowing each other for such a short time. But there’s something remarkable about Alice and my relationship with her. I haven’t felt this way about anyone since Sarah. Believe my feelings are as strong now as they were then and you’ll have some idea how serious I am.

  I’ve been to the Art Gallery, and the bookshop where Alice works. I’m going to her house tonight. I’m stocking up on clichés: flowers, chocolates, and pleas in the night. I’m willing to be whatever she want
s me to be, if only she’ll forgive me. Do you know I even feel a little shy about seeing her again? I know I’m being ridiculous, but we’ve communicated by letter for so long I’m scared she’s become accustomed to me as words on a page. Words seem so small and elegant compared to the great hulk of me looming in her doorway.

  Oh, I wish you could meet her, Mab. Then maybe you’d understand. After I first met her at Aubrey’s, I went down to the bookshop to see her at work. She was so sweet and tender with the customers and their quiet purchases. I watched her slot books on to the shelves and press coins in change into the palms of a dozen strangers. Once I thought she spotted me, then I saw her cry silently when an old man came in and asked for a book. For an hour she danced between a table of paperbacks and the till, arranging a stack of new publications into a perfect spiral of spines. She pretended not to see me there and not to recognise me when I finally summoned the courage to make a purchase. But her smile was all for me, I’m sure, as she muddled about for a paper bag for my book. The type of bag they drop oranges into on the grocer’s stall on Church Street.

  Leave me be, Mab, I’m just trying to be happy.

  Daniel

  10th January

  Manchester

  Dear Alice –

  Darling, where are you? I’ve tried your work and your house. I even tried phoning the emergency numbers in your file. I couldn’t get any answer.