The Other Mother

by J. A. Baker

  Lissy

  It’s been a long day. Rosie has moped around the house all afternoon complaining about her lot in life, about how unfair it all is, about how lonely she is without any friends or family to turn to when times are tough. That’s her favourite line when she feels as if life has got it in for her.

  Why don’t we have any family?

  Where are all of your relatives?

  Where is my dad?

  The last one jars me. No matter how many times I explain to her that he chose to leave us, she always somehow twists it to make it appear as if I drove him away. The last I heard he was backpacking across Outer Mongolia or some other such place that I would never in a million years choose to visit. His loss. The split was acrimonious and what hurts more than anything is his refusal to contact his daughter. His only child. His last remaining contact with me. He claimed he has every right to ignore her. Apparently, anything connected to me is toxic.

  As for the other relatives, I have told Rosie time and time again about how Aunt Alice brought me up after my parents and I decided we would all be better apart. Then when Alice died, she left everything to me, which has allowed us to live in comfort, in a nice home; otherwise, we would be living in a council flat. I would be scrambling around for work, taking anything I could find, whether it be waitressing or cleaning toilets. Not living here in a large, four-bedroom house with a huge garden in the middle of the North Yorkshire countryside. If anything, we are blessed; perhaps not in the conventional sense, but financially we are very fortunate indeed. Not that any of it matters to Rosie right now. And at least at times like this, during these stressful periods, I can spend time with her and am not tied to a nine-to-five job. My home is my career. Painting is a luxury and one that Alice afforded me. Any sales I make are a bonus. In that respect we are very lucky indeed. But whenever the chips are down, Rosie turns on me. I’m the only thing she has, so it’s my job to bear the brunt of her dismay and anger and hurt, and on the whole, even though I say so myself, I do it with aplomb. I grew a second skin many, many years ago and it has served me well seeing me through some extremely tough times. Times I would sooner forget. So whatever Rosie throws my way pales into insignificance compared to what I have already experienced. Her insults and moans and relentless digs at me barely scratch the surface.

  ‘You do know I’m not going back there, don’t you?’ she barks at me as I gather a pile of her belongings that have somehow managed to gather at her feet; magazines, empty cups, a mound of used tissues.

  I scoop them up and march past her, ignoring her remark. She is going back. Rosie may not have had the most stable of upbringings but the one thing she has had all her life is an unprecedented amount of love. That’s the thing with being wanted and cared for ; you don’t realise how crucial it is until it isn’t there. And mine wasn’t there. Not for many years. Alice stepped in when nobody else would and for that I will always be grateful. It can’t have been easy for her but she stuck it out, and despite the odds we made it together; me and Alice against the world. Now it’s Rosie and me. And sometimes everything runs smoothly and sometimes it doesn’t; our lives tick along nicely and then one small thing happens and we are right back to where we started swimming against the tide. Like this school issue.

  ‘We both know that’s not true,’ I reply dismissively as I scurry into the kitchen and dispose of all the detritus she has accumulated. I don’t know how she does it. Rosie seems to have a knack for gathering clutter, whereas I am neat and orderly. In that respect, we are polar opposites.

  ‘You’ll have to drag me back there, then,’ she murmurs, but already I can feel her resolve weakening. Deep down, Rosie knows that unless she makes a concerted effort, life will pass her by. She is a gregarious soul. She needs to be around people. I am a loner but my daughter has a natural affinity with others. That’s why I refuse to be too concerned about her lack of friends. It will all come good soon enough. I am sure of it.

  ‘Can I try to get in touch with him?’ she asks, her tone suddenly brighter; perkier.

  ‘Who?’ I reply, my mind already on other issues, my latest painting being the main thing.

  ‘My dad,’ she replies, and I feel the blood drain from my head.

  I try to speak clearly but all I can hear is the echo of my own words as they rattle around my head. ‘He isn’t in the country, Rosie. You know that.’

  ‘But there must be a way of finding him, surely?’ she whines. ‘I mean it’s all so weird, don’t you think? We go to bed one evening and wake up the next morning and he’s gone. No note. Nothing.’

  I’ve protected my daughter; did what needed to be done to shield her from the upset and horror. Of course, there was a note, a lengthy, threatening, vitriolic note that turned my stomach to liquid and my skin to ice. I kept it, hid it away, too scared to even dispose of it in case anybody found it. My plan was to shred it and burn it, make sure it leaves no trace, but for some strange reason I have hung on to it, salted it away, along with the rest of my past. Rosie’s words have reminded me what I must now do with it. I cannot risk her finding it. I cannot risk her finding out.

  I manage to speak through a constricted throat, my head hot with a sudden burst of anxiety, ‘Rosie, my darling, he left us. I know he is your dad and everything but we are better off without him. His leaving is an indicator of how unreliable he is. Surely you can see that?’

  ‘What about your parents, then? Why didn’t you live with them? And please don’t say you just didn’t get on. There’s more to it than that. There has to be. I want you to start being truthful, Mum. You’re always on at me about being honest and yet you never really tell me about your past. I mean, what about your scars? I’ve seen the way you hide them away. There’s no way you got them by falling over like you’ve told me in the past. You get grazes when you fall over, not a huge gash across your wrist …’

  Her statement knocks me off kilter. So far, I’ve been able to avoid any deep and meaningful discussions about my upbringing, skimming over it all with trite phrases and empty pieces of information about how we ‘didn’t see eye to eye,’ but now Rosie’s questions are gaining traction and I am not prepared. And she is right. Am I really in any position to talk to her about honesty when she barely knows the real me? I shiver at the thought of speaking to her, telling her the whole sorry tale …

  ‘I’ve already told you about them,’ I reply tersely, knowing that I haven’t. Not really. All she knows is that relationships between us were strained. Now she wants more from me and I’m not sure I can give her anything substantial to go on. I’m not ready for this and not in the right frame of mind. I should be, I know that, and I also know that none of this is Rosie’s fault. The older she gets, the more probing her questions will become. She is a bright girl and deserves answers. But before I can begin to formulate a decent reply, a noise from somewhere behind stops me, cutting through my thoughts. I am constantly attuned to the slightest disturbance, my senses going into overdrive whenever anything different catches my attention. Seeing my chance to escape from Rosie’s ever-growing scrutiny, I shuffle off to investigate where the sound is coming from.

  In the hallway, I can see that an envelope has been pushed through the letterbox. It sits there, a small, white, rectangular piece of paper, innocuous and yet threatening at the same time with its sharp corners and unusual timing. The postman has already been and we don’t know anybody around here. We are strangers in town.

  I bend down and turn it over. It contains no stamp and the front is completely blank. I feel a familiar pulse begin to start up in my neck as I tear it apart in one slick movement. My head buzzes as I open the paper that is folded in half and stare at it, at what is typed on the paper, bold and large, jumping out at me. It contains just three words that make my head spin, forcing me to slump awkwardly on the bottom of the stairs whilst reaching up to the handrail to stop myself falling on to the floor in a hysterical heap. The words scream at me, blur my vision, slice at my stomach making me q
ueasy. Words that say nothing but mean everything. They are there , threatening, repulsive, poisonous. Just three little words … YOU FUCKING BITCH.

  Erica

  Everything is grey. Huge swathes of cloud hang lazily overhead, threatening to spill their innards at any given moment. Their vast bodies cast long, dark shadows on the pavements like some monstrous entity waiting to crash down upon us all. I scurry along, suddenly wishing I had taken the car, keen to get home before the rain starts.

  Arthur is just pulling up outside in his BMW as I stride along the street, my heels clicking loudly on the pavement, announcing my arrival to anyone who cares enough to listen. I watch as he wrestles his body out of the car, dragging his briefcase out with an irritated yank. I feel my stomach tighten and hope this isn’t an indication of his mood for the remainder of the evening. I’m too tired for bickering and putting up with his snide remarks. All I want is a hot bath and a large glass of Chardonnay. Arthur, no doubt, will want a large scotch followed by numerous gin and tonics. Well, he can have them. Usually I would monitor him, dilute them when he isn’t watching, but tonight I am too exhausted to care. I just pray his day has been productive. Arthur is a hedge fund manager and he used to love his work but the last few months have seen a change in him. He wanders around the house in a thunderous mood most evenings. When questioned about it, he simply replies that everything is going ’tits up.’ I don’t ask why and he doesn’t tell. That’s just how it is. We have fallen into a routine of putting up with our lot.

  I switch on the TV as soon as we get in. The synthetic voices help to fill the difficult silence between us, easing the tension that settles in our home like an unwelcome visitor. Night after night, we amble along, pretending nothing is wrong, avoiding each other as best we can. I’m surprised Arthur hasn’t already upped and left me before now. I sometimes think that it’s only money that’s holding us together; the glue that binds us. So sad, really. I can’t even pinpoint when it was that it all started to go wrong. It’s been a series of occurrences that have built up and eventually driven us apart. The dregs of our marriage held together for financial reasons. The thought of it fills me with a great sadness. I want it to be better but no longer know how to go about it. We are a jaded couple in desperate need of a makeover.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ I say as we head into the kitchen.

  I watch as he wrestles with his jacket and flings it over the back of the chair. Another of his habits that irritates me beyond reason. An expensive, silk lined suit that now reeks of frying smells and old dishcloths. I pick it up and stride out into the hallway where I slot it over the newel post. Arthur is too busy perusing the menu of our local takeaway to even notice. I say takeaway it’s actually an upmarket deli that just happens to prepare hot snacks to eat out. My husband wouldn’t be seen dead in a fish and chip shop or your average pizza parlour. That’s part of our problem. I’m not demure enough for him, not the quiet, little wife who will accompany him to dinner parties and laugh at all his jokes. I am an embarrassment to him; the woman with a chequered past, the sad, old northerner who simply won’t let go. He tried to change me, turn me into the wife he had always dreamed of, but it hasn’t happened. I’m beyond redemption. Too spoiled and damaged to repair. A useless, broken spouse he can’t afford to divorce. So, we stumble along together, fused by a fear of insolvency. Not that we are poor. Far from it. That’s the whole issue you see; once you get used to being wealthy, it’s difficult to step down from it. And Arthur and I don’t do sharing. We’re equally selfish. At least that’s one thing we have in common. That and the money. Because we do have money and rather a lot of it. I’m not one for bragging but who would have thought that a gritty, working class girl like me would end up having more money than God? Gritty might be too strong a word. Or maybe not. It’s a good thing people can’t see inside my head because I can almost guarantee they won’t like what they find there. I do a pretty good job of covering up, concealing what I’m really thinking. I adapt to all the societal norms and expectations on a daily basis but deep down, I know that I am different. Scarred by the past and terrified of the future.

  And that’s another secret that I have been keeping from everyone. My illness. Even Arthur doesn’t know about that particular aspect of my life. I’ve only recently been diagnosed and, so far, haven’t been given a proper prognosis, but I am fairly in tune with my own body and have a sense that when I get it, it won’t be good. So that’s why I have made my decision. I’m going to go ahead with what needs to be done, regardless of the outcome. Whether I live or die now seems irrelevant. What is important is that my wishes are carried out, my final dream is fulfilled and I can leave this place a happy woman. If it wasn’t for the distance between us I would do it myself, but fate has dictated that I must observe from afar, watch it all unfold, which will be gratifying enough. It will satiate the need that has gnawed away at me for so long, I can’t remember a single day when it hasn’t been in the forefront of my mind. Perhaps that’s what it is that has driven a wedge through my marriage , my distant demeanour and perpetual simmering anger. Soon however, it will all dissipate; the past will no longer eat away at me. My ruptured history will evaporate into the ether along with her memory. This whole thing is just something that needs to be done. That’s all there is to it. And as far as I’m concerned, the sooner the better. I have no idea how long I have left. It could be months, it could be years. The outlook may even be a positive one. Regardless of all of that, I intend to carry it through, take it to its final resolution. I suppress a smile as Arthur brushes past me, phone in one hand, menu in the other. Tonight, I will do my best to be convivial towards him, less hostile. Now I know everything is going to plan, I can relax a little. Besides which, I still feel we should try to get along as best we can. It’s miserable living like this, having to put up with the caustic remarks and black moods. I don’t hate my husband. I just feel like I no longer know him. He is distant, removed from me and despite everything, I would like things to be back to how they were before everything turned sour. I am tired of being permanently angry.

  Pouring myself a large glass of wine, I saunter upstairs and run a bath. Since finding out, I actually feel lighter, as if a great weight has been lifted. Funny isn’t it, how a possible death sentence can fill me with such joy? I strip off, making a point of avoiding my reflection in the mirror. I am already aware of all my flaws and scars and lumps and bumps. I don’t need to see them close up to remind me of their possible toxicity. Not that I am scared of looking. It’s more that I am resigned to it and have more important things to be thinking about. I sink down under the soft, creamy bubbles and take a long, deep slug of my wine. My marriage may or may not be falling apart, but at long last, the rest of my life is coming together. Because that’s the only thing that’s important to me now. Making sure it all runs smoothly and everything goes to plan. With any luck, it will all take place before my body really starts to fail me. I take another sip of wine and close my eyes, feeling confident about it all. It will happen soon. I’ll make sure of it.

  Beverley

  It was luck that brought her to me. After everything I have been through, I think I deserve some good fortune so I don’t feel the slightest bit guilty about any of this. Perhaps I should, but I don’t. I doubt I have even registered in her thoughts over the years so why should I feel any remorse? She deserves this. And I deserve closure. God, I hate that word. A glib way of saying you are bringing an end to something that, in my case, has no finish line. My torture will never end. So, when I use the word closure, what I actually mean is revenge. I want to get my own back. I want to feel vindicated for what I am about to unleash upon her. I need to feel that she is sorry. I want her to wish she had never been born. Childish I know, but that’s how it is. I am probably emotionally stunted and that too is her fault. I blame her for everything that is wrong with me. She has a lot to answer for. I have every right to want her to suffer.

  Warren lifts his glass to the waiter to indi
cate he wants a refill. He has attended too many business functions and thinks this is the way to go on, to get serving staff to be at his beck and call. Ordinarily, he isn’t a rude man but there are times when he comes across as abrasive. He spends too much time surrounded by people who wine and dine frequently and he forgets that it is a luxury. He needs to be reminded every now and again that the bar staff are on minimum wage and deserve, at the very least, a modicum of respect.

  ‘Thank you,’ I chime at the young man who pours our wine and look to Warren to indicate that he should do the same.

  ‘Yes, sorry, thank you for this. Compliments to the chef.’ He coughs gruffly and takes a long slurp of his Merlot. I sip mine, already feeling drunker than I have in a while. I must remember to keep myself in check, to not let him know too much, which isn’t easy when the alcohol takes a hold of me. When that happens, all the memories churn around in my brain and spill out of my mouth. This is why I rarely drink. Too many demons, too much hurt. My inhibitions run amok when introduced to wine.

  ‘So, tell me all about what’s been going on while I’ve been away,’ he says quietly. I feel my breath catch in my chest and for a fleeting moment, I wonder if he knows. ‘You’ve been on cloud nine ever since getting this job. It obviously suits you.’

  I laugh nervously and curl my fingers around the stem of the glass. He’s been home a few days now and we’ve hardly had time to talk to one another. Warren’s first few days back in the UK almost always consist of catching up with jobs around the house. I’ve insisted we get a gardener but he tells me it is his job, something he looks forward to. So, in his absence, the grass grows and grows and the weeds do their best to take over the entire garden, snaking up the side of the fence, their curling tendrils strangling everything and blocking out the light. I think about my activities while he has been working away and wonder what he would think about it all. He doesn’t know anything. Of course, he doesn’t. How could he? This is my secret, my plan. He is simply making polite conversation, catching up on events that have happened in his absence. I need to relax, not let my composure slip. That would be disastrous. I think back to all those years ago, to my blip, as we euphemistically call it. My memories of that time are vague, like snatches of a dream, disjointed and blurry round the edges. God knows what nonsense came out of my mouth back then. Perhaps Warren knows me better than I think he does. Perhaps he already has my darkest secrets stored away in some hidden recess in the farthest reaches of his brain, and is constantly watching and waiting for a time when they will all come spewing out, which is why he monitors me so closely, questions my every move, makes sure my life is as stress free as it can be. Or maybe I’m just overthinking everything. I take a deep breath and down a long glug of white wine; more than I should on a midweek evening out. More than I should if I am to keep my thoughts in check and keep my mouth shut.