The Other Mother

by J. A. Baker

  I push the trolley around the supermarket, my back beginning to ache after sitting for so long typing up the minutes of a meeting that lasted almost three hours. I often wonder what they find to talk about at these events; how they have the stamina to sit through it all.

  My eyes scan the shelves as I run my gaze along the huge stack of items that I will never, ever purchase. My list is short. Warren isn’t due back for another week, and when he is away I am inclined to live on nothing more than cornflakes and jam on toast. However, I do the right thing and fill the trolley with fresh fruit and vegetables, thinking I can make a casserole and freeze it. That’s when I spot him; a man on the opposite side of the aisle who is staring at me, his eyes sweeping over me like an animal sizing up its prey. I am unsure whether I should let him know I have caught him looking over by taking a slightly aggressive stance and placing my hands on my hips while glowering at him, or whether I should do the sensible thing and shuffle away with my head dipped, too afraid of what he might say if I confront him. It turns out I don’t have time to do either. I watch; a mix of horror and curiosity creeping up my spine as he smiles and starts to walk towards me. I am rooted to the spot, my mind in full whirl as to who it could be; one of Warren’s colleagues? An old neighbour who knows my mother and will take great pleasure in telling me what a terrible life she has had? A complete stranger who is mentally unhinged? He thrusts his hand out for me to shake and that’s when I begin to wish I had walked away taken heed of the inner voice that has served me well over the years.

  ‘Daryl. Remember me?’ he says, so full of confidence and gusto I almost want to cry. Of course, it’s him. I can see it now he is standing so close to me. He still has the same charming smile and twinkling eyes but that is all that remains of the boy I once knew. His hair is almost gone save for a few straggly wisps he has dragged over his forehead in a vain attempt to hide his baldness, and a large stomach protrudes out over the top of his jeans. His T-Shirt is stretched to capacity revealing an unsightly navel and a generous amount of hair-covered gut. He is every inch the middle-aged man who has let himself go.

  ‘Yes, of course. Sorry, my eyesight isn’t what it used to be,’ I lie as I sweep my eyes over his bulky frame once more. ‘How are you?’ I mumble, wishing I could somehow escape from all of this; from his probing gaze, the stifling reek of his body odour, which is now wafting around the air between us, the inevitable stream of questions that will no doubt follow if I hang around here and allow him to make polite conversation. I step to one side in a bid to move away but he reaches out and places his hand on my arm, a touch so soft it almost takes my breath away.

  ‘It’s been a long time,’ he says quietly. ‘A very long time.’ His face suddenly darkens. A shadow flits behind his eyes. ‘I saw her, you know?’

  I should have known this was coming, been prepared for it, but as always it catches me by surprise, knocking the air out of my lungs, draining the blood from my head. I swallow hard and grasp the handle of the trolley, my hands slick with sweat.

  ‘Sorry, Daryl,’ I gasp, my breath hot and rapid, ‘but I need to get on. I have an appointment to go to after this and I’m already late.’

  He steps to one side and smiles at me, his head nodding up and down as if he understands my plight. I want to slap him. How can he possibly begin to comprehend what I have been through? The devastation that has been my life.

  ‘Hang on a minute!’ he shouts after me as I break into a swift march. ‘We should get together one of these days. I work around these parts sometimes. We can meet for coffee.’

  I have to stop myself from turning around and yelling at him that I would sooner sever one of my own limbs than sit with him and reminisce over a cappuccino. I feel the heat of his hulking body as he sidles up next to me, forcing me to grind to a halt.

  ‘Here. This is my business card,’ he says with a huge grin as he slips it into my palm. He still has a way of making his presence known even after all these years. I stare down at the small piece of card in my hand.

  Argent Cars No journey is too much trouble.

  There is a telephone number on it and an emblem of a vehicle some sort of people carrier. I look up to see him still smiling at me, ‘I have my own taxi business now. Airport runs, business pick-ups, that sort of stuff. Not just an ordinary cab or anything like that. We’re exclusive to certain successful businesses.’

  I have no idea how to respond. I nod and try to muster up a smile without it appearing like a manic, nervous smirk. Daryl is part of my past, a past I monitor carefully and discuss with a select few. Not here and not with him. Besides which, why on earth would he want to socialise with me after our last encounter? He was rude and obnoxious; excessively so. My mind almost goes into shutdown at the thought of it. It’s a memory I have tried hard to block out for many, many years. I don’t want him here, forcing it to resurface. I want him gone.

  ‘That’s great, Daryl,’ I reply. My throat is dry and my head feels as if it is quivering, a visible movement that I am powerless to control. I want to walk away again but he has somehow managed to step in front of me and is blocking my path, my only means of escape.

  He reaches back into his pocket and brings out a phone which he brandishes at me. ‘What’s your number? I’ll put you in my contacts and we can stay in touch. It’ll be good to talk about the old days. We had some real good laughs back then, didn’t we?’

  I don’t know what to say. He is standing in front of me, his fingers hovering over the screen on his phone, ready for me to speak. An iron hand claws at my windpipe, travels round my head, and knocks at the base of my skull. I have to get away, to remove myself from this situation as quickly as I can. In a moment of madness, I find myself telling him my mobile number, relaying it automatically, my voice flat and robotic as I say the numbers out loud. As soon as I have finished, I push past him, white lights blurring my vision.

  ‘Great!’ he shouts after me, ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  By the time I make it to the exit, I am almost blind with panic and horror. I stumble along to my car and fling myself inside, my arms and legs a jumble of ungainly limbs as I try to arrange the bags and belt myself in. I sit for a short while, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, breathing loudly as I try to calm down, telling myself it is just the shock of seeing him after so long that has caused this reaction. An unexpected face from the past it’s only natural I should feel distressed. The last time I saw Daryl was the evening Greg died. That night. Guilt oozes from every pore as I shove the key in the ignition and start the engine. I don’t want to think about it, those lost hours, that terrible atrocity, all those lies. I turn my vehicle out of the car park and head for home, trying to expel all thoughts of Daryl from my mind. He is the last person I should be thinking about. This was a minor occurrence, bumping into him, no more that, a tiny distraction. He is not a part of my life any more and nor will he ever be.

  ∞∞∞∞

  The lights turn to green and I swing the car round into the village, feeling more in control. My breathing has slowed down and the shock has dissipated. He is just a face, that’s all he is. Just a minor person from my past from that day. I can’t allow him to wheedle his way into my life and up-skittle everything I’ve worked so hard for.

  I pull up on the drive and let out a small whistle of relief. I have a week before Warren finishes work. Seven whole days of doing whatever I want before he comes home and instils in me a sense that I am still under close scrutiny. After the previous incident, he is being extra careful around me, treating me as if I am a fragile object, a porcelain doll that may shatter at any time if the circumstances take a downward shift. I will be tiptoed around, upon his return, until he feels that I am not about to have some sort of mental failure.

  I glance at my phone before getting out of the car. I am relieved to see that nobody has called. No lists of unknown numbers. No Daryl.

  The sight of her huddled there in the doorway is a shock to me. It shouldn’t be, but it is
. She did this once before, came to me in desperation when she had nowhere else to go. I am surprised she actually remembered where I live. Just goes to show what she is capable of achieving once she sets her mind to it. I climb out of the car, drop the bags at her feet and sigh heavily.

  ‘Come on, Theresa, up you get. Come inside and you can have a bath and get something to eat.’

  This isn’t what she is after. I am well aware of what it is she really wants but I refuse to give it to her. Any cash I press into her palm will go straight up her nose or into a vein. The best I can do is clean her up and feed her.

  She stares up at me and shuffles to her feet. Her skin is grey and although she is fourteen years younger than me, anybody seeing us together could be forgiven for thinking she is my older sister.

  ‘Give me a hand with these bags and we’ll get inside and put the kettle on.’

  She complies like a small child and helps me haul the shopping inside, her tiny body shivering violently despite it being late spring and relatively warm outside.

  ‘Right,’ I say chirpily, ‘let’s see what we’ve got here to eat.’

  I watch her slump into the chair, and stare long and hard at her face, at her saggy eyes and mottled skin, and think of my parents, our mother especially, and the heartache our actions have caused.

  ‘Today is a day for forgotten faces.’ I smile as I grab a couple of plates out of the cupboard, thinking about Daryl and his huge gut and rancid smell, hoping he doesn’t contact me.

  ‘Huh?’ Theresa stares at me, no recognition behind her dark, dull eyes.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ I say, ‘just forget it. I’m only thinking out loud. Just wondering who is next. That’s all it is. Just me speaking my mind.’

  Even as I say it, I can see that Theresa is elsewhere, her gaze darting around, flitting around the kitchen, her eyes fixed on anything she can steal to feed her addiction, her mind definitely not fixed on me. I finish making us a snack, wondering if she knows that her current state is apparently my doing. According to our mother, this pathetic creature before me ended up in this condition because of me. Even having a child growing in her belly after it all happened wasn’t enough to keep our family together. I saw to that. I was the one who split us apart a long time ago and she has continued to punish me ever since. She done her level best to remind me of my terrible misdemeanour. Like I am ever likely to forget.

  Erica

  Arthur is staring at me as I tap away at the screen on my phone.

  ‘Work?’ he asks as he points the remote at the TV screen and turns the volume up. He does seem to enjoy it, letting me know I’m intruding on his listening, spoiling his programme. I could quite easily turn the sound off but then I also like to antagonise him sometimes, to let him know I am still here. It’s not that I enjoy the conflict, far from it but it is nice to be acknowledged, to have somebody realise you are still in the room. We have been sitting here for an hour, both locked in our own little worlds, the words we should be saying to each other trapped and out of reach. Eventually, the silence became so unbearable I decided to glance at my messages.

  Arthur is being facetious. He knows I don’t bring work home. My job is not something I ever get involved in outside of office hours. I work part-time for a pharmaceutical company and leave everything behind the minute I walk out of the door. I stopped enjoying my job a long time ago, and have often considered leaving but then wonder how I would fill my time, those endless hours spent rattling around the house while Arthur is working.

  ‘Just a friend,’ I say and turn my phone on to silent as a stream of messages slide on to the screen.

  I hear him sigh and watch in my peripheral vision as he flicks the television off and turns to look at me, his expression unreadable. There is a moment’s quiet where a small frisson of fear pounds through me. His eyes trail over the room before casting them back on to me and speaking softly, ‘I think it’s about time we talked, don’t you?’ His voice is indistinct. I have no idea what is coming next but don’t like the tension that has suddenly settled in the room. I am at a loss as to what to say or do. I place my phone on the arm of the sofa and cross my legs. An uncomfortable pressure builds in my chest; tendrils of apprehension winding and bending around my body, tightening and choking me. Is this it? The moment we have both been avoiding for so long? The moment when our lives become detached from one another and we are sent skittering off into new and very different directions? Dear God, I hope not. I want something better for us. We both deserve more. I clear my throat and nod, pushing my hair behind my ears hoping he can’t see the tremble in my fingers or the throb that has taken hold in my neck.

  ‘Where to start?’ I half laugh and find myself suddenly fighting back tears. Months and months this has gone on for. The pair of us, scraping through each day, ignoring our problems, pretending it will all just go away. And now here we are, sitting opposite one another in silence, and it looks like we have reached this point. The point of no return. I feel quite sick at the thought of what he is going to say. There are days when I feel so angry at the world in general that I hate everyone, including him. Then other days I find myself saturated in nostalgia, overwhelmed with a deep longing for the love and connection we used to have, wishing it would return, hoping we can salvage something from it all, from the wreck that is currently our marriage.

  ‘Well, how about we come clean about everything?’ he says with a smile and I suddenly feel a collision in my head; stars bursting behind my eyes, blotches and dark shadows marring my vision. My knees begin to bang together and I have to hang on to them to keep them rigid. I press my open palms on to my calves to stop the tremble from showing.

  ‘OK, I’m not quite sure what you want me to say, Arthur?’ He smiles at me and I don’t know whether he is being genuine or if he has an ulterior motive with his words. We have been distant for so long now, I am unable to read his emotions, to work out what is coming next. This man, the husband I once knew so well, the man I married, the father of my only child, feels like a stranger to me. This is not how I want it to be. It is not how it should be. I used to know every inch of him; the smell of his skin, every strand of hair, every single part of his body. Heat rises as I remember those times, the times I now know I would like back. Arthur isn’t a bad person. Neither am I. Life seems to have pushed us apart. My childhood has forced me into a dark place that I don’t care for. I want to be rescued from that dank, miserable place but fear everything is too far gone for that.

  ‘I think we both have some secrets we need to share, don’t we?’

  I swallow hard and try to think of something to say, hoping he will do the decent thing and speak first, tell me what he is hiding. I blink and cough again. Another woman is my guess. It isn’t something I have given a great deal of thought to until this point, but then as I start to dwell on it, to give it some serious contemplation, it makes me feel incredibly sad. I am surprised to find that I don’t like the idea of Arthur with somebody else; somebody who isn’t me. Out of nowhere, tears spring from my eyes and in an instant, Arthur is up out of his chair and kneeling beside me, his hands stroking my hair and cupping my face with a tenderness I had forgotten he possessed, a tenderness that takes me by surprise, catching me unawares and making my heart pound.

  ‘Erica, I opened your letter from the hospital. Why didn’t you tell me?’

  My senses are muffled. I feel disorientated, as if I have been submerged underwater, an ocean of confusion distorting everything I thought I knew. More tears flow at his words, a river of pent-up anxiety and disquiet leaking out of me. He has seen my future. I think of that crisp, white piece of paper, the prophecy of my life detailing what is going to happen to me. Arthur opened it first and now knows what I have always known. A sob escapes. This isn’t how it was supposed to be. I had it all planned in my head, how I would deal with it; all the treatment, the arrangements back home up north. I thought I had it sorted, was managing to keep it all in order, not let it bog me down, but now here it
is swamping me with emotion and fear. I try to speak but the words won’t come. They stick in my throat, dry and heavy. A lump of pent-up anguish locked inside me, trying to break free.

  ‘I was going to,’ I hiccup, ‘when the time was right.’ I stop and stare at him, my face tight with emotion.

  ‘But the time was never right, was it?’ He sighs and leans back on his haunches, his hand locked in mine. ‘It hasn’t been right for a long time now.’ He stares up at the ceiling and shakes his head despondently. I shake mine too and sniff loudly. Arthur leans back and grabs a tissue from the table then passes it to me. ‘We’ve made a bit of a mess of it all, haven’t we?’

  I nod in agreement and blow my nose. It sounds like an off-key trumpet and I let out a small laugh, my face aching from the effort. He smiles at me and narrows his eyes,

  ‘You can’t do this on your own. I know I haven’t been the best lately. I’ve been under a fair amount of strain and been a bit of an arsehole. But we’ll get through this together,’ he says, squeezing my hand and out of nowhere, I feel as if a huge weight has been lifted. Suddenly his tone changes, his expression darkens, his voice becomes dry and sombre, and I feel myself go cold as he speaks, ‘but I also need to talk to you about something else. I know now might not be the best time, but since we’re coming clean, then I think I need to tell you. I should have told you a while back, really.’

  I steel myself, ready to hear her name being spoken out loud, ready for him to tell me that prior to him finding out about my diagnosis, his bags were packed and he was moving in with her. Funny, isn’t it, how scenarios you have prepared in your head rarely turn out the way you have pictured them? I always assumed we would just fizzle out, Arthur and I, eke out the dregs of our marriage until there was nothing left but retirement and an endless greyness that blanketed our days together. I didn’t visualise a woman. Another female was never on my radar. The world becomes suspended, held in a vacuum while I wait for him to speak. When he does, his words shatter my illusion; erase everything I thought I knew about our life together.