by Rachel Dann
I can’t help but laugh at this piece of irrelevant information, even as fresh tears fill my eyes at the thought of their cosy little house, Mum fussing about upstairs in her dressing gown, and Steve with his feet up and a cup of tea in front of the TV. My longing to be there with them almost overwhelms me.
‘It wasn’t easy, you know,’ Mum says, her voice more sober. ‘Bringing you up by myself. I loved you desperately all the way through, of course, but it wasn’t bloody easy.’
I hold my breath, waiting for to her to say more, feeling strangely like this is the first time my mother has been really honest with me for a long time… perhaps ever.
‘I know I fuss,’ she continues. ‘And I know it drives you girls mad. But all I ask is for you to understand a little where I’m coming from. After your father… left, it was a real struggle for me, in those years before I met Steve. Making ends meet, bringing you up and trying to put on a strong front for you… all I wanted was for you to grow up without it spoiling your childhood. But it affected my nerves, I can’t pretend it didn’t, love.’
‘I know, Mum,’ I say, my voice barely a whisper.
‘Anxiety is an actual condition, you know,’ she adds, her tone a little defensive now.
‘I know, Mum,’ I repeat, actually realising it properly for the first time.
‘I take pills for it, you know, love.’
‘I’m sorry, Mum.’
‘Don’t apologise, darling. I don’t mean to make you feel guilty. Just… please look after yourself. Live your life. Be happy. There’s nothing I want more in the world than to know you’re happy.’
‘I will, Mum… I am. I promise.’ Even as the words leave my mouth I feel a massive sense of relief, of liberation, a knowledge that something has shifted both inside me and in my relationship with my mother.
Then I’m brought back to reality by a brisk knocking sound above my head and Liza leaning out of the window summoning me upstairs for a hot chocolate.
Chapter Sixteen
When I first met Harry, or should I say when Harry first came and spoke to me in the Student Union bar, I was finishing off an essay about intellectual property rights that was due the next day. We went out for a drink that same night; I don’t think Harry even finished the beer he had bought on the way over, and I know that when I went back to my room to dump my laptop and papers, I didn’t even give myself time to change or check my reflection. I just followed him. Later we continued chatting obliviously while pub staff stacked chairs around us and gradually turned the music down, then actually came over and told us they were closing. We scooped up our coats and bags without interrupting the flow of conversation and moved on to the nearest bar. I couldn’t tell you which bar it was or what we drank, I just remember the feeling of being totally captivated by this man, his stories of people and places I had never heard of, his smile and his laugh and his confidence. As we finally stumbled back across the campus lawn in the early hours, clinging to each other in a dizzy flurry of laughter, a feeling of wonder began to spread though me. Wonder that this funny, dynamic, well-travelled man, who could date anyone at the university (and, I reflected later, probably had), ultimately chose me.
I floated back to my room on a cloud of disbelieving elation and, as it grew light, hammered out the rest of the essay in about two hours then showered, changed and walked straight to the law department to hand it in. Over the years at university I’d watched several friends stay up all night to finish work at the last minute, and always considered it very short-sighted and disorganised. But now I didn’t care. Even as I performed these tasks a part of my brain was already elsewhere, focused on higher things, whizzing away, planning the next months and years of my life, certain in the knowledge that after tonight nothing would ever be the same.
Now, as the first pale rays of daylight filter through the blinds behind me and I finally push the laptop away from me in exhaustion, the translation of Naomi’s sentence and other documents finished at last, I look over through the open bedroom door to where Harry is sleeping and try to evoke those feelings. I had been only twenty-two yet filled with an utter, guileless certainty that this was the person finally worth dating, the person I wanted to build a life with. At the time it felt very grown-up, set against my friends’ many dramas and indecisions over dates and boyfriends, to feel such complete certainty about spending your life with another person; only now, so many formative years later, do I realise how very young indeed I had been.
I stare at the soft rise and fall of Harry’s chest, the form of his shoulders silhouetted against the wall. His features are just coming into focus as the Quito dawn explodes around us.
‘It doesn’t last, you know.’ My mother’s voice creeps into my mind, and I can even picture her pursed-lipped expression as she gears up to deliver her well-known lecture.
‘That ‘honeymoon’ feeling. It doesn’t last.’
I knew it off by heart. Chloe and I had been subjected to it at regular intervals since we were old enough to know the difference between boys and girls. Only now, thinking back to my mum’s words on the phone yesterday, can I really begin to understand the reasons behind the sermon.
‘REAL happiness comes from working at a relationship. Staying together through thick and thin. If you go off in search of passion and excitement, nothing will ever last.’
Of course Mum would say that; she had brought up a child completely on her own. It was only natural for her to value stability and consistency over romance. It wasn’t easy, you know… all I wanted was for you to grow up without it spoiling your childhood. Mum’s words from last night echo in my mind, the extent of her dedication and sacrifice over the years really sinking in. I rub my eyes and gaze out at the first rays of sunlight glinting off the cathedral roof far below us in the city centre.
It seems incredible I’ve never properly realised any of this before. Never stopped to think about what it must have been like for Mum during all those years of just scraping by, being both mother and father to me, somehow coping despite the infrequent visits and only sporadic contributions from my father. How could I have been so immature? To have spent years wrapped in growing resentment towards my father, but never really thought about the effects on my mum.
Only now, with the time and distance afforded by being on the other side of the world, can I really appreciate what it must have been like for her.
I stare down at the bulky document of Naomi’s sentence and feel an even stronger sense of empathy with her. After so many years imprisoned far away from her family, how she must desperately yearn to see them again and give them a hug… I’ve not even been gone for a full month, but would give anything to see my mum right now.
I think back to all the times I’d endured her lecture about relationships, and wonder at how much I have let it shape my decisions over the years without even realising it until now. How her voice would ring in my ears whenever I got asked out on a date. How it had both taught me to be cautious and sensible, yet also sown seeds of fear.
For all her melodrama, I know Mum always had the best intentions. She didn’t want to see her daughters left in the same position she was, barely in her mid-twenties and bringing up a child alone. She always made sure to remind me that Dad left when I was small, for another woman. Always made sure to inform me when another of his relationships failed after that. Even before the age of social media she somehow managed to receive the information before I did, every time, and on one occasion I even got home from school to find her discussing his latest relationship break-up with our neighbour Mrs Bunn over coffee. It was like she had some kind of internal radar for his failures.
She had been deeply cynical that first summer at the end of university when I arrived at the front door, beaming, with a tanned, grinning Harry in tow, and the news that we were moving in together. Only as the years passed and Harry duly showed up to every family meal did she start to relax.
And it hadn’t lasted. What my mother
described as the ‘honeymoon’ feeling. That sense of yearning to see the person, of shivery excitement at the sound of their voice, of wonder and amazement that they are with you. I had thought it was normal. As the years passed and Harry and I intertwined our lives with increasing determination, I never stopped to ask myself if it mattered that we didn’t stay up late talking any more, or that with increasing frequency during an argument I would find myself staring at him from across the room and finding the same incomprehension mirrored back at me in his eyes.
For years, our life together never felt like anything less than a success. We were together, we had made a home, and above all I had stayed with the same person. The person I chose. I was not becoming my parents. Just that knowledge alone was enough to fill me with relief, and a form of contentedness, as I considered my life and arrived home to our little house and woke up beside Harry every day.
Looking over at Harry now, I feel a stirring, uncomfortable conviction, an uneasy sensation that has been with me since we arrived in Ecuador, and perhaps even before. Deep down, over the last few years, I had known something was not quite right. I stare at Harry’s sleeping form and finally admit to myself that I came on this trip hoping it would bring us together again, back to that simple, enchanting certainty of our first years together. Instead, being in a foreign country has somehow magnified everything I was feeling before and brought it into a horrible, vivid new focus. I ask myself whether I would still feel this way if it were not for Harry’s strange behaviour and secrecy over the past nearly three weeks since we arrived in Quito, and realise with a shiver that I do not know the answer.
My thoughts turn to the experiences I’ve had and friendships I’ve made since we arrived here. I think of Liza and Roberto, Ray and Gabriela… they all seem happy. My mother may have drilled it into me my whole life to value stability and consistency over romance. But… what about having both?
Harry turns in his sleep and makes a low murmuring sound. Something inside me clicks and I realise that now is my chance – to try one more time to fight for what we have… or, at least, what I know we used to have. To confront him about the phone calls that have been eating away at me since I stumbled upon his Skype account. I could ask him now, or I could get up quickly and slip out of the apartment before he wakes… I watch him stir again, then slowly rub his eyes and sit up.
I stay put.
‘Oh, morning, Kirst,’ he mutters, hauling himself out of bed and stumbling past me to switch on the coffee machine, stopping briefly to plant a kiss on my cheek. ‘You’re up early.’
‘I’ve been up all night,’ I tell him, nodding at the documents and laptop splayed out around me on the kitchen table. Suddenly filled with a surge of determination, despite my exhaustion, I scrape my chair back and turn to look at him.
‘Harry, I need to talk to you.’
Something about my tone makes Harry put down the box of cereal he’s just taken from a cupboard, and turn to stare at me.
‘Okay… is it something that can wait until after coffee?’
I ignore the attempt at a jovial tone in his voice. ‘Actually, no. Look – I was using Liza and Roberto’s computer the other day to print something.’ I pause and watch him, half expecting him to clasp his hands over his mouth in horror, to begin stammering and pleading for forgiveness as he realises he has finally been discovered… but he doesn’t. He just carries on standing there looking at me with a mildly confused, indulgent expression.
‘…and when I switched on the computer, your Skype account opened automatically.’
Harry’s face remains blank, but he comes around the breakfast bar to sit down at the table beside me.
‘Who were you phoning, Harry?’ I make myself meet his eyes straight on, and force my voice to remain even and firm, despite the adrenaline shooting through me. What if this is all a terrible mistake and I’m making a fuss over nothing? A doubtful inner voice presses me. Or… what if I’m completely right to be suspicious, but the answer is something that’s only going to hurt me?
‘There were rows and rows of calls, all to the same number, always when I’ve been out of the apartment,’ I press on, knowing I can’t go back now. ‘What’s going on, Harry? Is there something… up with you? Something you need to talk about?’ My voice fades out as I watch Harry’s facial expression gradually change from blank and enquiring to frowning and defensive, then annoyed.
Before I’ve even finished speaking he’s pushed his chair back impatiently and turned away from me back to the kitchen.
‘Seriously? That is what you wanted to talk about?’ He begins loudly removing plates and cups from the cupboard. ‘A few phone calls?’ Crash. A cereal bowl is put down heavily on the worktop. ‘A few phone calls for work that I chose to make when you were out, in order to have more time with you when you’re here?’ Bang. The fridge door is slammed shut. ‘That didn’t occur to you, did it?’ he asks crossly, still not looking at me. ‘That I was busy working?’ He stops for a moment, glaring down at the box of cornflakes on the counter in front of him.
Smarting, I stare up at him. ‘Harry, why are you being so…’ I can’t even find an appropriate word. ‘It seemed weird to me, that’s all. It seems weird to me, still. I mean, we have a laptop here, with Skype on it… why would you always use Liza’s computer, and only when I’m out? Or, even worse, when I’m up here waiting for you and you tell me you’re downstairs chatting to Liza?’ I make a real effort to keep my voice pleasant, conciliatory, even as I stand firm and face Harry. ‘And I think I have every right to ask you this. To try and…. Understand.’
‘Do you have the right to go snooping through my call list?’ Harry hisses, shrugging off my outstretched hand and turning away from me. ‘And confronting me like you think I’m doing something wrong?’
‘I’m not… I wasn’t… oh God, this is hopeless… Harry, where are you going?’ I stare in disbelief as he turns his back on me and marches towards the bathroom.
‘Anywhere, away from here, okay?’ He mutters crossly. ‘Away from the bloody Spanish inquisition.’ Then the bathroom door is shut abruptly in my face.
I stare at it, my eyes stinging and a lump rising in my throat. The sound of running water, closely followed by vigorous, angry tooth-brushing reaches me from the other side of it. Fleetingly I consider going after him, pushing the door open and yanking the toothbrush out of his hands and demanding that he gives me a proper answer. But eventually common sense and dignity prevail and I turn away, blinking back my hurt, indignant tears.
Harry may not realise it, but all he has achieved by this unprovoked outburst is convincing me further he is up to something. And that if I am ever going to get to the bottom of it, I am going to have to bloody well find out for myself. Actually talking to each other seems to be beyond us now.
Suddenly feeling almost overwhelmed by sadness and tiredness, I turn back to the kitchen table and the open laptop and pile of paperwork staring back at me from it.
All my hard work.
Naomi’s future.
Not for the first time since we arrived in Ecuador, I find myself overtaken by a feeling of defeat, of wanting to curl up and dissolve into tears, because of Harry… closely followed by the knowledge that I can’t, at least not yet, because there is something far more important, something bigger than me, depending on me for success.
With a surge of determination, and one last glare at the bathroom door, I yank the USB out of the laptop and gather the papers together, striding towards the door and the welcome sanctuary of Liza and Roberto’s apartment.
Whatever happens with Harry, it will have to wait. Because now, finally, after so much hard work, I have something very important to do.
Liza is at the kitchen worktop, noisily massacring a pineapple. When she hears me let myself in behind her, she stops hacking and puts the knife down to come over and wrap me in a hug.
‘Kristie! How lovely! What’s got you up so early?’ She beams, the
n starts fussily brushing a smudge of pineapple juice off my pyjama top. Then she steps back and frowns at me. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘Yes, absolutely fine, Liza,’ I say firmly, aware my cheeks are probably bright red and my eyes are still shining with unshed tears.
‘I’ve finished translating Naomi’s documents,’ I inform her, hearing the triumph creep into my voice. ‘So I was wondering if I could use your computer to print them off.’
‘Well, of course, sweetheart! What great news, you must have worked so hard.’ Liza glances at the USB stick dubiously. ‘We must tell Sebastian immediately – shall I phone him?’ She eyes the USB stick and mobile phone in my hand again, with the suspicion one might view outlandish gadgets from a future era. ‘Unless you want to… contact him that way.’ She waves at the phone. ‘You youngsters have your ways, I’m sure. And meanwhile, you must sit down and have some breakfast. No, I insist. Señora Perez from next-door-but-one gave me this pineapple yesterday. She brought a batch of them from her daughter’s villa on the coast. It’s perfectly ripe. Go on, sit down.’ She turns back to the counter and lops off the last of the pineapple’s outer skin with a decisive thwack.
I sit down helplessly at the table and stare at my mobile phone.
7:15 a.m. Is that too early to phone someone to tell them you’ve finished translating the documents for the person in prison whom you are both trying to help return to their home country? What kind of social rules apply in these situations? Finally, unable to bear it anymore, and telling myself that the sooner I give Sebastian the papers the sooner Naomi will be able to go home, which more than justifies any unhinged behaviour on my part, I fire off a text message:
Translations finished! What next?
I stare at it, wondering too late whether I should have thrown in a smiley face or something to make it sound friendlier, then my phone starts flashing with an incoming call. Oh my God.