by Ruth Figgest
I drift somewhere further and feel the scrubby texture of summer grass underfoot. I remember the taste of bubble gum in my mouth and the sense of my own fluid limbs running, and dancing. I once thought I was a fish and I have been able to fly. I have had a bird’s eye view of the world and saw Santa in his golden sleigh against a midnight blue-black sky. I can see him, and me and her, and even Dad again now, and it’s all there whenever I want. I only have to shut my eyes.
The next day Poopy and I stop in at a Petco store. I am planning on buying the dog bowl for him, but instead find a bright blue leather collar, with fake stones set in and ‘Prince’ written in white.
He doesn’t like the new collar when I strap it on in place of the thin plain black one he’s used to, but he has no choice because I’m the one in charge. I think it suits him, this blue against the dark brown. The woman in the store admires him, bending down to stroke him under his chin and tickle him behind his ears. Then she asks me how long I’ve had him and I say, ‘Since he was just a tiny puppy,’ and then I tell her that he means the world to me. This is not entirely true but it sounds like the right thing to say.
‘Well, he’s a very lucky boy, then, isn’t he?’ she says to Poopy, who is sulking about the collar and looking very dejected down by our feet. He’s a sensitive creature. The littlest things please this animal, which is rather a sweet quality, and it’s a relief to both of us when I scoop him up and tuck him under my arm.
I can feel the faint thump, thump of his now happy tail against my side.
I can tell that since I’ve had him he’s lost even more weight with all this pining.
I ask if she can recommend any nutritious doggy treats. While I’m waiting at the till for her return with the goods, I feel the dog warm against me and imagine his nut-sized heart beating away. I suddenly want him to live a very long time. When she returns I find I am asking her to also recommend a good vet and maybe a grooming salon. ‘He needs a change,’ I say, ‘He does need someone kind. It makes all the difference, that attention. Things change; we have to move on.’
‘Harvey Marsh is a wonderful vet,’ she says. ‘He’ll take good care of your lovely little boy.’
This is what I tell them in the resignation letter that I write. I tell them that things have changed; that I want to stay at home and spend time with my dog. He can’t be left alone because he needs me and I’ve got plans to travel.
I correct the pronoun before I mail the letter: we’ve got plans to travel, I write.
2015
The Bear
Prince is fast asleep in the basket on the window seat and, although I am able to suck one of the hard candies they just handed out to help our ears equalise the change in pressure, Prince can’t do anything, poor thing. It’s been a four-hour flight and there are still two hours before the sedation is due to wear off.
I’m sure Marsh wouldn’t deliberately put Prince’s ears in danger, but mine are popping and painful. Swallowing might help him. If he wakes I could slip him something to eat, so I lift open the basket lid and slip my hand inside to stroke him. I think about how many days and nights there were in the last nine months when I’d have done anything to get hold of whatever he’s had that’s made him sleep like this. My tolerance for sleeping tablets has increased lately.
The plane tilts and twists as we begin to make our final descent and the land below is coming closer now. It looks startlingly green and fresh. Fresh and empty.
I feel very nervous because it’s been a long time coming. No number of phone calls and tentative, awkward getting-to-know-you-type conversations can lessen the importance of actually meeting him. We’ve exchanged recent pictures by email and I’ve checked him out on the university website. He still teaches Climate Science. Though Pete has a bigger frame than Dad, they share a resemblance, so I can’t say that I think I look more like him than I do Dad, because I don’t look like Dad at all, really, but I’m interested to see what we share and, of course, I want the full story. I’ll soak up anything he wants to tell me, just because I want to try to make sense of it.
Pete told me that he held me on the day I was born, not knowing I was his kid, but when I was two months old Mom thought she should tell him the truth. He doesn’t know what prompted her change of heart, but she’d told Dad as well and Dad felt doubly betrayed. He took the disclosure very badly. Neither Pete nor Mom could understand how a stranger would be preferable, but apparently that was the case. By that time, Dad had managed to imagine a future life with this, his family, and now, he said, she was determined out of sheer cussedness to spoil things.
The three of them argued. In the end she promised she’d never tell anyone that Dad wasn’t really my dad. Pete promised he wouldn’t interfere. Dad promised he would always take care of her and me, and that, whatever happened, he’d never leave her. And then Pete split. Dad was very happy about this. Pete was frank enough to tell me that, as a young man with his own future to think about, he didn’t mind putting the Midwest, my mother and me – all of it – behind him. He also said that for a long while my mother sent him photos tucked into Christmas cards and how when we visited that once (when I was around twelve) it was civil, but the photos stopped after that.
‘Did you ever love my mother?’ I asked him.
‘We had feelings, but not really. I think your Dad really loved your mom.’
‘Everyone says that. Did you know about Uncle Jack?’
‘Jack and Richard … well, they were friends. Not lovers, I don’t think, whatever your mom might have thought. Maybe, but I don’t think so.’
‘I think I caught him with a man once. It freaked me out, but Mom and I couldn’t talk about it and he denied everything. I got sick after that. Maybe it didn’t happen. It doesn’t matter anyway.’
Pete and I haven’t talked more about any of that yet. I don’t know if we need to. I’ll have to play that by ear.
He will be waiting at baggage collection, and we’ll have some time alone on the drive to his home, where he’ll introduce me to his wife, Roseanne, and I’ll get to meet their sons. I’m glad they didn’t have any girls. I’ve always thought of myself as an only child; at least in one way I won’t have to compete.
Pete hasn’t told Roseanne, nor has he told their boys. I’m just going to be their niece, their cousin, for now. Roseanne isn’t well and the prognosis, he said, is poor. No problem, I’m used to keeping secrets, I said; it’s a family tradition. Pete said he was grateful about our plan to finally meet in person. ‘Life comes full circle,’ he said. ‘Closure.’
Everyone wants closure, I think, but for me it’s impossible. Even meeting Pete doesn’t change anything. Over the last nine months I’ve glided between being very sorry for my father, then for my mother, and then angry with her and then with both of them, and then I’ve cycled round to feeling sorry for him again. Mainly, I’m disappointed. Dad could have told me, and she had years after Dad died to tell me, and I might have asked questions but I would have understood. Promises don’t stand once someone is dead, surely.
She either ran out of time or deliberately chose not to say anything. I prefer to think that she ran out of time. I know she loved me and I know she did her best, but is it unreasonable to want to know the truth about your parents? How much does a big secret take away from the rest of stuff you think you know? I can’t answer that one yet.
The wheels touch down with a bump and I do that thing I always do when the plane lands: I imagine Fred Flintstone dropping his legs to the ground from a hole in the cockpit, and digging his heels in so hard that sparks fly. It takes my mind off the fact that I’m actually here. Then I panic for a moment. I haven’t told him about Prince yet, but I’m banking on the fact that out here in the Wild West no one would be so precious as to really object.
I recognise Pete immediately I see him waiting at the baggage collect. He is solid and huge. He gives me a proper bear hug and tells me that he thinks I look like my mom. It’s an eerie feeling to have this man�
��s strong arms around me. He doesn’t let go of me for a long time and, in an odd way, it makes me feel that Mom is with me, again. I wasn’t expecting that. He reminds me more of Mom than Dad, which is weird.
With tears in his eyes he says that he’s looking forward to catching up. ‘A lifetime. God, there’s a load to talk about. Lots of questions, still.’
Then there’s a scuffle in the basket. Prince is waking up and he’ll start barking soon. He’s a powerhouse once he gets going. It’s hard to hold the thing still. I should let him out. Pete spots Prince’s nose peeking through the gap in the lid.
‘Is that a dog? What the hell? You’ve brought a goddamn dog?’ He looks alarmed. ‘Are you crazy?’
I anticipated this and I know how it might seem, but it is minor. ‘Don’t sweat it. He grows on a person. You’ll see and it’ll be fine. I promise,’ I say. I take a big breath of the clean air. I’m excited. Anything can happen and it might be good. It will be good. ‘It’s fine,’ I repeat. ‘We’re glad to be here.’
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank Candida Lacey and the team at Myriad who have made this book possible, and I am particularly grateful to my very talented editor, Linda McQueen, who asked the right questions and helped enormously to get this story into shape.
A book takes a long time to write. I am fortunate to enjoy the regular company of other writers who read drafts and provided helpful criticism; I am indebted to them. These friends include Claudia Gould, Umi Sinha, Harry Barnett, Karen Bateman, Annie Callaghan, Rebecca Duffy, Judy Edwards, Michael Gould, Mary Green, Ruby Grimshaw, Peter Flaxman, Louise Flind, Sophie Kay, Chandra Masoliver, Clive Newnham, Duncan Richards, Sue Sharp, Paul Sharpless, Martin Spinelli, Stewart Ullyott, Russ Watling, Bob Whiting, Liz Wright and Helen Yau. I would also like to say thank you to Adrian Colwell, who provided a great venue for the creation of Magnetism.
My parents have always encouraged my writing. My mother, Margaret, has been extremely supportive, as has my brother David, and my sons Stephen and David. I have some wonderful friends and come from a large extended family – cousins, nieces, nephews, aunts and uncles, and sisters- and brothers-in-law. This love and support has been invaluable.
Finally, the biggest thank you is to my husband Robert. I’d like to acknowledge his sacrifice, wisdom and faithful encouragement, which has given me the confidence to write this book and to trust that one day it would be read.
Sign up to our mailing list at
www.myriadeditions.com
Follow us on Facebook and Twitter
About the author
Ruth Figgest was born in Oxford and grew up in the USA. She has an MA in Creative Writing from the University of Sussex. Her stories have been shortlisted and commended for the Bridport Prize several times, and ‘The Coffin Gate’ was commissioned for broadcast on BBC Radio 4. Magnetism is her first novel.
Copyright
First published in 2018 by
Myriad Editions
www.myriadeditions.com
Myriad Editions
An imprint of New Internationalist Publications
The Old Music Hall, 106–108 Cowley Rd, Oxford OX4 1JE
Copyright © Ruth Figgest 2018
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Every attempt has been made to obtain the necessary permissions for use of copyright material. If there have been any omissions, we apologise and will be pleased to make appropriate acknowledgement in any future edition
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library
ISBN (pbk): 978–0–9955900–6–9
ISBN (ebk): 978–0–9955900–7–6
Designed and typeset in Palatino
by WatchWord Editorial Services, London