I took the jar, put it on the table and held her bony hand. ‘I know.’
She gripped my hand and gave a watery smile. Then Katie came running back in and began setting up the Moana memory cards on the coffee table, her breath heavy and raspy. She signed to me to play and I signed ‘yes’ back and gave her a kiss. I shuffled closer to Mum, pulled Katie onto my knee and the three of us took turns flipping over cards.
‘When are you going back to work?’ Mum said after a short while when we’d played in harmonious peace.
‘When my wrath has cleared up,’ I said with a smile.
Mum smiled back.
I found a matching pair and received a congratulatory kiss and hug from Katie.
I was lying on my bed later that evening, surrounded by my old tween diaries and feeling microscopically happier now that I was talking to my mother again, when Jimmy rang through on Skype.
‘Hey,’ I said after his face appeared, tanned and grinning.
‘Hello! What’re you up to?’
‘Going through my old diaries to see if any of my behaviour was more Sagittarian than Scorpion,’ I replied.
I’d told Jimmy about the incorrect birthdate and consequent star sign identity crisis. Jimmy had sympathised. He heavily identified with being an off-the-wall Aquarian.
‘Right. What will that achieve?’
‘Nothing!’ I tossed my diaries to the side and pulled the laptop closer. ‘But if I don’t keep my mind busy I’ll spiral into self-pity and self-pity is ugly. I refuse it.’
‘OK,’ Jimmy said, nodding. ‘I get that.’ He smiled. ‘Do you want some external pity?’
I grinned. ‘Yes please.’
‘Oh there, there,’ Jimmy soothed. ‘You’ll be a fabulous Sagittarian.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
On the Wednesday of my second forced week off work I got a knock at the door at 10 a.m. I opened it up to a crisp late-February morning to find my father holding two takeaway coffee cups, his breath a white fog against the blue sky behind him. I hadn’t spoken to him in nearly two weeks. He looked older.
‘Your mother says it’s easier to have difficult conversations when you’re side by side, something about the no eye contact making it easier to open up, so I thought we should go for a walk.’ He held out a coffee with my name written on the side in black Sharpie. ‘Shall we, Plum?’ His words were firm but his eyes pleaded.
I stood in the doorway in my running gear contemplating the coffee steaming between us.
Dad’s idea of a walk was to drive up to Battersea Park and sit on a bench next to the boating lake surrounded by inch-thick duck poo.
‘Why aren’t we having this conversation with Annabelle?’ I asked, after a period of silent duck contemplation.
‘You seem to have taken this the hardest,’ Dad replied.
‘That’s because I’m the lucid one. Annabelle seems like everything’s all fine and dandy,’ I said, a tad more bitter than I’d intended. ‘What does dandy mean, anyway . . .?’
Dad ignored my question. ‘Annabelle and I have had a few chats. She’s hurting too, Jess. She just shows it differently. Annabelle understands . . .’ He searched for a word. ‘She understands making mistakes and living with them. But look at Hunter and Katie. Would you have it any other way?’
Why did everyone keep bringing up the children? They were hitting me where it hurt and it worked. I would have to concede that I would change nothing about my existence (except I’d probably ask for less anxiety, more height and for less of a lady moustache. Correction: NO lady moustache) and I couldn’t even allow the thought to settle in my head about Hunter and Katie not— No! I wouldn’t even finish the sentence.
Dad looked at me. ‘You’ve never done anything really wrong, Plum, so this is hitting you harder.’
‘I have too done things wrong,’ I said, indignant but not really sure why.
Dad gave me a ‘let’s hear it then’ look.
‘I’ve . . . I . . .’ Again I found myself searching my unchequered past for something, anything that proved I was an uncontrollable badass. ‘Sometimes in supermarkets I change the herbs around so they read Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme,’ I said in tune (but dramatically out of tune) to the song. I admit it wasn’t all that rebellious, and in some lesser-stocked supermarkets, ones that hadn’t branched out to exotics such as Saffron, Sumac and Tarragon, it meant I only swapped around the Sage and the Rosemary.
Dad nodded, looking flummoxed, then angled himself towards me. ‘Your mother thought you might have a lot of questions and that I should find a neutral place in which you could ask them.’ He said this with a glance around at the mothers and babies, joggers, dog walkers and people talking loudly on their phones, wondering if this counted as neutral. He turned back to me. ‘So, Plum, I know you’ve been struggling with this . . . situation we find ourselves in. And I want to do anything I can to help you come to terms with our unique . . . ah . . . position.’
I sat at the far end of the bench with one leg bent, the foot resting on the knee of my other leg, and picked at a thread escaping from my sock.
‘Ask me anything,’ Dad said, his voice hopeful. ‘No subject is off limits.’
I hated my brain right then for wanting an explanation of the expression ‘the world is your oyster’.
‘Plum?’ Dad said after a few minutes in which I neither said nor did anything more than sip my coffee and play with my sock. ‘Maybe I should start.’ Dad fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a piece of notepad with Mum’s handwriting on it.
‘You mother thinks you probably want to know if I ever felt guilty and if my wife—’
I shook my head. No, no, no, no! I wasn’t ready to hear this! ‘Stop,’ I said.
Dad stopped and waited, his expression nervous.
I looked up. ‘I only want to know one thing.’
Dad took a deep breath then nodded.
‘Who is your real family?’ I said. ‘Who do you want to live with?’
I waited while a host of painful thoughts traversed my father’s tanned face.
Then his face fell and he looked at his hands. ‘I don’t know,’ he said quietly. ‘I can’t make that decision. It’s too hard.’
I picked at my sock. I knew how he felt. Everything was too hard. But this was a situation created by him. My father. The man who’d wiped away my tears and put plasters on my knee. The man who’d taught me to ride a bike, who’d built Annabelle and me a tree house where I’d played Barbies with the girl next door and where Annabelle had smoked joints and drunk Carling. He was the man who’d helped me win the Year 3 geography project prize by bringing back stamps and maps from his exotic travels, and clapped the loudest when I got my certificate. He was the man who made me feel loved, and safe, and important. He was the man who’d shattered my world. Who had broken my heart.
‘I look at you and . . .’ I swallowed. ‘I don’t see the dad I used to know. I see a stranger.’
Dad’s face crumpled. The agony at seeing him so distressed was overshadowed by my need to self-preserve. I was about to majorly fall apart and I wanted to do that alone.
‘I want to go home now,’ I said quietly.
As soon as Dad pulled up at my flat I flew out of the car, through the front door, fell on the sofa and my body convulsed and shuddered with huge, breath-stealing sobs. I stayed there crying until my body had completely run out of liquid then dragged myself into the kitchen and gulped down glass after glass of cold water. After checking my blotchy skin in the mirror I took off to Tooting Bec Common and ran round and round the fields, pushing myself harder and harder, but still I couldn’t escape the image of Dad’s face, desperate, terrified and crestfallen. I hated hurting him. But I was hurting too. I ran as fast as I could, thumping my feet on the pavement all the way home, but when I got there, breathless and exhausted, the thoughts and emotions had come with me.
I jumped in the shower and was in there so long I had no idea how much time had passed. Once dresse
d I stood in my room, my father’s anguished expression came into my mind again and I had to use all my emotional might to fight back another round of sobbing. I needed a bigger distraction. I called Lana.
‘How do I get Jimmy to come to London?’
‘Tell him how you feel.’
‘I don’t think it’s enough. I know that sounds romantic and all that but in reality, once you’ve said all the lovey-dovey stuff, you’ve still got to pay your bills, right?’
‘OK, give me more background info.’
I told her about Jimmy being brought up by his Classics professor father, about Ian coming out, his father’s reaction and the ten years Jimmy hadn’t communicated with him, bar the odd unemotional Christmas card, because of it. I told her about the course that he couldn’t afford, the potential of a job offer afterwards and the most important part.
‘I want him here.’
‘OK, here’s what you do.’
A mere two hours later I called Jimmy.
‘Your dad is awesome.’
‘What?’ Jimmy said.
‘He joined a group for fathers who have gay sons. He joined it, like, eight years ago, going by the date of his posts.’
‘Dad posts on a gay website?’
‘Gay children support website.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I googled him.’
That had been Lana’s advice. Google the dad and see what I could come up with.
Jimmy was quiet for a moment. ‘So,’ he cleared his throat. ‘What does he say?’
I smiled. ‘He says amazing stuff. He gives advice to other fathers now. He says he hopes by sharing his mistakes that other fathers won’t lose the years he’s lost with his sons.’
‘He says that?’ Jimmy’s voice broke.
‘Yup,’ I said, gently. ‘And he mentions you a lot.’
I listed some of the posts I’d read, then the phone line was silent for a while. I was just about to ask if he was still there when I heard quiet weeping. It broke my heart. I wanted to jump through the phone and hold him in my arms and kiss away his tears. And once that was sorted, jump on him and shag him stupid.
‘One of his posts was to a father who had said horrible things to his son and hadn’t seen him for years,’ I said, wanting to tell Jimmy all about the great things his father had posted. ‘The son had gotten married and adopted a baby. The dad wanted to take it all back and get to know his new son-in-law and grandchild. Your dad wrote that when a relationship has broken down, and horrible things have been said and done, the best thing to do is apologise and ask if they’d like to try and start again; to build an entirely new relationship from the ground up.’
Jimmy sniffed.
‘I reckon that’s pretty good advice . . .’ I waited and allowed Jimmy the time to process. I heard nothing but his irregular breathing and the odd sniff. ‘Maybe you could do that with him?’ I said after a while. ‘I can help you, if you like.’
Jimmy sniffed again. ‘Maybe you could do that with your dad too?’
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
After speaking with Jimmy I’d sat on the sofa at home and thought about my father. Really thought about him, as a person. I tried to imagine a life that he wasn’t part of and if that was what I wanted. I put myself into future situations, like having a baby. I forced myself to imagine that future day; me sitting in bed holding my new-born, looking around the room at my husband (he was totally hot), at Annabelle, Hunter and Katie, and perhaps Marcus (in my mind I’d re-dressed him), at Mum and then at the gap next to her where Dad should have been. And I realised, although I was still very angry, and I didn’t know how it would all work out, that I didn’t want that gap beside Mum. I didn’t want that future . . . But I also didn’t want that gap filled by a lie. Dad needed to tell the truth. Then we could all learn to live with whatever our new reality was. It took me another two days to pick up the phone and arrange to meet my father.
‘You have to make a decision,’ I said. ‘It’s not fair to any of us. To Mum, to me, to Annabelle, or to Hunter and Katie.’
Dad’s face softened at the mention of the kids.
I swallowed. ‘And it isn’t fair to your other family either.’
My exhale was wobbly but I held it together. That sentence had been hard to say. I didn’t know if I’d actually be able to form the words ‘your other family’ without crying or fainting or vomiting.
Dad looked at me across the old wooden table, then his anguished gaze fell to the hot chocolate sitting untouched in front of him. I’d chosen a quiet spot at the very back of a local café. A shaft of afternoon sun fell across Dad’s right shoulder, highlighting the silver hair at his temple.
‘You married Annika,’ I said, making Dad look up, surprised, I presumed, that I knew her name. Or surprised that I’d used it. ‘In good faith you promised to love her forever and never cheat, and obey her rules about where the kitchen utensils go and which towels are for guests only, or whatever you say in wedding vows.’
I’m always completely bored by that part of a wedding and will usually be glazed over, running The Rocky Horror Picture Show through my head to keep from napping.
‘The point is, you have to make a decision because . . . because you just have to. You can’t avoid it because it’s difficult. And also . . .’ I paused, looking at my father, hanging on my every word. ‘You may have told us the truth but you’re still lying to your wife and daughter.’
Dad winced, like it caused him physical pain to think of his wife and daughter hurting. His face was a terrain of suffering.
‘I think it’s time for a new start. A truthful start.’ I bit down on my lip, pressing hard with my teeth to stop it from trembling.
‘I’m—’ Dad began, but the words got stuck in his throat. ‘I’m afraid if I tell the truth I’ll . . .’ He studied his hands for a while, then raised his gaze and looked directly at me. ‘I’m frightened I’ll lose everyone.’
‘Well,’ I drew the courage in as I took a deep breath, ‘I’m still really, really angry but . . . I’m here, aren’t I?’
Dad blinked for a few seconds then he grasped my hands across the table and nodded.
‘What’s your . . . other family like?’ I asked, as we walked across Streatham Common towards the car on the other side of the park, Dad slow and considered and me fidgeting and double-stepping beside him. ‘No, don’t tell me! I’m not ready.’
Dad nodded.
‘How . . . how did you meet your wife?’ I asked. ‘Don’t tell me!’
Dad frowned, nodded and continued putting one deliberate foot in front of the other. He had an unhurried way of walking, an unhurried way of talking. Next to him I was a flibbertigibbet.
‘Is your daughter . . . is she anything like me? Don’t answer that!’
‘OK,’ Dad said, looking distressed.
‘Do I look like her? Don’t tell me,’ I said, my head swimming.
Dad stopped and held me by the shoulders, a look of torment on his well-weathered face. ‘It hurts me that I’ve done this to you. Sometimes . . .’ He shook his head, more to himself than to me. ‘Sometimes I can’t believe what I’ve done. How I let it all happen. How did I let it all happen? I’ve never considered myself a dishonest person,’ he paused. His gaze drifted over my shoulder and he seemed to go within himself. ‘But . . . I guess I am . . .’ His attention was caught by a group of primary school kids running past us, swinging each other round by their backpacks and using language I hadn’t even heard of till I was in my teens, then he blinked and brought his eyeline back to me. ‘Lying to people I love . . . And walking away . . .’ His eyes watered. ‘Walking away each time and saying goodbye, I knew it meant I was going to see my other family but the disgust I felt for myself, that I was happy . . . happy and at the same time so very sad . . . it tore pieces off my heart every time.’ He swallowed. ‘But I promise you, it will be OK one day. We just have to get through this tough part. As a family.’
I wiped away a tear
. ‘A family. Yeah, right.’
‘We are a family, Jess,’ he said, looking into my eyes with his brown dependable ones. ‘An unusual one, which is going through something that I . . .’ he faltered. ‘Something that I’ve done to you all and I can’t ever take it back.’ A tear ran down his cheek, following the groove of a well-used smile line. ‘But we’re a family nevertheless and I love you with all, ALL of my heart, Plum.’
He looked so very tired as he eased himself down on an ornamental rock.
I stood watching him for a moment then sat down next to him and contemplated my shoelaces.
‘Your mother was fine,’ he continued. ‘She was always off doing things, seeing people, doing courses. Busy, busy, busy, your mother.’ He looked up at me with a fond sparkle in his watering eyes. ‘She’s always had so many interests. She’s been fine. She’s always been fine.’
‘But she isn’t fine, Dad. She’s signing herself up for weird mind-altering retreats, she’s mono-mealing, and now she’s talking about going on a road trip to Vegas. She’s never even been to Brighton and she wants to go to Vegas!’
Dad looked shocked at this information.
‘She knows she’s losing you,’ I continued. ‘And I don’t know what this is going to do to her. I just can’t see how either of you thought this was ever going to be an acceptable situation for anyone.’
Dad studied me for a moment, then rubbed his chin and looked at a mother chasing a runaway toddler. ‘And I regret that. I do.’
‘It doesn’t help, though, does it?’ I said.
‘No, Plum. It doesn’t.’
‘I feel like an accomplice to your big lie and it makes me feel terrible about myself. And so, so angry.’
Dad looked at his hands.
I sighed. Regrets wouldn’t help but I realised, with a maturity I was really quite chuffed with, neither would my anger. We needed to find a way through this or the resentment would destroy what had been, up until now, a loving family unit. Family . . .
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