‘He said maybe it’s better if you never remember.’
As soon as the words are out Sash is justifying them, telling me again she’s sure her father means well; he’s just being over-protective; she shouldn’t have said anything. Please don’t tell him. Then she backtracks further, says she’s probably got the wrong idea, she’s sure she has in fact, she’s sorry; she didn’t mean to upset me. Just forget what she’s told me. She should go, her boss is coming. I plead with her to explain, but then she hangs up.
I stare at the phone, contemplating calling her back, but it’s not fair to pressurise her in that way. Besides, it’s Rob I’m angry with, not her, the confirmation that he’s deliberately withholding information from me galvanising my thoughts. I make my way down the stairs as quickly as I am able, fearful Rob will arrive home from work before I have time to do what I now feel I must.
In the den I open up my laptop and search the myriad websites brought up by my search. I only want a cheap handset, something simple, untraceable, but in the end I choose the same phone I already have, only selecting a different colour – metallic pink, not the muted silver Rob chose – so I won’t mix them up. I tap in my order, choosing next-day delivery and taking a chance on it arriving after Rob has left for work. I can always act confused if not, hardly a stretch at the moment. It’s only when I reach the check-out that it occurs to me I have no independent means of payment. Everything is in joint names: bank account, credit cards; I’ve always been the additional card holder, and Rob vigilantly checks our statements. But even as this thought forms another supersedes it: I took out a new card, just in my name, quite recently. I grab my purse and search through, immediately doubting my recollection: the cards are all well worn, slid neatly into the slits in the expensive leather. But then, in a zippered section at the back, I find the new card, not even signed; shiny red and black. I can’t recall how or why I acquired this new card, but I’m certain it’s just mine. I use it to make my purchase, setting up the verification process for the first time and signing the back before I slide it into my purse, checking the phone Rob provided me with for new messages. I even look over my shoulder, half expecting him to be standing there, silently observing me.
Afterwards, the adrenaline still coursing through me, I glance towards the stairs, imagining this time that I was pushed, Rob’s hand at my back. He was angry, and he’d wanted me to forget something, something he’s still hiding from me now. It no longer feels as impossible as it once did to imagine his anger tipping him over the edge. I shudder, turning back to my laptop to delete my browser history. I lower the lid, the harsh sound of metal on metal causing me to jump as it snaps shut.
Rob and I were fine when we dropped Fin at university, and Rob said we were happy on holiday, so what happened after that to start the domino fall? I close my eyes and try to imagine what could have precipitated so much change in just a year, maybe less. But like everything since my fall, I find no answers, only more confusion.
January – This Year
Rob’s voice comes first, raised in frustration, the tone of it causing me to involuntarily shrink from the bottom of the stairs and move back towards the kitchen as Fin’s response, barely audible, follows. I look up at the kitchen ceiling; a towel in my hands, still warm from the dryer. I want to bury my face in it, pretend this isn’t happening. I want Rob to be kind to our son, to talk and to listen, but then I hear him shout again as his heavy footfall paces around Fin’s room once more.
I blame myself. I’d noticed how Fin was more withdrawn than usual, thinner, holding something back, but I was trying to make the best of it, to enjoy the festive season in any case. I ignored what I knew in my heart, and it was all pointless anyway. It’s been, without exception, the worst Christmas I can remember, including the ones spent with ailing parents. I glance at the fading tree in the den, loose needles shimmering from the branches at the slightest touch. I wish we could go back to before Christmas, do it all differently, although what could we change? Fin had come home with this news; he just chose to keep it until today, the day he’s due to return to university.
The silence is unnerving now. I look up again, imagining the conversation between Fin and his father, their relationship now built on the kind of back-slapping male bonding that Fin finds difficult and Rob adopts as a defence mechanism. Rob’s never had any trouble declaring his love for me, or for Sash, for that matter, but with Fin it’s been left to assumptions: ‘Of course he knows how I feel.’ Not that Rob’s more obvious devotion to his daughter has made any difference; she still refuses to see her father. Fin and I met her at a restaurant of her choice the day before Christmas Eve, exchanging presents and cards over aubergine bake. It was a lame affair, perhaps worse than not seeing her at all. Although I’d had to, the dull ache inside me growing daily as she ignored most of my texts and spoke little during our calls. The only consolation of that compromise of a lunch was that for once my children enjoyed each other’s company, talking to one another as adults. I’d wished Rob could have seen them, appreciating each other, laughing and listening, genuinely interested, but part of me thought it was right he should miss out, the rift predominantly his fault.
I place the folded towel on top of the pile on the kitchen counter and walk into the hall, listening again for voices behind Fin’s closed door. Rob asked me to let him deal with it and I’d reluctantly agreed, but I warned him not to lose his temper, it wouldn’t help. Still silence. They should have left hours ago, it’s almost dark. I move away, walking into the sitting room to begin the task I’d scheduled for after their departure, switching on the light to look at the tree, this one still green and fragrant, as if, like me, it wishes Christmas were ahead of us; full of possibility and expectation.
Right up to the day itself I’d hoped Sash would relent and join us for Christmas lunch, but Rob hadn’t persuaded her home. Even his apology to Thomas was snubbed, and that had cost him dearly. I’d wanted to comfort Rob, tell him it wasn’t his fault, but the words never came. By then we’d learned Sash had moved in with Thomas, sharing the flat above the bar he manages. I’d stood opposite The Limes on Boxing Day, the rain pouring down, Christmas lights punctuating the gloom of the dark afternoon as I watched the drinkers come and go. Rob’s photo had appeared on my phone again and again as he tried to heal the row I’d stormed out of, but I wasn’t ready to forgive him and I hadn’t crossed the road to Thomas’s bar either. But I’d felt closer to Sash there, staring up at the tatty curtains until the thought of her with Thomas, the other man who’d taken her away from me, had soured any comfort I may have temporarily felt, drunks tipping out on to the pavement and calling across to me as I turned and walked slowly away. They couldn’t do anything to me; I was already broken.
I look down at the sofa, covered in the tangle of lights and decorations I’ve distractedly removed from the tree, several of them veterans of many Christmases past, and I mourn the loss of not just this Christmas, but all the ones to come. It’s all such a mess.
Just a few months ago I’d cried as we’d left Fin at university and now I’m desperate for him to change his mind and go back; to fulfil his potential, to have a purpose. That’s all we ever wanted for our kids. I wouldn’t care so much if I thought Fin could find happiness elsewhere, if there were some great plan he has for a better future, but there isn’t. I’d asked him as he’d stood before me and Rob in the kitchen, the news just delivered, and he’d simply shrugged his bony shoulders and turned away. I sit down next to the debris on the sofa, a coloured bauble rolling away to bounce on to the rug. I watch but without moving to retrieve it, an unpleasant thought now troubling me. Maybe I’ve been the one holding Fin back, the real reason he’s struggling to adjust? He’s always been my ally. Maybe he sensed my loneliness.
I abandon the tree and stand at the bottom of the stairs; listening for movement or voices again, but all is still quiet. Then, without warning, the door is flung open and Rob emerges.
‘Well?’ I say as
he comes down the stairs, his eyebrows raised in answer to my question.
‘I can’t get any sense out of him.’ He brushes past me on his way to the kitchen. ‘You try!’
Fin is seated on the edge of his bed, his hands in his lap, head down. He looks up and says, ‘Hi, Mum. You okay?’
‘I’m fine, love. Just worried about you.’
He slides along the bed to make room for me and we sit side by side, silent at first, until Fin asks me what his father has told me.
‘I’d like you to explain what’s going on,’ I tell him, resisting the urge to comfort him as I know he won’t want me to.
‘So you can try to change my mind?’ Fin replies, moving further away, his size-twelve trainers negotiating a half-packed suitcase open on the floor in front of him. ‘I’m not going back, Mum; you can’t make me.’
‘Of course I can’t make you. Neither of us can.’
‘Tell Dad that!’ he replies, his eyes filling with tears.
‘Fin, we both want to understand, to help.’
Fin fiddles with the wristbands circling his painfully narrow wrists. I’d admired the colourful bracelets when he’d first arrived home, asked what they all meant and he’d talked me through each one, explained the cause they support or the significance of the slogan. The thought of that time, before Christmas, when Fin’s future had felt secure and Sash’s estrangement temporary, now defeats me. I can’t help but cry, the act involuntary.
‘Don’t, Mum,’ Fin says, edging towards me, his arm awkwardly around my shoulders. ‘It’ll be okay.’
‘Will it?’ I ask, looking up at my shy diffident boy. ‘How?’
He shrugs, leans away from me then lies down. ‘I’m tired, Mum. Can you leave me alone now?’
I’m washing up the breakfast things, the dishwasher still full from last night, neither Rob or I having remembered to switch it on or communicate that or much else to one another, when I hear a car pull into the drive, the icy gravel sliding beneath the tyres. At first I think it might be Rob, back from work for some reason. I frown at the thought, still angry with him for his pronouncement last night to Fin that he’s taking him back to university tonight, like it or not. Rob’s edict had sent our son back to his room moments after having been coaxed out for dinner. But it isn’t Rob’s shiny black car that’s pulled into the drive, but an old rusty one; startling orange. The driver gets out and looks up at the barn, squinting into the bright light. I don’t recognise him, but I’m guessing he’s one of Fin’s friends judging by his collar-length hair and casual attire. I open the front door and call across, ‘Hi, can I help you?’
‘Nice place.’ He smiles and approaches me, his face breaking into a wide smile. He’s broader than Fin now he’s up close, and a little older too, maybe early twenties, his breaths visible in the cold air as he says: ‘You must be Fin’s mum. Hi, I’m Ryan.’
‘Fin’s still asleep. Sorry, I don’t . . . have we met before?’
But he doesn’t answer, looking past me to nod and say, ‘You all set?’
I turn around to see Fin standing in the hall, an enormous rucksack slung over his back. At that moment the wind takes the door in its grip and Ryan steps forward to stop it slamming. Fin is beside me now, turning sideways to squeeze past, his smile for Ryan not me, his eyes averted from mine.
‘Fin, what’s going on?’ I ask, taking the weight of the door. ‘Where are you going?’
Fin turns back. ‘Sorry, Mum.’
I follow him out, standing in the doorway to watch Ryan take the rucksack from Fin and place it in the boot of his rusting car. ‘We said we’d talk,’ I call across. ‘When your dad gets home from work. We all agreed.’
Fin walks over to kiss me on the cheek. ‘There’s no point, Mum. I’ll be in touch.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ I say, following him back to the car, the gravel painful under my bare feet, the cold wind knocking the breath from me. ‘We can sort this out, just come inside for a minute.’
Fin ignores me and climbs into the car anyway, opening the window to say, ‘I’ll call you, okay?’
‘Fin, don’t! I don’t even know where you’re going. Have you got your coat?’ Fin is ignoring me, but Ryan smiles then waves, clearly embarrassed as he slowly edges the car across the drive. ‘How long will you be gone?’ I call after them, but Fin is staring straight ahead of him as the rattling car turns out of the drive, exhaust fumes all that’s left behind.
‘Don’t go!’ I say, but no one hears.
I go back into the house, collecting my mobile phone from the hall table before I walk up the stairs and past the empty bedrooms until I reach ours, where I sit on the tiled floor of the ensuite, the furthest point in the house I can go. Only then do I release the sobs I knew were there all along.
I’m still sobbing as I type a message to Fin, asking him to please come back, or at least tell me where he’s going and how long he’ll be away. Then I look at the screen of my phone for a long time, willing him to reply. In a matter of weeks both our children have cut us out of their lives, and although I know Rob will be as devastated as I am by Fin’s departure, right now I’m so angry I can’t even bring myself to tell him what’s happened.
11
Eight Days After The Fall
Sash’s words have danced around my head continually since our phone call the other day: ‘He said maybe it’s better if you never remember.’ Their meaning has shifted and changed in my mind as I’ve applied them first to Rob, then me, wondering what he, or I, have done that is so terrible it needs to be concealed at all costs. Or worse, are there a myriad of landmines to negotiate in the missing year? In calmer moments I’ve tried to rationalise the comment, attributing it to my daughter’s propensity for the dramatic, but it didn’t feel like that. I had to prise the information out of her.
My metallic pink mobile phone was delivered yesterday, a day later than I expected, the van arriving only ten minutes after Rob had left for work. I held it in my palm and wondered why I’d wanted it in the first place, doubts and confusion clouding over whatever clarity of thought I’d had at the time of ordering. Then Rob’s early return from work in the afternoon brought further confusion as he announced something had come up; a conference. He knew it was terrible timing, but did I think I be okay if he went away for the weekend? It struck me as decidedly odd, on more than one count. Rob has always been a nine-to-five man, and although his hours are undoubtedly longer these days, a weekend away was unprecedented; wasn’t it? Plus, he’s held me in such a vice-like grip since my fall that two nights away feels like a massive about-turn. I voiced a version of these thoughts and he gave me one of those sideways glances he’s adopted, as though I’m the crazy one, and told me that networking had become part of his job, but he could say easily say no, although he’d already begun packing his overnight bag, promising he’d keep in touch. ‘Should I be worried?’ I joked and he laughed, said something about me acting strangely since I’d seen Sash and I let it go because whatever Rob and I may have done to one another over the last twelve months, I find it impossible to imagine him with someone else. His love for me is all-consuming, always has been. I closed the front door behind him and began my weekend alone, alternately relieved by the unexpected solitude and then wary of it. The barn has always felt alive with life: Rob and the kids, their big personalities filling the place, even Fin in his quiet way, strumming away at his guitar behind a closed bedroom door, the comfort of him being here now gone. It was this evening as I dozed on the sofa in the den, Saturday-night television for company on my second evening alone, that the images returned. His face is turned from me as I trace the curve of his naked back with my fingertips, my body filled with desire as I reach out to touch his skin. He turns over, his face still obscured in shadow, but then he smiles, a wide smile, not generous, but complicit, a secret behind those lips. And I knew what I must do.
The darkness makes the task I’ve set myself even more intimidating, the lateness of the hour filling the to
wn centre with a different crowd, not my kind of people. The phrase feels familiar, and there’s an accusation in there somewhere, I just can’t recall from whom. I turn my face from the passing strangers and attempt to avoid the worst of the weather; the wind and rain making it impossible to use my umbrella without it turning inside out. As I walk I search for my phone in my bag, hoping to find a text from Sash or Fin to fend off the loneliness and sense of disquiet. They’ve both kept in touch in their father’s absence, no doubt warned to do so, but when I look at the shiny pink handset it reminds me that no one knows this number. The phone situation is confusing, something else I have to juggle. Perhaps I should hide this one away until I need it. If I need it. I think of Rob, sharing a hotel meal with his colleagues, or maybe in his room, calling the home phone right now, wondering where I am. I sent him a text message just before I left telling him I was going to sleep, but I wasn’t surprised by the lack of response. He’d warned me he’d have to switch his phone off and check it between seminars. In fact, it’s suited me that his texts have been less frequent, a reassurance as I’d tucked the mobile phone he’d bought me into my bedside drawer and pocketed this one instead. I place it back in my bag and look across at the bar. The street lamps are reflecting off the damp pavements, illuminating the lettering picked out in green above the door: The Limes. I try to cross, but the car tyres are noisy on the slick tarmac between us, a constant stream of traffic. I watch the door instead, the heavy rain partially obscuring my view, my glasses wet. The wind tugs at my raincoat until I surrender to the elements, my hair damp and windswept as I see a space between the endless cars and run across the road.
‘You alright there, love?’
A boy, not much older than Fin, a cigarette in his hand, is sheltering under a flapping canopy as he smokes. His companion, also smoking, bare arms covered in tattoos, laughs loudly.
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