His American Classic (Part 1)

by G J Morgan

  Three years I’d been away, didn’t know why I should have expected change, might have made my time away seem more significant, but apart from the disappearance of a post office and a renovated church, it remained as I had left it.

  It was the last time I’d seen Dad, too, three years ago, the morning he drove me to the airport. He never even got to be a grandfather. That was the one good thing to come out of all this. At least Mum could finally get the chance to be a grandmother, rather than a picture in a frame or a voice down the phone. I’d never seen Mum so happy, she hadn’t let go of Molly since we landed. I’d never realized it back in LA, but they had the same eyes, strangely even similar mannerisms, their bond was instant too. I watched them together, the two had become inseparable, and every task had become one done as a pair. Molly’s hands in flour on the kitchen floor, digging Mum’s vegetable patch, having her hair brushed in the bath. I hoped that soon, it would be me with batter, mud or hair in my hands, sat cross-legged with Molly, laughing, but for now I wasn’t taking part.

  Mum has been amazing in all this, took Molly everywhere she went, involved her in everything she did, baking, cleaning, washing. Me, she left me to it, gave me a hug, gave her condolences briefly. Typical of Mum, by the next morning she was ordering me about, giving me lists and chores, similar to when Dad died. I think she felt it better to be sad but busy, than to be wallowing in pity – not that I disagreed. But strangely it did help, a big ironing pile, a big bag of potatoes to peel, it took my mind off things, took me away into rooms on my own, which was all I wanted, not to have to face people, even my own mother and daughter. Mum would try, of course, make a joke, sing an old song, but they were never tasks done with a smile. I was far away from smiling or joining in, in fact I’d barely said a word since I’d come home.

  I heard the door open and close, heard them pulling off boots and unwrapping scarves, I pretended to be asleep. Mum whacked me round the head with an apron, ordered me to the chopping board, said to get all my tears out with the onions.

  * * *

  At the table later that night, we ate dinner, sipped red wine that would have been better in the stew.

  “Molly is ready to start potty training.”

  I nodded.

  “After Christmas. Next time we drive into town, we will pick one up.”

  I nodded again.

  “It’ll need both of us to help and encourage her. Two-man job, that one. And it’s just a matter of time till she figures she can get out of her cot. She will be in a bed soon. That’s when the fun begins.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Who was the letter from you got today? Cassie’s folks?”

  I nodded.

  “What’s it say, then?”

  “Read it yourself. I know you’ve read all the others,” pointing to the side table, as she stood up to grab it.

  “What a nice letter, Tom. She seems a nice lady. Oh, how lovely,” showing it to Molly. “Here’s a picture of your mummy when she was a little girl like you. Shall we hang that up in your room tomorrow?”

  Molly agreed.

  “They keep asking when I’m coming back.”

  “They must miss you.”

  “You mean Molly.”

  “No. Both of you. You still haven’t replied?”

  “I will.”

  “They are hurting as much as we are, Tom. Little advice, grandparent to a grandparent. Don’t leave them out of the loop and don’t make them wait.”

  “Wish they would stop sending me cheques. Makes me feel like we are a charity.”

  “It’s their way of showing support. Their way of coping. I’d do the same.”

  “Here, Mum, you have it.” I passed her the cheque.

  “No, keep it for Molly.”

  “Mum. I know food and nappies aren’t cheap. You take it.”

  “Put it away.”

  “When are we going to talk about money? You keep putting it off.”

  She deliberately took a mouthful of food.

  “Mum. I’m not contributing.”

  “You don’t need to. This is your home.”

  “How tight is money? Be honest, please.”

  “Don’t worry about things like that. I’ve survived worse times than this. We’ll manage.”

  “I’ll look for work.”

  “We both know how hard it is to find work round here. Besides, you’re not in the right state of mind to be working.”

  “I can’t expect your pension to look after the three of us.”

  “What would you do? Not much need for a tour guide round here, is there?”

  “Anything is better than nothing.”

  “I could sell some more of your father’s pieces.”

  “Sell? You said he gave them away.”

  Mum went quiet.

  “Since when?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Tom.”

  “Since when?”

  “Last month.”

  “Promise me, no more.”

  “I promise. Right little miss. Time for bath and bed.” Molly looked up from her picture book like she’d only just realised we were there.

  “I’ll do the dishes,” I said, already stacking plates.

  “No, you’re not. You go up.”

  “I’d rather do the dishes.”

  “I know what you’d rather. I’ll do them. You’re on night duty.”

  “She prefers you to me.”

  “And I wonder why that is.”

  I looked down at Molly, she looked excited at the prospect of bubbles with Dad.

  “Not tonight, another time I will, promise. Just not tonight, Molly. I’m tired.”

  Mum took Molly’s hand and led her upstairs. I didn’t have to see either of their expressions to know I’d let down both.

  * * *

  It was getting late, Molly had been asleep a few hours, together me and Mum watched TV till we heard the baby monitor crackle, a scream from upstairs. I went to get up, but Mum was already halfway across the room.

  “Did she need her inhaler?” I asked as Mum came back down.

  “Nightmare, that’s all. Do you want a brandy? I’m having one.”

  I pulled a face.

  “No one likes it, Tom, but it feels like a night for brandy.”

  She poured a little into a glass and put it my hand.

  “I’m not doing well, am I?” I said. “How am I going to do this?”

  “It won’t last forever, it will fade.”

  “I’m not going to forget her, Mum. You don’t need to put her photos everywhere.”

  “They’re not for you, they are for Molly. When it’s your house you can bury your photos in drawers and boxes if you wish. But in my house, she will always be on my walls.”

  “It’ll make her ask questions.”

  “And we will answer them. And we’ll answer them honestly. Children are clever. They can deal with a hell of a lot more than we give them credit for.”

  “And what is the honest answer? Your daddy couldn’t control his vehicle and killed your mummy.”

  “We both know that isn’t true. The police said you weren’t to blame, you told me that. Issuing blame doesn’t solve anything, or change anything. Tom, do you realise how affected Molly is right now? No, because you are still too caught up in your own grief to realise that your daughter isn’t coping either. Do you know how often she has nightmares? How often she screams in the night? She is grieving harder than you. She has lost more than you, though still she smiles more.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “More than you are doing now,” sitting herself down, turning the TV off with the remote.

  “I’m trying.”

  “Not enough, you’re not. Just take each day as it comes. Get through it the best way yo
u can.”

  “I’m doing that. Tomorrow feels no different. She keeps asking for Cassie. What do I say?”

  “Tell her the truth.”

  “The truth will scare her.”

  “Not if you say it in the right way. Anyway, she knows, she may not understand it, but she knows. I’ve told her, you’ve told her.”

  “Then why does she keep asking for her?”

  “Because she is two years old, Tom. She may know a little about death, and heaven and angels, but it doesn’t mean she grasps the fact that her mother has gone.”

  “Where are you taking her tomorrow?” I asked. “The weather is a little warmer, looking at the forecast. Maybe you could take her swimming, something active, get rid of all of that energy? Get her out of the house.”

  “What, so you can wallow alone? Besides, you don’t have a choice. I’m out tomorrow.”

  “What?”

  “I’m out. I’ve got plans,” taking her nail clippers out of a drawer.

  “What do you mean ‘out’? Where?”

  “A woman doesn’t have to disclose where she chooses to go off to,” inspecting her toenails.

  “So, I’m left with Molly all day so you can have a blowdry.”

  “Not all day. A few hours. Take her swimming, like you just said.”

  “You are joking?”

  “I’m not joking.”

  “What am I supposed to do with her?”

  “Take her swimming, you said it yourself that you’d like her to go. Play with her. Take her out. You know those village fields better than I do, there’ll be plenty of tractors and fields to keep her occupied. There’s some Shetland ponies too, she always enjoys seeing them.”

  “Mum, this seems a bit soon. I’m not in a condition to look after her.”

  “Tom, you’re fit and able. You can muster a smile, pretend to be happy, just sit with her, watch a film. Oh, the fish man is coming tomorrow too, around midday normally. I’ve ordered a bag of haddock, there’s some money in the fruit bowl in an envelope. We’ll have it for dinner when I get home.”

  “Molly won’t eat fish.”

  “Well it’s going to be a day of big changes for both of you by the sound of it. I’m not having you sat around in this constant malaise.”

  “Malaise? My wife died, Mum. I’m not under the weather. If you think this whole ‘throw me in the deep end’ is going to work then you’re wrong. You said take each day as it comes.”

  “Yes, and this is how tomorrow is coming. So, you better get to bed, as Molly will probably be up at seven and she’ll want her porridge.”

  “She doesn’t like porridge.”

  “She likes lots of things now. Off you go then. I’ve got some soaps to watch.”

  She turned away, aimed the remote control back at the TV.

  “What if tomorrow doesn’t work?”

  “Then we try the next day.”

  “I can’t rush this, Mum. Rushing could do more damage than good.”

  “Time is a luxury you don’t have. You have a confused and scared little daughter upstairs. You need to mourn, but you need to mourn on your time, not hers. She needs a father right now, not a ghost.”

  * * *

  Getting into bed, I wasn’t even tired. Felt like all I’d done was lie down and it wasn’t because of my body – my injuries hadn’t taken long to heal, even by the funeral I was back walking without the need for crutches, just bruises and aches. The only pain still left was my back – sometimes it still hurt when I sat for too long, so the flight home wasn’t the greatest. I was told I should see a specialist, lie down with an osteopath and let them rub and bend me. I was in no hurry, my back could wait, there were other things that needed healing first.

  I’d seen a Doctor a few times actually, he didn’t do much, asked lots of questions, some I answered, some I didn’t, gave me drugs and leaflets, medication and information. I didn’t swallow either, put the pills in the cupboard and the pamphlets in the bin. What was wrong with me wouldn’t be solved by talking feelings or by pumping my bloodstream full of chemicals – what I needed was time, to feel sorry for myself, to be angry. I wished Dad was still around, he was always a calming influence on me, we were very alike, he knew how to deal with me, what to say and when to say it. I had Mum, but her idea of mourning wasn’t the same as mine. She thought that it should be done loud and fast, painful but over quickly. I was the reverse of that opinion, not that I hadn’t tried her method. I’d attempted normality, tagged along with Mum and Molly, supermarkets, the park, pretended I was cured. But I might as well have not been there, I was a passenger. Despite my best intentions I couldn’t get out of the hole I was in, regardless of how much I tried to climb out of it. I knew I wasn’t being strong enough and I knew I wasn’t being the parent I needed to be. I was losing Molly and in all honesty I couldn’t understand why she hadn’t given up on me already. I’d done nothing to win her back, still she gave me nothing but love and affection, even when I fought it off. I had to be angry at something or someone, Mum and Molly were the only thing I could aim it at. I found looking at my daughter difficult – she was the mirror of her mother, in every which way, which meant Cassie was always in my head, always in view. I didn’t know what to say to her, how much to tell, what to keep back. A relationship between a father and his child shouldn’t be awkward and it was pathetic that I felt the need to take myself away from whatever room she was in. Though things had always been awkward for me and Molly – well, on my part anyway.

  Fatherhood must come naturally to a lot of men, men that flourish in the role, work alongside the mother, the dream tag team, the guy with his child in a sling, the one who never gave them sugar, one boob away from breastfeeding himself. Mine had been a harder transition, and no matter what I tried, I always felt like a third wheel, like Cassie was in charge and I was there just to back her up. Maybe it was my own fault – I let Cassie do everything, when I should have taken on more responsibility. Embarrassing really, but I’d only had Molly on my own a handful of times and even then, I spent most of it running down the clock, just making sure she avoided injury or worse till Cassie came home. I was still a good dad, did the little things, cuddled her, watched cartoons with her on my lap, let her play with my phone, just not the things that win Father of the Year. I mean, Cassie didn’t help, always looked disappointed. If I attempted discipline I was being too mean, if I gave in then I was too soft – which kind of meant I was damned either way, forced to apologize, regardless of my methods. And now I had no one to answer for. Without Cassie, I could parent Molly however I wished and that was absolutely petrifying, knowing I was in sole charge of fucking up without anyone to tell me otherwise.

  I hated being weak and defeated, but that was who I was. I just hoped I wouldn’t be for too long. I needed something to happen, and quickly. I hoped tomorrow would be it.

  3

  October became November. Seasons didn’t change like in the movies, leaves didn’t fall from trees, green didn’t turn to white. Days and weeks were identical. Ups didn’t feel high enough, my downs far too low. I thought a lot, about the future, how unclear it looked. I thought about the past more, how I had left America so abruptly, deserted the house in the same mess me and Cassie had left it in. I took only the essentials, anything sentimental I left behind, stuffed everything of Molly’s in a suitcase. Anything of Cassie’s, her clothes, her books, I sent to her parents. The rest – the furniture, paperwork, fridge full of food, my cell phone – I left for the landlord to sort out.

  I regretted that now. I wished I’d taken my time, sorted out the finances, the legalities, packed away everything neatly labelled, made sure all necessary boxes were ticked. But I didn’t, I just grabbed things and ran, shut the door on the place and the people inside it. Said some unkind things to Cassie’s parents, things I didn’t mean, told them they were never there for us, that they c
hose sunshine and Disney castles over her. That was a mean thing to do to someone and I wasn’t a mean person.

  I smacked Molly too, only once, not that it made it right. I smacked her hard across her leg, for nothing more than trying to get my attention. I regretted it instantly and I could see the disappointment in my mum’s face as she took Molly off to another room. I didn’t even know why I did it. That was the turning point. I realised my way wasn’t working and it was time to let someone else have a go. So, I went back to the doctor; he recommended medication again so I took what he prescribed; he recommended counselling, so I sat in front of strangers and poured my heart out. Still, nothing worked.

  The only thing that helped was running. Every morning, and sometimes again later, I would run for hours across ploughed fields and pathless roads for miles, in rain, wind and sun. It was a physical therapy, simple and cheap, the only thing it cost was my own blood and sweat.

  Another thing: I got a job, too. Mum thought it was too soon, the doctor agreed. But what could I do? I hadn’t a choice, I literally had no money and I couldn’t keep taking it from Mum, she didn’t have it to give. I asked my bank for a loan to tide me over till I could get back on my feet, but I didn’t even make it to the credit check. Jobless and out of the country for three years, I could hardly blame them. I wouldn’t have lent me money either.

  I searched for jobs but there weren’t many, not ones I was qualified for. Ended up as a machinist, working in a dirty grey factory, pressing buttons and pulling levers. Long shifts, four on, four off, it was tough. When people say they would do any job to support their family, this was the job they were talking about. Windowless buildings, womanless, air thick with dust, angry men and thick boys, pissed off about everything they had or didn’t have. My hands hurt, my back hurt those first few weeks, but what hurt the most wasn’t my muscles and bones. They may have paid me six pounds an hour but they took away a lot more.