An Unremarkable Body

by Elisa Lodato

  ‘Do you want some?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know how to.’

  ‘Just suck and then pull it back, into your lungs.’

  Passing the joint with a subdued benevolence, he watched as my mother met his fingers with her own and put it to her lips. She did as my father instructed and felt her lungs roar in angry rebellion. And began coughing.

  ‘Don’t take so much in. Take a smaller puff next time.’

  My mother banged her sternum with an upturned fist. ‘Puff? As in blow?’

  ‘Sorry, no. It’s just a phrase. Do what you just did but, you know, less.’

  My mother pulled a small amount of the psychoactive stimulant into her lungs and this time they accepted it. With a few more inhalations her tired neurons began firing in unexpectedly euphoric rhythms. Her usually strained face relaxed into a smile as she lay back on her elbows and blew the smoke up to the ceiling. And laughed. The sound surprised my father – he’d never seen my mother look amused, let alone laugh – it had come out of nowhere, piercing the silence, and commanded his attention.

  He took the joint back and exhaled, sending the smoke over her breasts and pursed mouth – both pushed up in an attitude of complete surrender. She felt freed by the loosening in her face and throat and, without looking at him, held her fingers out for the joint.

  ‘Is this what you want?’

  She didn’t move but smiled in answer. And my father, mistaking her private joy for mutual arousal, put the joint into an ashtray on his bedside table and lifted the palm of her hand to his lips. The hand that had told him she wanted more. She pulled it back, surprised by the wetness he’d left there, but by then he had knelt down in front of her, his hands busy lifting her skirt and pulling at her knickers. She became inert. Unmoving, as he put his finger inside her in crude imitation of what she liked to do to herself. Alone. And as her brain replayed those moments – in the bath, in her bed at night – she felt her body relax. My father felt the tension leave her and, pulling her hips towards him, noticed how heavily her limbs had sunk into the bed. He stood up and began unzipping his jeans. My mother still stared up at the ceiling.

  ‘Is this OK?’ he whispered, pulling her into position. He took her silence for consent, her physical arousal for permission and, without waiting for an answer, entered her body for the first time. In doing so he sent forth sperm that surprised and ambushed her waiting egg, forcing it to divide until a life had been created.

  At the beginning of August, Tom went on holiday to Tenerife with three of his friends from university. It had been booked long before I was on the scene and, while I was perfectly happy for him to go, he was at pains to reassure me that I had nothing to worry about.

  ‘Why would I worry?’ He’d driven over to Balham to cook me dinner. It was the evening before his flight.

  ‘That I might be unfaithful.’

  I laughed out loud, thinking he was joking.

  ‘Don’t laugh. I’m serious.’ He was stirring something aromatic and pointlessly complicated.

  ‘I’m not laughing at the idea. Just your choice of words. Unfaithful.’

  ‘I consider us to be … going out, that’s all. You know, exclusive.’

  ‘Exclusive!’

  ‘Fucking Jesus, Laura. What’s the matter with you? I’m trying to tell you I really like you. And I’m not planning to have sex with anyone else. Is that blunt enough for you?’

  He was suddenly red in the face. I’d never seen him angry before. Our shared banter operated like a shock absorber – it generally carried us smoothly over bumps and potholes – but my levity had finally offended him.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He turned back to stirring. I walked over to him at the stove and put my hand on his arm. ‘I’m sorry. I know what you’re saying, and I feel the same way.’

  ‘Is it what you want, though? Because you don’t sound particularly pleased,’ he said, petulantly.

  ‘Of course it is. Tom, I’m shit at this.’ He nodded in agreement. ‘I don’t know how to have these conversations without taking the piss. Come on,’ I said, prising the wooden spoon from his hand. ‘Kiss me. Let’s kiss and make up.’

  He agreed to the kiss. It was a brief, dry one. ‘That’s all you deserve.’

  ‘You’re right. I’m a very naughty girl.’

  ‘Please leave the kitchen immediately.’

  Dinner was lamb tagine. The rich smell of cumin and garlic lingered in my kitchen for days afterwards. We sat at my small dining table and drank red wine. He moved two church candles from the hearth to the table and lit them as the light began to wane. It was an effortless evening, full of conversation and subtle plans, lingering looks and mingled fingers. We refilled our glasses and, taking them through to the bedroom, left the dirty dishes in lazy offering to the morning. We had sex quickly and without preamble – our movements had become more practised and familiar.

  Tom woke very early the next morning – his flight was at seven thirty from Gatwick. He kissed me briefly before letting himself out and I slept on for several hours, waking at around nine thirty. I got up and walked into the living room, preparing myself for the sight of last night’s dishes, but he’d already washed up. A small domestic gesture but, as I stood and stared at the plates and cutlery draining casually beside the sink, I knew the generosity of it meant more to me than his fumbling attempt the night before to tell me I was his girlfriend.

  I decided to get dressed and go for a run. By the time I returned to my flat, the postman had been. One of my neighbours had already sorted the mail into discrete piles on a shelf above the radiator. I had one letter, and it was from the Coroner’s office. They were writing to inform me that the inquest into my mother’s death was to be opened the following week – on Wednesday 8 August in Woking. And then, like that first day in Cambridge when I realised I’d waved my parents off when I still needed them, I felt suddenly frantic that Tom had gone and caught a flight when, unbeknown to both of us, I would have to face Her Majesty’s Coroner’s Court on my own. I was absurdly, deeply upset, and before I could get upstairs to my front door the tears were upon me, hot and wet on my red cheeks. I felt completely abandoned: by Tom, but most of all by my mother, whose life was still the subject of official correspondence but whose being was permanently nowhere. Hers was an absence that still had the power to surprise me.

  In searching for my mother, I sought out Helen. I thought she would want to attend the inquest, but she didn’t return any of my phone calls or texts. Assuming she was away somewhere, I sent her an email with the date and time of the hearing and the address of the Coroner’s Court. My father had also been contacted – he was still officially her husband, after all – and we arranged to meet outside the Coroner’s Court at ten.

  I was called as a witness and asked to give my account of how I found my mother’s body. The proceedings were clinical and efficient; it took just over half a day to record a verdict of accidental death. And then it was over, her death certificate finally available; my mother’s life had passed through the administrative spectrum of colours.

  ‘Can I give you a lift?’ I asked my father as we walked down the steps.

  ‘I think I’ll get the train.’

  ‘Don’t you have to change, though?’

  ‘Only once. At Surbiton.’

  ‘You need to decide what to do about that.’

  ‘About changing train? I think that’s a matter for South West Trains.’

  ‘No, sorry – I’m jumping ahead. About the house. It’s probably yours now. Technically.’

  ‘There’s nothing technical about it. But yes, I take your point.’ He stopped and looked at me. He reached into his inside pocket for something, eventually pulling out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

  ‘No, I don’t mind. You do what you need to do,’ I said, eyeing the cigarette.

  ‘I’ve been trying to cut down. The girls have been on at me to stop, but what with all this—’
>
  ‘With all what?’

  ‘With your mother, and Jenny. It’s hard.’ He blew out some smoke and looked behind him at the steps.

  I held out my fingers for his cigarette. He looked at me, surprised but not displeased. ‘May I?’

  He nodded. And then, in an effort to demonstrate his nonchalance, offered me my own one.

  ‘No thanks. I just want a few puffs.’ I took a deep drag. ‘Why are you here, Dad?’

  ‘What kind of question is that?’

  ‘I’m not trying to get at you, but you’re here as her husband. Or rather her widower.’ He dipped his head as though I’d just knighted him. ‘And the house. Why didn’t you divorce and sell it?’

  He looked at his shoes and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Guilt, I suppose.’

  ‘For having an affair?’ I exhaled and passed the cigarette back to him.

  ‘Well, yes. And other things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘She was never mine to marry.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s complicated, Laura.’

  ‘You keep saying that. And so does Helen. But I can deal with complexity. It’s the constant evasion that frustrates me.’

  ‘She was in love with someone else. How’s that?’

  ‘Before you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘I don’t know, exactly. Just someone she met at school.’

  ‘Would Helen know?’

  ‘I’m sure she would.’

  ‘And you feel guilty because she married you? That doesn’t make any sense. How is that your fault?’

  ‘She married me because she had to. She was pregnant, and your grandmother pressured her into doing the right thing.’

  ‘OK, so you got married in 1981. And what then?’

  ‘And then we tried to make a go of it. We had you and then Christopher, but after his birth, things just sort of fell apart.’

  ‘And you got into bed with Jenny. When was that, exactly?’

  ‘Listen, your mum wasn’t entirely blameless, you know.’

  ‘So you say. She went and got herself knocked up – not once but twice – and then, when she decided to stop having sex with you, you decided to do it with someone else. Is that an accurate summary?’

  ‘No, it bloody well isn’t!’

  ‘Then tell me the truth.’

  ‘The thing with Jenny. It wasn’t a decision. It was a …’ He looked at me for the right word, his eyes circling above my head. ‘An impulse. A feeling. I didn’t want to feel alone any more. Can you understand that?’

  I nodded my head. Sex. That little word Sam had taunted Jenny with on our way home from school. And, unbidden, I pictured Christopher’s terriers – Buster and Ruby, fucking and howling – and remembered his words of caution. That I was overthinking things.

  ‘What does Jenny think?’

  He looked at me again.

  ‘About Mum and the house and all this,’ I said, turning around to indicate the building behind us. ‘Presumably she wants you to sell the house?’

  ‘She’s pretty fed up of New Malden.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ I said, thinking of her stirring at the stove in their dim and cramped kitchen.

  My father nodded and took another deep inhalation. I sat down on the step behind us. ‘And what do you want?’

  He crouched down and joined me. ‘I want to sell it. And give you and Christopher and Ellie some money. You know, a bit of a leg-up in life. God knows it hasn’t always been easy for you three.’

  ‘And what about you and Jenny?’

  ‘The way I see it, I’ve still got another four or five years left at the bank before I can retire. With money from the sale of the house, and if we continue to save, we’ll be able to move wherever we want.’

  ‘Well, let me know if you need any help. I could phone round some estate agents for you.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I need to square things with Jenny first. Anyway, this is my problem. You’ve got enough on your plate at the moment.’

  ‘I really haven’t, Dad. All the Olympics stuff is finished. But I should probably let you know that Andrea and I cleared the kitchen a few months ago. Just the perishable stuff – what was in the fridge, that kind of thing.’

  ‘I didn’t know you’d done that.’ He put his head in his hands. ‘God, Laura, I’m sorry you’ve had to take on so much.’

  ‘Honestly, Dad, don’t worry. I’m fine.’

  ‘I know you are.’ He turned his body to look at me properly. ‘You’re still my best girl. But for the record, I am sorry. For all of it.’

  I kissed his cheek and stood up. ‘Let me know what you plan to do with the house,’ I said in farewell. He nodded and lifted his hand to wave.

  I checked my phone. Still no word from Helen. Or Tom, for that matter. We had spoken the night before: he made a point of calling to wish me luck. With the taste of my dad’s cigarette in my mouth, I started the car and thought about where I might go. And then, on a whim, I did something stupid. And completely unforgivable. I phoned David. It rang and rang, the sound of him not picking up echoed by the idling engine. As though my car were also in a suspended state, wondering when we could move on. I didn’t leave a voicemail and put my phone back in my handbag, open on the passenger seat. I reversed out of the space, and just as I was about to put the car into gear my phone rang. I didn’t need to see his name to know it was him. He still wanted me. I pulled up the handbrake and answered it.

  ‘David.’

  ‘Hi. This is a bit of a surprise. What’s going on?’

  ‘Oh, nothing really. I just wondered if you’re free. Well, not free, but around. For a drink or something.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I could do that. When were you thinking?’

  ‘I’m in Woking, of all places, but I can drive to meet you somewhere.’

  ‘Like, now?’

  ‘Yeah. Sorry, that’s what you asked. Now, or later, if you prefer?’

  ‘I’m working from home today but I could meet you somewhere nearby. Can you get to Amersham?’

  ‘I’m sure I can. I’ll stick it in the satnav.’

  We met in The Kings Arms Hotel on Amersham High Street. David was sitting at a table by the window with a half-empty pint, his laptop open, watching the entrance to the bar. He stood up as I approached, unsure what contact he could make with my body. I kissed him lightly on the cheek, a move that emboldened him to hold my arms and go for a kiss on the other cheek. ‘Such a nice surprise. To hear from you.’

  ‘Yes, sorry. Not much notice.’

  ‘No, I was pleased to see your missed call. Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘Yes, please. I’ll have a glass of dry white wine. Large.’

  He went to the bar and returned with my drink and another pint for himself.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting to hear from you after, you know … last time.’

  I took a big swallow of wine. ‘I know, I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s fine. Totally fine.’

  ‘The thing is, that morning you left—’

  ‘Listen, we don’t have to dredge all of that up. I was just saying it’s a surprise, that’s all. But really nice to see you. I’m not complaining.’ He smiled.

  ‘I was going to say, after you left I went home, or to my mother’s house, I should say … and she’d died. I found her body.’

  His jaw fell open. He sat back in his chair, his face so full of surprise it was almost theatrical. ‘Fuck.’ He rubbed his working-from-home stubble. ‘Oh, God. Laura, I had no idea.’

  ‘I know.’ My eyes filled with tears. It was an involuntary response to any conversation that included details of how my mother died. And his sympathy was very convincing.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘I’ve just come from the inquest. Accidental death. That’s where I was when I phoned you.’

  ‘Right. I see.’ He nodded his head as though only Her Majesty’s Coroner’s Court could acc
ount for such an unusual booty call.

  ‘It makes no sense. I’m sorry – I just didn’t want to be on my own. And I thought of you.’

  ‘S’OK,’ he said, looking around him, and then reached out to touch my hand.

  ‘Do you know people around here?’

  ‘Not exactly, but the village we live in isn’t far from here.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Sorry – I don’t mean to sound paranoid. I’m not suggesting you have plans to jump on me or anything.’ He was blushing.

  I felt emboldened by having survived the efficient administration of death I’d witnessed earlier. As he danced around the big question that hung in the air between us, I thought of the cold, precise examination I’d just undergone and then the clean and considered judgement. I wanted to rip it up. To lift my skirt and shit all over their pointless paperwork.

  ‘I really want to fuck you.’

  He put his pint down and stared at me.

  ‘Is that a yes or no?’

  ‘Christ.’ He ran his hand through his thinning hair and smiled. ‘Well, you know I’d love to. But is it a good idea, what with all you’ve been through?’

  ‘I don’t want to think about it. I just want to do it. Do you want to have sex with me or not?’

  He put both hands on the table and, with deliberate care, pushed his chair back. He stood up and walked over to the bar. I sipped my wine and looked out of the window at the cars going past, mothers holding their children’s hands as they crossed the road, and waited for David to return. I wanted to be taken beyond this pedestrian life: to grab and bite and moan and cry.