‘Coffee?’ I said.
‘Now you’re talking,’ said Dad, dropping into the armchair and taking the sports section from the table. ‘You remember. Black, one sugar.’
I put a new paper in the filter machine and measured out the correct amount of coffee, then filled a jug with water and poured it into the back compartment before pressing the switch. Every sound echoed through the silent apartment.
‘Arsenal playing rubbish,’ I heard Dad say.
No answer.
‘Wenger has to go,’ he continued. ‘They may as well take an axe to that trophy cabinet and chop it into firewood if they keep renewing his contract.’ He tutted and shook the paper.
‘Here you go,’ I said a moment later, handing him his coffee. He raised an eyebrow in thanks.
‘So where’s Tally?’ He slurped the tar-like liquid.
‘Tilly,’ I said, looking at Sal.
‘Shouldn’t she be here, nursing him?’
I cleared my throat. ‘She’s not around any more.’
‘Oh, shame,’ he said, looking back down at the paper. ‘Pretty little thing, that one.’
Sal gave a slow exhale through his teeth and started to shuffle on the bed. The steel frame creaked and I made a mental note to go to the hardware store tomorrow and get something to fix it. A kind of spray, perhaps. Anything to quell the noisy reminder that his feet no longer touched the ground.
I went over and began pulling at his pillow. ‘Here,’ I said, trying to ease it out. ‘Let me. Do you want to turn on your side? Is your pillow comfortable?’
He wrenched the pillow back. ‘Leave it.’
‘Just tell me what you’re trying to do.’
‘I’m trying to turn over on my fucking own. Is that okay?’ Sal used his elbows to support his upper body and grimaced as he twisted towards the window, then punched the pillow into the crook of his neck.
I stared at the line of his back for a minute, picked up the TV remote and changed the channel.
‘Good idea. See if the game’s on,’ said Dad, throwing down the paper and gesturing for the remote.
That night, I suggested we get Chinese takeout. I thought Dad would enjoy the quintessential American experience of eating from origami-style boxes, but when it came, he turned it out on to a plate and ignored the chopsticks. ‘Cutlery?’ he said, folding the corner of a napkin into his collar.
We watched a Seinfeld repeat. Nobody laughed. Sal just picked at his food.
Outside, Saturday night was starting up. Sirens wailed at regular intervals, and people shouted in the streets. When he’d finished his food, Dad put his tray on the coffee table and walked to the window, his napkin still tucked under his chin. He stood with his hands behind his back.
‘New York is the greatest city in the world,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I only wish I knew it better.’
I glanced at Sal and did a comical rolling of the eyes, and he looked away without smiling.
‘You know, son,’ said Dad, half turning to Sal. ‘You should get yourself an American wife. Green card. That’s the ticket.’ His eyes flicked to Sal’s legs. ‘Too late for that, obviously.’
‘Yeah,’ said Sal, staring at the wall. ‘Who’d want me now, eh?’
‘Dad doesn’t mean that,’ I said, willing him to hear.
‘Mm?’ Dad turned to Sal. ‘Well, they’re sure to be sending you home, now they know of your existence.’
Sal looked at me. ‘What?’
‘We don’t know anything yet,’ I said, shaking my head at Sal and slightly raising a hand to pacify him. ‘They weren’t really sure what would happen. The doctors, that is.’
Dad snorted. ‘He doesn’t have medical insurance, does he? Do you really think they’ll give him a free pass to stay in the country if he owes hundreds of thousands in healthcare? Besides, who’d pay for a full-time carer? He’s a liability. Stop giving him false hope. Of course he’s going home.’
There was a heavy silence, punctuated by an occasional car horn and the shriek of a pedestrian. House music pumped out of a car stereo. Sal stared at his feet, his eyes glazed as his mind raced through an imaginary future. It was true that I had already spent a small fortune kitting out the apartment to accommodate his new way of life, and what I had left would hardly make a dent in the hospital bill.
‘And they’ll never let you back again,’ said Dad, frowning with authority. ‘Not now you’ve outstayed by several years. Burned your bridges there, my boy.’
I covered my face with my hands.
Time and date: 11/16/2013 12:51
From: Sal
To: Nick
Subject: Re:
Status: Sent
Hey. So we’re here. Sorry it’s taken a while for me to get back to you. It’s been a crazy few weeks getting set up. Tilly’s apartment is in the west village area and is amazing. It’s on a street with loads of trees and feels exactly like a village. It’s pretty small though so we’re not sure whether there will be room for me. I’m staying with my mate ben who lives out here. You remember him from football? He says I can stay as long as I want. In fact he might be moving to Chicago for work next year for a bit and says I can live here while hes gone. His place has two bedrooms and a cleaning lady and he’s minted so he doesn’t care about me paying much rent. ive got my first shift next week so it will be good to start earning though. im fine, don’t worry, but I can see how quickly the savings will go. Its weird being somewhere you’ve seen all your life in films. It looks the same but different. Ive got to see quite a lot of it since we arrived as tills has had lots of events to go to, you know the networking thing, and she says id just be bored. So ive spent hours just walking around and seeing where it takes me. This city smells like nowhere else, and people seem angry a lot of the time. But I guess they’ve just got somewhere to be. I like it though. There’s a kind of freedom to it or maybe it just feels like that because im used to ashford. I went to a party with Tilly the other day in some fancy penthouse and it was so funny watching these people talk. They all call each other darling and act like they’re best friends but then they kiss the air and never actually touch each other. And everyone says they’re working on something big. i wonder if any of them actually are. okay. Gotta go. Going out tonight as Tilly has rehearsals. peace. ps. They sell baked beans in a shop round the corner. The proper stuff. im never coming back.
Autumn 2010
For our first date, Laura and I went to a Mexican restaurant in Canterbury.
I’d messaged her a few months after the wedding to ask if she wanted to meet for a drink the following Friday. How about dinner? she replied immediately. There’s a place near my work that’s amazing. Sure, I typed. Ten minutes later, she sent me confirmation of the booking.
She was already there when I walked through the door, sitting with her hands clasped in front as if waiting for an interview. When she saw me walking over, she took a sip from her cocktail and smoothed her hair.
‘Hi,’ she said with a nervous laugh as I leant in to kiss her cheek. She wore a low-cut dress and as I sat down, I thought to myself how she looked better than I remembered.
‘They asked if I wanted something while I waited,’ she said, gesturing to her glass. ‘I said I’d try a margarita and they brought me a glass the size of a bucket. I’m afraid it may have already gone to my head.’ She laughed again.
‘Good idea,’ I said, nodding to the waiter. ‘Take the edge off. I think I’ll join you.’
Two buckets in, she asked what I was doing for Christmas.
‘The usual,’ I said, pinching the corner of the napkin. ‘Overdone turkey cooked by my dad, the oven getting the blame, all of us getting gradually pissed until we pass out on the sofa. If my brother’s still in the same room by early evening, I consider that a successful Christmas Day.’
‘Why doesn’t your mum cook the turkey?’
‘Because she’s dead.’
Laura choked on her drink and turned to splutter towards the wall. ‘Oh God,’ she said, her face scarlet. ‘Oh God. I’m so sorry.’
My attempt at making a joke about what is always a conversation-killer had clearly backfired, so instead I fell back on an old faithful: pulling a daft face as if it was a boring little life detail that wasn’t remotely upsetting. ‘Don’t be. It happened a long time ago.’
There was the start of an awkward silence and instinctively I turned towards the kitchen for sign of our food. ‘How about you?’ I said. ‘What delights does the season have in store for you?’
Laura coughed into her hand, still pink with embarrassment. ‘Oh, you know. The usual.’ She grew redder. ‘I mean … maybe “usual” isn’t the right word. I guess everyone’s idea of that is different.’
‘Hey,’ I said, picking up my glass. ‘Let’s start afresh. I’m sorry if I made you feel awkward. There isn’t much of a way of softening that detail in conversation.’
We clinked glasses and she gave a grateful smile.
‘My siblings and I usually stay over at my parents’ on Christmas Eve, then we get up in the morning all together and open the first round of presents. My sisters and I make French toast for breakfast – it’s a Foster family tradition – then it’s round two of gifts before a cocktail, and afterwards we make a start on dinner.’
‘How many siblings do you have?’
‘There’s five of us. Three girls, two boys. I’m slap-bang in the middle.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘It must be pretty cramped if you all stay overnight.’
‘Oh, Mum and Dad have never moved. We still all have our rooms made up how we left them. My grandparents live in an annexe next door. Dad had the old stables converted for them to live in once they were too old to care for themselves. So yes, it is quite full-on.’
As she talked, my mind scrapped the mental image of her family in a suburban semi and replaced it with a historic country pile, a giant tree in the hallway, flagstone flooring, bulging stockings on the fireplace. They probably played board games in the evening. So this was her normal.
‘I love Christmas, though,’ she said. ‘I always become such a kid, and I love the passing on of traditions from one generation to the other. My mum says this year she’ll teach me the recipe for the cake she makes for Christmas Day evening. Grandma taught it to her, and hers before her. It always passes down through the female line.’
Our food arrived and I changed the subject.
I’d been wondering all week what to do about the bill. This is why I suggested drinks, I said to Daz. Much easier taking turns to buy a round. But it’s the twenty-first century, said Daz. She works, don’t she? Then split it. You don’t want to hook a bird that cries women’s lib only when it suits her. Yeah, I said, but maybe she likes the gentleman thing so at least I should offer.
I needn’t have worried. The waiter set the tray down in the middle and I was the only one to reach for it.
‘Thanks so much,’ she said as we stood and put on our coats. ‘That was delicious. Didn’t I say this place was good?’
‘Here,’ I said, ‘don’t forget your …’
We both leant across the table to get her glove at the same time and our hands touched. She snatched her arm away like she’d had an electric shock.
‘Thanks,’ she said, taking the glove and trying to hide the blush on her face.
Outside the restaurant, we stood a metre apart and looked about at passing traffic.
‘We could go for a drink if you like,’ I said, unsure of what to say.
‘I’d better not,’ she said, looking down at my shoes. ‘Those margaritas have quite done me in.’ And then she leant in to kiss my mouth, and I put my arms around her to steady her footing and stop her falling in front of a passing car.
She stepped back and laughed into her hand. ‘God, that was brave of me. Sorry.’
‘That’s okay,’ I said.
‘Really?’ She smiled to herself. ‘I had a really nice time. Let me know if you’d like to do it again.’
She was attractive, kind, she asked questions about my life, and there was a level-headedness to her that was appealing. Perhaps that was the key to it all, this whole business of meeting someone and settling down. Not fireworks or a tight knot of fear in the stomach, but rationality and, maybe, being wanted more by the other person. I’d never tried it that way. Maybe I should.
‘Sure,’ I said, pulling out a cigarette. ‘Why not?’
‘Great.’ Laura gave a drunk, happy smile. ‘Text me an idea of what we could do?’ She slung her bag over her shoulder and turned to walk towards the station. ‘I really did have a lovely time, Nick Mendoza,’ she called over her shoulder. The words had a studied air, as if planned in front of a mirror.
I watched her walk away.
2003
I remember words from a lost conversation. I don’t know how we got there or where we went next. This is all I’ve got.
We’re in the back seat of her car, it’s raining and the windows are slick with damp. I stroke the skin of her leg that rests on my lap.
Do you think we’ll be friends? I say, feeling the light hairs on her knee. You know, in the future. Will we still be talking to each other?
Anna looks at me with long, slow blinks. A slight shake of her head.
Too many sparks, she says. I don’t fancy catching on fire.
Mid-Eighties
It was a Saturday morning and Dad went off to a tournament. He left first thing that morning, a packed lunch from Mum tucked under his arm, his clubs in the boot, allowing plenty of time to drive to Hertfordshire. We had Mum to ourselves.
These were always fun days. She’d let us spend them in our pyjamas, watching back-to-back films, even if the sun was blazing. Dad would never let us turn on the telly when the sun was out. He’d shoo us outside with some line about how lucky we were to be alive, then he’d settle back in his armchair and put on whatever he liked.
Mum, though, she let us do as we wanted. Looking back, it was as if she knew she didn’t have time to waste.
We watched from the window as Dad drove off, then came the sound of footsteps on the stairs and we dived back under the covers. Mum opened the door and stuck her head in. ‘Come on,’ she whispered, and we jumped up and ran down the landing to her room, where we leapt into her bed.
This was another forbidden thing. If we had nightmares, Mum would come into our room and squeeze into one of our beds. If we really cried, she stayed all night.
‘Let’s make a tent,’ said Sal, burrowing under the covers.
‘You’ll need pillows,’ Mum said, and passed them down the bed. He stood them up vertically to make two tentpoles and we shimmied down the mattress into the camp.
Sal sat cross-legged in the middle and looked about. There was a small smile on his lips, and he clasped his hands in his lap and twiddled his thumbs. ‘There’s only just enough room for three,’ he said. ‘Nobody else. Nobody else allowed.’
‘What about Dad?’ said Mum.
Sal shook his head.
‘Where would he go?’ I said to Mum.
She looked about the confined space. It was hot from our breath. ‘Maybe we could shrink him down a bit. But there won’t be room for either of you soon. You’re only going to get bigger and then you’ll be men too.’
‘What about you?’ I said. ‘Are you going to get bigger?’
She smiled and shook her head. ‘You stop growing when you become an adult. You start shrinking instead.’
Sal found this hilarious. He pulled up the top of his dinosaur pyjamas and started beating his belly.
‘You know what doesn’t start shrinking, though?’ she said, looking at us both. ‘Your heart.’
I wrinkled my nose. ‘Actually?’
‘Truth.’
‘So the rest of you gets smaller and smaller, but your heart stays exactly the same?’ Sal put his hands up to his neck and did a mad laugh. ‘That’s crazy.’
&n
bsp; ‘I’ll tell you a secret, though,’ Mum whispered, and we leant in so our heads were almost touching. ‘If you want to be really happy, your heart needs to grow even more.’
Sal started tickling my feet. ‘Stop,’ I said, slapping his hand away.
‘Did you hear me, boys?’
‘Yeah,’ said Sal and he screamed as I tickled him back. ‘Your heart gets bigger. Yeah, we heard.’
‘But you have to let it.’
Time and date: 16/09/2014 10:47
From: Anna
To: Nick
Subject: Re: Hey
Status: Sent
Hey!
So good to hear from you. It’s been too long. How are things? Couldn’t glean much from your email … Man of many words, as always. Are you still writing? Hope so.
All is well with me, thanks. Work has been insane (which is wonderful, obviously) but means I have less time for reading and general staring out of windows, and you know how I love that. Maybe one day I’ll figure out that work/life balance.
I do have some news. I’m pregnant. Not sure if it’s weird or not for me to tell you that. Something inside said I should. I had wondered whether to email, but then you messaged to say hi and it was like you’d read my mind. So, yeah … with child. Feeling great, though. First time in possibly forever that I have a sense of inner peace and calm. Everything is out of my hands for once, and it feels sort of liberating.
Hope all is well with you. Did Sal ever make it to New York? I miss it so much. Can’t wait to go back one day.
Hope you’re well.
A.x
I loved her. God, how I loved her.
There. I have said it.
2012
‘Tell me again why we’re doing this,’ I said as we crossed the road towards town. There was a sharp chill to the wind and I pulled up my collar in self-defence.
‘It was your idea, remember, making an effort with Tilly, so don’t blame me if it’s a horrendous night.’ Laura faked a jab in my ribs.
Another Life Page 18