“You know, you would be a good actress if you can feel what someone else is feeling.”
“Nah, I don’t handle life well on little sleep. Indie said some of your days are, like, eighteen hours. I don’t think I’m ever awake for that long.”
“Can you please not do anything stupid until I talk to her again?”
She sighs. “Can you do something fast? What if they’re abusing her in other ways?”
“Don’t.” I close my eyes and clench my jaw, almost snapping my phone in half.
“I don’t want to go there, either, but something isn’t right.”
“I’m going to call her again.”
“Okay, I’m going over if you don’t hear.”
“All right. I’ll speak to you later.”
Mila hangs up. I hit Indie’s name, and the phone rings.
Mila’s words sit heavy in my gut. What could her parents be doing to her?
“Pick up,” I mutter.
The call goes through to her answering service. I leave a message asking her to call me back straight away. Lowering my phone, I rub my forehead.
Could it really be that bad and we don’t know about it? I take a breath and try not to panic. She doesn’t ever seem frightened of them. I hate the thought of her thinking she needs to keep something from me.
I get up and pace my apartment while checking the flight times to London.
The ache in my chest grows by the second.
Call me back, Indie.
Thirty
Indie
Time has no meaning in this house.
Dad was taken eight hours ago. After the post-mortem, we’ll be allowed to bury him. I’ve contacted my local funeral director. We’ll need to book a church service and a burial, pick a coffin, and decide on flowers. There is so much to think about.
Do we want a wake when we have no family. Dad doesn’t have any friends left. The wake would be Mum and me sitting in this cold living room.
She’s barely moved off the floor. I can’t get through to her, and when I tried to move her, she thrashed her arms and cried harder. I don’t know what to do.
“Mum,” I say, holding onto the door. “Do you want a cup of tea or coffee?”
Her body is as still as Dad’s was, but I hear her shallow sobs.
“Mum?”
“I want David.”
“Let me get you a drink, please…”
I can’t remember the last time I saw her drink anything that doesn’t come in a glass bottle.
She raises her eyes. “Tea.”
Tea. A slither of hope cuts through the despair in my heart. “Okay, I’ll make tea.”
Walking into the kitchen, I turn the thermostat up. The door has been opened and closed a good few times today, and now it’s cold. I flick the kettle on and grab two mugs from the cupboard. The clock on the wall ticks loudly, marking every second since Dad died.
My body is numb. I don’t know what to think or how I feel. It should be easy to read your own emotions.
He was my dad. Only he wasn’t really. I spent more time looking after him then he did me. Begging, pleading, screaming, throwing away alcohol—nothing worked.
I glance at my phone on the side and groan. I have texts and missed calls from Spencer, Mila, and Wren. I’m also thirty minutes late for my shift at The Waffle House.
Shit.
First, I make a quick call to my manager, pretending I’ve just finished throwing up. The lie has no effect on me. I’m sure I sound awful with the monotone voice of someone who’s had a big shock, despite the fact that I have been ready for this day for a long time.
Then, I open the texts and read. They’re all similar, asking me to get in touch. The last one from Mila reads: ‘I’m coming over’. It was sent one minute ago.
No. I jab my finger into her name and call.
“Indie!” she says, picking up immediately. “Are you okay? What’s going on? I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I’m sorry, I’ve been in bed all day. I have the vomiting bug that’s been going around uni.”
I can see Mila’s face now, scrunched up in disgust. She doesn’t like being sick. She says it takes days before she feels clean again. I’m counting on this right now.
“Are you better now? I’ve been so worried.”
“I’m well enough to make a call, but I still feel awful. Sorry I worried you.”
“You sound terrible. Can I do anything? Do you want soup or… whatever sick people need?”
“I have everything I need.”
“Do your parents have it, too?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say. “We’ll hopefully be okay tomorrow.”
God, I wish that could be true.
“All right. I’m going to check in later. You call first if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Mila. I’m going to go ring Spence now. Will you let Wren know I’m fine?”
“Of course. Talk later. Love you.”
“Love you, too,” I whisper, and I hang up.
Okay. Spencer. You can do this. I call, and he picks up even faster than Mila did.
“Indie. Babe, what’s going on? I’ve been trying you all day. Are you okay?”
I swallow down bile. “Breathe. I have a sickness bug.”
There’s a pause as he decides whether or not to believe me. No reason he shouldn’t, though. “A sickness bug?”
“Yeah, I must have caught it from someone at uni. There’ve been a few off with it, apparently. I’ve spent all day in bed or in the bathroom.”
“But you’re all right?”
I grip the edge of the counter, digging my nails into the wood. “I’m all right. Or I will be. I’ve slept most of the day, but I’m still tired.”
That part is true. My body is heavy, exhausted, my mind ready to switch off.
“What can I do?”
Smiling, I hold the phone tighter. He’s always wanting to make things better for me. “Nothing. I’m just glad that I can stay away from the bathroom long enough to hear your voice.”
“It’s been that bad, huh?”
“Yeah. I haven’t been sick in an hour so hopefully it’s almost behind me. Spence, I really want to talk more but I’m beat. Can I call you tomorrow?”
“Sure. Feel better soon.”
“I will. Bye.”
When I hang up, I double over, my eyes prickling with tears.
Lying to them now feels worse than ever.
I put my phone down and place my palms on the countertop. Taking deep breaths, I count backwards from ten.
You’re going to be fine. Everything is going to be fine.
When I stand up straight after the last ripple of pain subsides, I continue making tea and take it through to Mum.
“Mum, come on; sit up for tea,” I say, putting the mugs on the coffee table.
She rolls over on the floor, and that’s when I see the reflection shine from the lightbulb above us.
“Are you fucking serious?” I growl, slamming the mugs down on the coffee table. Tea spills everywhere.
“Don’t,” she slurs, pushing herself to a sitting position, the bottle of vodka in her hand.
Fire burns in my chest. Snatching the bottle from her hand, I explode. “Dad has just died because of alcohol! What the fuck is wrong with you? He drank himself to death. He’s gone because of this shit!” I lift the bottle and hurl it at the wall.
Mum’s eyes widen as the glass smashes and clear liquid runs down the faded cream wallpaper.
“You need to stop this right now before you’re lying in the fucking morgue with him!”
“I wish I was!” she screams, throwing her hands in the air.
I absorb the punch to my gut. “Wow. Mother of the year.”
“Don’t start that,” she slurs. “You’ve no idea how this feels.”
“Are you stupid? I’ve spent every day since I was six wondering why my parents love alcohol more than me. I’ve had to fend for myself, look after two fucking adu
lts, and pretend that everything is fine. Every parents evening or school event you missed, I had to convince my teachers that you were both working long hours, all while you’re sitting in this shitty room drinking yourself into an early grave.”
She flinches.
I kneel down and press my shaking hands together. “I need you now more than I ever have. My father is gone.”
My heart tears at how much I feel like a little girl again, longing for her mum to hold her and tell her everything is okay.
“Please,” I add. “Please.”
What am I doing?
I want to close the door to her, slam it in her face, and walk away. Despite what I want, I shouldn’t actually let her in.
Mum’s face crumples. “Indie.” She falls forwards, and I instantly sink into her embrace.
Sobs, loud and brutal, shake my body. We cling to each other, crying as we begin to grieve for dad and the life we should have had. We’ve not hugged in years. It’s the first time I’ve felt my mum’s warm arms around me since I was a kid, and that makes my heart shatter more than losing Dad.
I needed this so badly.
It feels like we stay on the floor forever, but it’s probably only a couple of minutes. I move back first and examine her. She doesn’t look well. Her skin is off-colour, and her eyes are sunken.
“I need you to stop drinking,” I say, swiping my tears away.
Her lip trembles. “I don’t know how.”
“We’ll do it together. I’ll help. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
With wide eyes, she whispers, “Okay.”
“Thank you.”
She smiles but still looks petrified. “Is the tea still hot?”
That’s the best thing she has said to me in fourteen years.
I reach behind me and feel the mugs. “Half spilt, but still warm.”
Mum gets herself to her feet, which seems to take great effort, and she sits on the sofa. I join her, tucking my legs under myself. We’re on the same sofa, neither of us can bear to be on Dad’s. I can’t even look at it.
She takes a sip. “You make a nice tea, Indie.”
“Thanks.”
We drink in silence but it’s not weird or uncomfortable. It is, for the first time in years, nice. Despite the horrific day, we’ve managed to find a minute of peace.
“He wanted to be buried,” she says.
I look over, hugging my mug in both hands. “I assumed so.”
“We spoke about it when I found out I was pregnant with you. We made a will saying we’d be buried together and everything we own goes to you. It seemed like the grown-up thing to do.”
They used to care. “Okay, we’ll have him buried.”
She puts her hand on my knee and that, along with the hug, is the most affection she has shown me in years. I almost cry again.
Thirty-One
Indie
Two days is how long it took to get liver failure confirmed as Dad’s cause of death.
It didn’t come as a surprise to me or Mum. I said a simple thank you on the phone when I was told, the same way I would if someone told me the time. I bet the lady on the phone from the coroner’s office thought I was a heartless bitch.
Now, I’m sitting in the living room with Mum as she shakes on the sofa.
Her skin has a sheen of sweat, and she can’t decide if she’s hot or cold.
She’s detoxing. Her face is always contorted, and she trembles a lot. It looks excruciating.
“Mum, we need help.”
“N-No. I can do this.”
Well, I can’t! “Rehab will be easier than this. There are people who know what they’re doing, and can help you much more than I can. They can give you something for the pain.”
Once again, I’m a carer. I can check a pulse and roll a person onto their side. That’s it. I have absolutely no idea what to do with a detoxing addict. All I can do is make her as comfortable as possible and watch her around the clock.
Is that enough? If I fail this, does she die, too?
“No, Indie.”
The responsibility of this turns my stomach to lead. Mum needs counselling and, although I’m taking a bloody degree in it, my mind keeps going blank. This is my mum. I’m far too close to look at the situation objectively. I’ll get too angry when delving into the past. I’m not the right person to help her but she won’t understand that.
I’m taking the week off uni. I’ll catch up somehow. At the minute, I can’t focus on studying for longer than three seconds. I used to be able to lose myself in textbooks. Now they have abandoned me.
“What do you need?” I ask.
Teeth chattering, she shakes her head and groans. I grab the blanket from the arm of the sofa and lay it over her, unsure if she’s actually cold.
“Try and get some sleep,” I tell her.
I should have made her go to her bedroom. I’m not sure when she last slept in her bed. She won’t go up there. Maybe because she doesn’t want to be there without Dad.
We’ll have to decorate, change her bedding, and get new sofas. These ones are disgusting.
Neither of us wants to sit in here and stare at the place where Dad died.
If she is serious about getting sober, this room needs to not look like her old drinking slum.
I leave her to sleep and walk into the kitchen. Our house isn’t very big, but rattling around here on my own makes it seem huge. I only stay in the house to sleep and clean. Now I’m looking at it like a home again, and there is nothing I like. The house is stuck in the nineties. Dad is everywhere.
With a deep breath, I call Wren and prepare to continue the pretence.
“Hey, Indie, how are you feeling?” she asks.
“A lot better, though I’m still strictly on plain foods and water.”
“You really got the bug bad, huh?”
I bite my lips together. “Mmhmm. What’s going on in the outside world?”
“Well, my husband wants to take me on a honeymoon.”
“What a bastard,” I tease.
God, it’s good listening to someone else’s life.
She laughs. “I know. I’ve just got a lot on at work. We’re expanding, and I’m overseeing the building of the new training areas.”
“And you don’t want to leave the dogs.”
Wren began volunteering at the local dog rehoming centre, and then she was offered a paid job. She’s now working on other avenues the centre can get income from.
“I could take them all home. Especially our older dogs. They’re not likely to get rehomed. With the training rooms being rented by guide dog trainers and a groomer, I’m hoping we can do something for our long-term dogs. Brody won’t let me adopt them.”
“You can’t really have an apartment full of dogs, Wren.”
“All the more reason for us to save our money, skip the holiday, and buy a house with a huge garden.”
Oh my God, they’re going to end up with ten dogs.
“When are you back at uni?” she asks.
“Next week, I think. I’ll email Grant today and see if he can give me more of what I’ve missed.”
Though I don’t think I’ll be able to get into it.
“Don’t worry, Indie, you’re the smartest person I know. You’ll soon catch up.”
“Have you heard from Mila?”
“This morning. Her car broke down again. Reid had to jump start it.”
Reid is Mila’s very beautiful neighbour. I think he’s an editor. He always has books and manuscripts with him. He lives alone after his parents moved back to his hometown. He also has a bit of a thing for Mila, I’m sure of it.
She’s currently with Liam… or almost back with him.
“Her car is worse than mine.”
“Your car would survive a nuclear attack.”
“See, everyone thinks it’s crap but at least it’s reliable.”
“It is crap. It’s about a hundred years old and full of rust.”
I roll my eyes
and pick up a watch from the counter. It’s the watch I bought Dad for Christmas, four years ago. The batteries have run out, the hands frozen at two-fifteen. I curl my fingers around it and close my eyes.
“If you’re better at the weekend, do you want to come over for dinner? Brody is out with Luke and Mason.”
“I’m in if I feel better,” I lie. There is no way I can leave Mum. We have no alcohol in the house now, but I can’t risk leaving her. She knows how to get deliveries of alcohol sent to the house. I don’t even know how long the detox will take, either. She might still be suffering.
“Great. Okay, I need to head out, but I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Yeah, bye, Wren.”
She blows a kiss down the phone and hangs up.
I hold the watch to my chest. It’s so very weird grieving Dad when I feel like I lost him a long time ago. I’m not even totally relieved that I don’t have to check on him every morning.
Well, if I’m honest with myself, I’m a little relieved. I would just continue doing it if I could have him back. What a messed-up situation.
I make a tea and sit at the kitchen table. There isn’t much to do in this house. We have untouched board games like Hungry Hippo and Buckaroo. I loved them when I was five and my family was whole, but now they’re just kids’ games.
It’s a bit sad to sit alone and play Buckaroo in the kitchen.
I unlock my phone and send a text to Spencer. He’s currently getting to know his co-star, Jimmy Harvey. He’s playing the guy from his gang who screws him over. They’re getting on well, apparently. Jimmy has done some amazing movies, so I’m really excited for Spence.
Indie: Hey, Hollywood. Did you know that you’re the hottest man on the planet? #SpencerLoweHottestManEva is an actual hashtag. I happen to agree.
One thing I keep up with is cyber stalking Spence. There are a lot of articles about him, and a lot of women wanting to marry him. I’ve seen some of the things people write to him on Twitter. They actually make me blush.
Some women will literally do anything for him in the bedroom.
Spencer: As long as you agree. Are you feeling any better?
Just Like the Movies Page 17