The Things That Matter

by Andrea Michael

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sake,’ Kit rolled her eyes, suddenly seeming like the young one in the argument. ‘Everyone asks me why I never had children, and it’s like I’ve got a teenage daughter on my hands without the labour!’

  ‘I thought you were my friend,’ Sarah said quietly, and with that, all the bluster seemed to dissipate. Kit sighed and closed her eyes, composing herself. Then she walked over to Sarah and took both her hands in hers, shaking them slightly as she spoke.

  ‘My biggest fear is that I’m going to open the newspaper and read that he’s killed you. That he was drunk driving with you in the car, or he brought some idiots back to party in your home, or he gets so angry one day that he doesn’t take it out on the boss’s son, or the wall, or the car door.’

  ‘You’re overreacting.’

  Kit shook her head gravely, ‘There are broken people who never learn enough to sort themselves, and there are wrong ones who never think they need to change. What about your son? What does he deserve?’

  I held Lachlan a little tighter just hearing her say it. How awful could this boyfriend be? Sarah looked well enough. A little sad, a little weary. But she was young and a new mother and that was life. He sounded like an idiot, but how could Kit jump straight to the worst conclusion?

  ‘He won’t hurt Lachlan. He loves him.’

  The way she said it, defensive and yet somehow slightly jealous, made something in my chest hurt. I wondered about my father, and if he’d ever even considered leaving my mother, starting a different life away from all the chaos and the trouble.

  Yet, even when Mum had gone, he couldn’t get his head round it. Couldn’t conceive of the fact that she would dare to leave, that she wasn’t coming back. Without her, he was nothing, I’d heard him say it. One night when they’d argued he’d threatened to kill himself if she left.

  And still she went. Leaving me alone to look after a heartbroken man who hated himself and the world. She didn’t care enough to stay, and now she got to forget that she’d ever done that. It didn’t seem fair.

  Holding the baby was starting to open this wound in my chest, and the way Kit looked at Sarah, like she wanted to keep her close, keep her safe… it was something I’d never had. Except for Dan. Except for my beautiful, kind, considerate husband who never got into fights or left me making excuses. I missed him. I missed us. I wanted to conjure the image of that little flat in Tufnell Park, the damp on the walls and the towels that never dried, and us, curled around each other on a mattress on the floor, making up stories about the life we’d lead. I’d never needed anyone else to look at me like they couldn’t bear to see me leave. I had that much, at least. And I should be grateful.

  Kit and Sarah seemed to come to a truce over slices of gingerbread cake. I gave her child back and felt a relief that I was able. That I hadn’t wanted to cradle him close and keep him for myself like a villainous fairytale character.

  Sarah stayed for dinner, and I found myself relieved at their easy back and forth, watching how at home she seemed. Kit was the kind of woman who said her piece and then let things lie, and I could tell Sarah had got what she came for. I checked my phone for messages from Dan, but there were none. I missed him but I wasn’t sure what to say, so I said nothing. I could imagine him in that big flat by himself, craned over his laptop, eating pasta at the breakfast bar. Flicking through TV channels before going out to the punchbag in the shed. Or maybe he wasn’t home at all, still in the office proving his worth because he could, no broken wife to come home to and comfort.

  I left Sarah and Kit to their evening, their time together, not wanting to intrude. They insisted I was welcome but it didn’t feel right, like they needed their normal balance. And again, insanely, I just wanted to sleep.

  I dreamed of all sorts of strange things. My mother’s smirking face merging into Kit’s concerned one, the long curls of Sarah’s red hair unspooling, Dan’s drawings walking off the page into reality. I dreamed of my father, those moments of kindness when I was a child, when he messed my hair up affectionately, his huge hands rough as he laughed. That look of adoration he gave my mother, like he was afraid she was going to leave, merging into one of their fights, ending with them cuddled on the sofa like nothing had happened. Then the bang as his head hit the coffee table, and the blood that soaked into the carpet.

  When I woke with a jolt, I lay there for a few moments, trying to figure out where I was. The clock by the side of the bed glowed midnight, and my stomach growled. I wondered about Sarah and who she went home to. Whether she and Lachlan were safe. Whether Kit’s instincts were right, or she was just an overprotective mother figure to someone who had never had that. Whose instinct were you meant to trust?

  I tiptoed down the creaking stairs, hoping a glass of water (or perhaps a second slice of cake) would soothe me.

  Kit was sitting at the kitchen table in her pyjamas, a big bobbly yellow jumper pulled over the top. Her nightwear always seemed so much more colourful than her practical green or brown clothes for the farm, and it made me smile.

  ‘Aren’t you meant to be up in a few hours?’

  ‘Aye,’ she nodded, stabbing a piece of cake with a fork, ‘unfortunately, my brain doesn’t seem to care. Or my stomach.’

  She chewed messily, crumbs all over the table and herself.

  ‘Thinking about Sarah?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Did you offer her the spare room? I’ll be gone soon, she could stay there?’

  ‘She won’t take it, stubborn wee thing. She feels she’s made her bed and has to lie there. As if sleeping with a moron means a life sentence! When she’s ready, she’ll come, I hope.’

  I patted her arm, briefly. ‘She’s lucky to have you.’

  ‘You seemed like a natural with her little one,’ Kit smiled at me, and I inhaled sharply, trying to remind myself that she clearly wasn’t trying to hurt me. She was trying to get me to open up. But I wasn’t ready.

  ‘Will Effie be here tomorrow?’ It was like a game of topic tennis.

  Kit noted the change of subject again, her eyebrows registering it as if to remind herself what was off limits.

  ‘Aye, if you like.’ She pulled open the drawer and got out a fork, offering it to me as she pushed the cake midway across the table.

  I took a breath, not looking at her as I stabbed the piece of cake.

  ‘I think I want to go see her… Nina.’

  Kit said nothing, chewing for a moment. Then she sighed and nodded.

  ‘I have to prepare you, love. She’s not… you’ll not find what you’re looking for. She’s not really in there, most of the time.’

  ‘I don’t know what I’m looking for,’ I said.

  Kit smiled sadly, ‘Of course you do. You’re looking for the nasty piece of work who left you, I’d wager,’ Kit shook her head. ‘The problem is, it’s hard to blame someone who doesn’t remember what they’ve done to you. Believe me, I’ve tried.’

  I chewed slowly, savouring the taste of the cake, somehow better after midnight, in the quiet of that house, just me and Kit and the truth.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Even if she doesn’t remember, I do,’ I said. ‘What you said earlier about being too weak to change? She wasn’t too weak. She knew the destruction she brought, she just didn’t care.’

  Kit pressed her lips together, pausing, and I shook my head at her.

  ‘Oh, come on now, don’t tell me you’re holding back to spare my feelings? I thought you were all about the brutal honesty, auntie?’ I smiled to take the sting out. I wanted the truth. I wanted someone who said what they meant and didn’t hold back.

  Before I’d got here, everything in my life had been a veneer, a lie with a shiny smooth surface. No one spoke about the son I’d lost hours after he was born, instead they talked about how well I’d lost the weight, or how I must be enjoying my time at home.

  The same thing was true of our past, mine and Dan’s: my dad had died, and Dan had gone to prison. Instead the polished surface
told the story of a girl who overcame adversity and a boy who became a man. Skip the details and focus on the triumphs. Never let them see weakness.

  But Kit wasn’t like that. When she spoke it was like cauterising a wound – it might hurt, but it was better in the long run.

  ‘I’ll not lie to you hen, my sister was a piece of work. She was spiteful and manipulative. Some people grow up with little and it makes them grateful for what they’ve got, or it makes them work harder for their dreams. Nina was forever annoyed that whatever she felt she deserved had never turned up…’

  I sensed a ‘but’ coming.

  ‘But… I’ve noticed there’s a tendency to blame women when their men do wrong.’

  ‘She broke him and left me with the pieces.’ I looked her straight in the eye, daring her to contradict me. And then I heard Dan’s voice in my head, those sharp barbs he left me with before I came here: unyielding, unforgiving, desperate for drama.

  ‘You won’t be faced with that woman, in fact she’ll probably have a completely different memory. For all she knows some days, your da’s gone out to get milk and you’re playing in the other room. You won’t get closure. You won’t get an apology. You need to come to terms with that before we go.’

  I felt my hands tremble, and balled them together in my lap.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said faintly. ‘I came to say what I needed to say, to her face. Whether she can understand me doesn’t matter at all.’

  For the first time, Kit looked at me like I might be capable of more than she’d expected, like my spine was made of steel instead of silk, and like I wasn’t someone to trifle with. That look made me feel powerful, and just the tiniest bit afraid of what I might do.

  Chapter Six

  The care facility was only forty-five minutes from Kit’s.

  I’d been fairly useless helping Kit that morning, seemingly robotic in following orders. My hands didn’t seem to want to follow my instructions and I kept dropping everything. Eventually, Kit sent me back to help Effie in the kitchen with breakfast, but my stomach was a drum and even the smell of bacon made me feel slightly sick.

  Effie made noises about the ‘most important meal of the day’ and ‘everyone’s a sour puss this morning’ but she was kind about it. At Kit’s request she settled for making bacon sandwiches instead of her usual spread. I could tell she was desperate to fry an egg or flip a pancake, she kept looking at me like she was afraid I’d fade away. So I made an effort, picking at the bread of the sandwich, chewing a few bites even though it felt impossible. I drank down my coffee and then a glass of orange juice, looking to Effie for approval.

  As she put away the plates she paused and gave me a little smile, squeezing my arm briefly.

  ‘You’ll be fine. You’re a bull terrier, like your aunt.’ Effie gave Kit a look, but Kit wasn’t playing along this morning.

  We were both nervous, but her nervousness exhibited itself in irritability and grouchiness. I preferred silence. My stomach was in knots and all I could think was that I needed to breathe.

  The countryside looked bleak and beautiful as we drove. The town we briefly went through was cheerful and busy, coaches pulling up through country lanes and letting out tourists who flocked to public toilets, pubs and shops selling tablet.

  We dropped Effie off at work, the Cranachan Café. It had a bright red sign and little net curtains, with people moving in and out. Business was booming, it seemed. Effie waved as she jumped out from the car, and squeezed Kit’s wrist, ‘Be nice. She’s a sensitive lass.’

  Kit rolled her eyes, but she smiled for the first time that morning.

  ‘She doesn’t mean me?’

  ‘She means you,’ Kit confirmed, pulling the car out into traffic and weaving around the tourists. I snorted. It was hard to imagine me as sensitive, or at least, in need of protecting. I was a survivor. But maybe I could see why Effie might think that. I felt things deeply, I thought a little too much. She didn’t know that I’d always been someone who just got their head down and did what they could do. It’s why I was enjoying all the manual labour on the farm in the mornings – not enough time to think.

  Kit gave a running commentary on goings-on in town, pointing out Sarah’s flat above the butcher’s, and the pub they all convened at on Friday nights. It was expected that I’d join them that evening, if I wanted.

  We made it out onto the wide country lanes, and as we approached that same roundabout I noticed the same figure on the bridge, his flat cap and smart tweed suit standing out. As a passenger this time, I could focus on the details of him, the white hair and the kind face, the neat shining shoes that matched his suit. Standing on a crossing over a small roundabout in the middle of nowhere.

  Wondering about the man in the tweed suit was a welcome distraction from thinking about my mother, and acting out a million different receptions from her when I arrived.

  I’d heard people with Alzheimer’s could be cruel, and last night when I lay in bed, struggling to sleep even with the lavender scent, exhaustion and fullness from the cake, I tried to prepare myself by imagining every awful thing she could say.

  I saw her snarling, calling me a waste of space, a disappointment, a failure even with my fancy new life. I saw her screaming, crying with rage and jealousy, making pointed remarks about how I needed to help her after all she’d done for me.

  It wasn’t hard to conjure that version of Nina, I’d seen that side so many times before. Spitting with rage and injustice, so sure she was getting less than she deserved.

  In the end, I couldn’t have imagined it.

  My mother didn’t look like herself.

  I’d expected that, of course, but when Kit gave that warning, I thought she meant she looked sick, frail. Instead Nina looked… soft. Her hair was a light brown, and her make-up was subtle. Gone were the days of silver eyeshadow and thick black kohl rimming her eyes, with her peroxide blonde hair scraped back in a tight bun. Instead, her cheeks were rouged gently, her eyeshadow a soft pink, her hair falling gently around her shoulders. She looked… harmless. Sweet and soft like candy-floss. A little old fashioned, perhaps, but healthy and vibrant. As if all the poison had been sucked out of her.

  She sat in her room, watching television, and when we knocked on the door and went in, introduced by a soft-spoken nurse, she didn’t look up.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She was so small, so pretty. She sat there in her pastel twinset and her jeans, hands delicately folded in her lap. My mum had always wanted to be a queen, and here she was. Lording over everyone around her, people attending to her every whim.

  ‘Hey Neen, how’s it going?’ Kit said awkwardly, hands in her pockets, the tote bag of treats and gifts falling from her shoulder.

  My mother’s eyes lit up as she saw her sister, somehow waking up, ‘Oh Kitty! There you are! It’s so good to see you!’

  Kit nodded, uncomfortable as she walked into the room and started looking for things to fix, fluffing pillows, unpacking her bag and putting each item on the kitchenette sideboard.

  ‘Oh jelly babies! My favourite!’ Nina clapped her hands like a child as she got up, and I waited, fearful I was invisible, like she wouldn’t notice me. ‘And who have you bought to visit me, Kitty?’

  My mother’s eyes were curious and wide, like a child’s. She took in my clothes carefully, her gaze tracing my features, meeting my eyes, searching for something. She stepped forward.

  ‘I’m sorry, have we met? Everyone says I’m not very good at remembering things these days.’

  It wasn’t so much the voice that was strange, somehow so soft and welcoming and proper, compared to the sharp, twenty-fags-a-day rasp she’d had as she’d called out across the estate. She sounded like a forties film star, so incredibly posh in that way the past did.

  But that wasn’t what shocked me most, it was those words I’d never heard from her before: I’m sorry.

  I felt like I might cry. This was all too much, standing there and watching her
watch me like I might be someone important. Waiting for the moment she realised who I was, and dismissed me yet again.

  ‘This is Natasha. Do you recognise her?’

  My mother blinked, tilting her head as those light eyes flickered, ‘God, she looks like Mum, doesn’t she? Is she yours?’

  Kit cringed a little, ‘No, Neen, she’s your girl, Natasha. Do you remember? You’ve got a little girl?’

  My mother laughed, a bell-like sound that rang out. She held up a hand to hide it. ‘Don’t be silly, my Natasha is only eight!’

  I didn’t want to ruin it. I wanted to play along, protect her from the truth. Oh, how a moment’s look and some soft make-up had swayed me from my purpose.

  ‘I’m not, Mum. It’s me,’ I felt awful even as I said it. The pride I felt as she looked at me, that smile widening on her face, it physically hurt.

  ‘Oh, but you’re so beautiful. Isn’t she beautiful, Kitty? Such a lady!’

  I searched her features for the mother I remembered, the pinched looked, the sharp words. The face that would turn on you when you least expected it.

  But the set of her mouth was different. It was like looking at a completely different person. Someone rounder, softer, happier. A fairground mirror or a child’s portrait – the same, but different.

  ‘Aye, she’s a fine girl. Just had her thirtieth birthday,’ Kit offered, looking at her sister to gauge her reaction. Time passing seemed to get to her, she’d said in the car. You had to be careful to establish not only who you were, but when you were.

  ‘Oh how lovely! And did you have your chocolate cake? I know it’s your favourite,’ Nina smiled, so warm that I wanted to cry. ‘Chocolate cake with rainbow sprinkles.’

  Where on earth did she get that from? I’d never had a chocolate cake with rainbow sprinkles.

  I smiled and ignored the question. ‘How are you? Do you like it here?’

  ‘Oh yes, they’re lovely here, aren’t they Kitty?’ She reached out a hand for her sister, and Kit obliged, though clearly reluctant. ‘My lovely Kitty is so good to me, she comes to visit and brings me sweeties. When we were kids I always wanted the cherry from the Chelsea buns Daddy bought on Sundays and she always gave hers to me. She’s the perfect big sister. That’s why Mama loved her best, because she was so very good.’