CHAPTER 8
Bradford
Wake up! shrieks my subconscious. My eyes fly open and my hand automatically hits the big button on my talking clock.
“ Nine thirty-two .” Its chirpy voice is irritating, especially after my late night and lack of sleep.
Oh, God. Brendan will definitely be in need of his morning dunny run; he must be busting right now. First things first, though, because I’m busting too, and I don’t have the option of hoiking my penis out in public to hose down the communal lawn.
Dragging my weary body to the bathroom, I lean over the toilet bowl and let go. I just love the way pissing and coming looks now that I have a PA. If I’m being completely honest, I would watch other pierced men do it in kinky porn videos and I’d always blow the biggest loads. This was what finally drove me to get the ring in my own penis. Just knowing it’s there, knowing that I’m like those guys—combine that with the other sexual perks and I’m as horny as I was at thirty.
I’m weighing up whether to have a cheeky shower, but I turn my head to spot Brendan waiting patiently by the open bathroom door. “Sorry, buddy. I’ll take you out now.” A quick glance in the mirror reminds me I wore stretchy gym shorts and a t-shirt to bed. That’ll do; I won’t scare the neighbours.
Normally, Brendan follows his strict guide dog toileting routine to the letter. For a long time, though, I’ve flouted these rules in the morning at home. Today—like every other day—I remove both his harness and leash as soon as we get outside so he can have some freedom. But as always, Brendan pauses and his big brown eyes look up at me expectantly.
“I know, buddy,” I say, as I take a seat in one of the nearby plastic chairs. Way back when I was smoking, this was the spot where I’d have my first cigarette of the day. Brendan waits till I’m settled, then gently touches his nose against my leg before bounding off. It’s a routine he’s always followed, but it’s not something he’s been trained to do. He knows when his harness is off it means he’s not working and he’s allowed to be a regular dog. But it’s like he’s so concerned about me, he won’t go anywhere until he’s sure I’m OK.
I consider myself lucky that there’s one soul in this world who’s truly got my back.
After breakfast and a long shower, I stand naked in front of the IKEA clothing racks next to the bed. When Jarrod moved in, I got rid of all my furniture from this room. I gave away my double bed, moved my bedside drawers to the study, and vacated the built-in wardrobe so he could use it. At the time, I wasn’t too worried—I can see clothes a lot easier on racks than inside a dark wardrobe, and Jarrod’s queen-sized bedroom suite was bigger than my little double. Back then, I saw what I did as a welcoming gesture. These days? It’s like I'm a guest in my own space. I try not to feel resentful. After all, I offered. I have no right to be upset that Jarrod took me up on it.
Pulling on one of my brand-new pairs of Bonds tighty-whities, I turn and peer over my shoulder, doing my best to admire my bum in the mirror. I am hugely turned on by bears wearing this kind of underwear, especially Bruno. Every time he strips off in front of me, that’s what he’s got on. I’d always worried that they’d make my arse look fat, but Bruno’s buns are so tasty in them that I just had to go out and buy some for myself. And they look pretty damn good on me, even if I do say so.
My phone trills just as I’m doing the final adjustments to my cock and balls. Summer. Geez, it’s been a few weeks.
“ Daaaarling ,” she says, as soon as I answer.
“Hi, sweetie. Whatcha up to? Aren’t you working today?”
“My client isn’t home,” she sighs. “Not answering her phone, either. So I’m sitting in my car waiting for her to show up. I’ll give her ten more minutes, then I’m off.”
“That sucks. Will you still get paid?”
“God, yeah! You bet we’re gonna bill the NDIS for no-shows. Anyway, why aren't you working?”
My chuckle is almost a chortle. “Sweetie, I get eight hours of teaching work a week if I’m lucky. Oh! Have a listen to this—” I grab my iPad off the bedside table and click open one of the essays I stayed up marking last night.
“‘ It never fails to perplex me that so many ensembles treat the first chorus of Bach’s ‘Wachet Auf’ like some sort of pompous dirge. Their sluggish tempi and muddy, oversized choirs are misplaced romantic interpretations that do no justice to Bach’s vision. The whole thing should move forwards at a snappy pace, and the semiquaver passages in the strings need to be crisp and crystal clear, as do the melismas in the vocal parts. The latter cannot be achieved if the piece is weighed down by all and sundry in the choir stands—it needs a tight, small chamber ensemble of voices for maximum agility. Far from this merely being a subjective view based on my own selfish listening pleasure, these requirements are essential to fully realise the precise and deliberate intricacy of Bach’s masterful word painting. ’” I’m beaming with pride. “This is why my job is so great. How could you not love teaching students like her?”
“Ha! Yeah—she sounds exactly the same as you.”
“Oh. Pardon me for being passionate about what I do.” I toss my iPad onto the mattress indignantly, even though I know she can’t see me.
“Speaking of passionate,” says Summer, “are you ever going to actually start singing again?”
This is a sore subject. I’m so out of practice, I doubt I’ll ever be back in professional shape again. But I’m not going to get into that with Summer. “I’m still seeing the opera teacher once a month. Maybe I’ll do some more performing when all this crap with Jarrod is sorted out.”
Summer pauses for a moment. “How are things going with him?” She’s being cautious. It’s not like her and it unsettles me. I cringe as I picture her sitting at home with Nathan talking about her sad old brother and his sad old life.
Do I even have the insight to give her any kind of coherent answer? Do I even want to open Pandora’s Box right now? There’s a sudden surge of pressure in my chest. Realisation smacks me hard in the face—I’m dying to tell someone. “Jarrod’s been away for a few weeks and it’s been so nice with him gone.”
I think about how much I’ve loved having Bruno here anytime I wanted. I should feel at least some semblance of guilt over this, but I refuse to. Jarrod has never made any bones about the amount of men he’s shagged in the last year and a half.
My phone beeps in my ear. “Hang on a sec.” I switch Summer to speakerphone and have a look at the text message that just came through. “Well, talk of the devil…”
JARROD: Hey Brad, I’m coming back today. Be home by six. Is there food in the house? Do you want me to get stuff for dinner?
“Wow.” The word pops out before I remember Summer’s still on speakerphone.
“What? Come on—tell me tell me tell me!” Now, that sounds more like the Summer I know.
“I haven’t heard from him the whole time he’s been gone. Now he’s coming back this evening and even offered to shop for dinner.”
“What do you mean?” says Summer. “Doesn’t he do any shopping?”
I can’t even manage to stifle a rueful laugh. “Jarrod doesn’t really do anything. I look after the apartment. He just comes and goes and I clean up after him. Brendan and I do the shopping, I just lug home whatever I can fit into a backpack.”
Summer groans with audible exasperation. “I don’t understand, Braddy. Why don’t you just do it online and get it delivered?”
Bless her, always looking for practical solutions. As if I haven’t already considered this a million times. “The website is such a strain to see and the order takes me so long, I only do it if I need to buy too much stuff to carry home. Otherwise, it’s easier to just walk down to the shops and squint along the aisles using a magnifier.”
“Sweetie…” Summer starts. “Um, are things really that bad with Jarrod?”
Here we go. “Yeah, they’re not great. He’s been drinking a lot for months. I know he’s hitting the party drugs too, because he’s so bloody erratic. I—” Ugh. I’ve never voiced this out loud. “I think sometimes he’s on meth.”
“Oh, God,” gasps Summer. “You have to get out of this, darl. Really. Do you… do you still love him?”
“No.” I don’t even need to think about this, my body just expels the answer. “I prayed for so long that things’d go back to how they were at the start. It was so stupid of me; of course they weren’t going to. And frankly, I don’t care anymore, especially since I’ve started seeing—” I cut myself off. As desperate as I am to tell Summer about Bruno, I just can’t bring myself to do it. I don’t think anyone’s going to understand what's happening between us. Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. We’re both with other partners, for God’s sake. But in my head, this whole thing with him has gone way beyond sex and friendship.
“Started seeing what?” says Summer.
“Ugh. Nah, don’t worry about it.”
“No! Screw you, Braddy! You can’t leave me hanging like this!”
I let out a long sigh, trying to think of a save. “Especially since I’ve started seeing him in a new light. Jarrod treats me like a doormat. I can’t remember the last time he spoke to me like a human being. That’s why this text he sent is so strange.”
“You know, maybe it’s an olive branch.”
I consider this for a moment. “Possibly. Oh, what the hell.” I start to text Jarrod a reply, reading it out to Summer as I type. “‘ Thanks, Jarrod. Don’t worry about shopping though. I’ll organise dinner. See you at six.’ You think that sounds alright? Should I say ‘Welcome home’, or do you reckon that’d be too much?”
“Nah. Just leave it as it is.”
With Summer still on speakerphone in my left hand, I hop around, trying to get into my new three-inch Puma running shorts. “Anyway, all I’ve done is go on about myself. What’s happening with you? When are you all coming to Sydney?”
“Still a couple of months away. It’s gonna be disruptive to the girls having to change schools, but they’re only in kindy and Year Two, so they’ll be OK.”
“Gosh, they weren’t even in school when I was last over there. How old are they now?”
“Turning six and eight. You haven’t laid eyes on them in three years, Braddy. They still ask about you all the time.”
Way to make me feel bad, Summer. “I’m so sorry. I’ll be seeing all of you again really soon, so I promise I’ll make it up to them.”
The line goes quiet for a second. “Oh, gawd,” Summer moans. “Here’s the community transport bus. Guess she’s decided to show up after all. I gotta go. But Braddy…”
“Yeah?”
“Really think about this shit with Jarrod, OK? And call me anytime. I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t be. I’ll sort it out.”
Well, that’s a lie, Bradford, isn’t it?
To complete my brand new outfit, I slip into a tight sky-blue Cricket Australia polo I’ve just bought. I’m such a fraud. I haven't played cricket since I was a schoolkid. But, damn, doesn’t it look great on me. Once upon a time, I would hide myself behind baggy shirts. The uneasiness I felt at having any kind of love handles seeped into every cell of my body. It was my silent shame; a constant undercurrent of inadequacy pervading my entire existence.
Nowadays, I look in the mirror and I see a man with physical appeal. Yeah, I’m a bit of a porker, but it works for me. All that opera singing has given me a big barrel chest. Couple that with my tree-trunk thighs, and I’m the best kind of bear. Anyone who doesn’t like it can kiss my hairy arse.
The second Brendan spots me emerging from the bedroom carrying my work boots, he snaps to it. I listen to the click-clack of his feet on the tiled floor in the laundry, hear the jingling sound as he collects his harness and leash, then grin like a twit at his little dance routine when he returns. How the hell could I not take my precious boy for a decent walk after that kind of performance dedication?
I’m so glad I stayed up late and finished marking those assignments. With no teaching work hanging over my head, today’s walk is so much more relaxed. It’s sunny and hot, but there’s a persistent breeze rolling in from the ocean. When my legs, my butt and my dog have had their required workout, I stop in at Woolworths. Brendan knows his way around this place better than I do, and he’s very happy to steer me directly to the meat section. I haven’t really thought about what to make Jarrod for dinner, so I scan the shelves. My eyes are immediately drawn to a pile of pink, shrink-wrapped packets. Corned silverside.
I remember making this for Jarrod several years ago, way back at the beginning. He’d raved about how it was his favourite, so I spent a good few hours cooking the whole shebang one evening when he was coming over for dinner. I simmered the beef for two hours with onions and turnips and carrots and vinegar and brown sugar. Then, I served it up to him smothered in parsley sauce.
I remember Jarrod’s reaction. He wasn’t just blown away, he was visibly emotional. I could see his eyes glistening in the candlelight as he quietly spoke. “You made this exactly like my nan used to before she died,” he said. The vulnerability in his smile cut right to my core. Later that night, he held me in bed, stroking my beard. As he studied my features, the same vulnerability he’d shown at dinner came over him. “I love you, Brad,” he whispered. It was the first time he’d ever said those three little words.
Yes, things were good between us once. I’d just look at him and I’d feel truly alive. Desirable. Like I was of some value as a person. I don’t know what happened. I don’t know where those feelings went. I certainly don’t know what I did to deserve his animosity.
As I’m rummaging through the display to find the smallest piece of pickled beef in there, I can’t help but wonder if it’s a wise move trying to dredge up a memory like this with Jarrod. I know it won’t rescue the love we once shared, but maybe it’ll give him pause to think. Maybe he’ll consider being a little kinder to me. That’s all I’m asking for.
Brendan’s been sitting there patiently, his furry doggy butt parked on the cold floor next to me as I’ve been staring at the hunks of meat. I dump the silverside in my basket, then spot some large soup bones on the bottom shelf. “You want one of these this arvo, buddy?” Ha. Stupid question. I plonk the meatiest one I can find in the basket next to the beef, then realise I’ll need to get something for myself. I want something easy, something that doesn’t require too much fuss to make while the beef is cooking.
This is one of the things I found the most frustrating when I lost my vision. All of a sudden, things in the kitchen became way more difficult. I could still see well enough to cook simple dishes, but with tunnel vision, poor clarity and slow visual reflexes, I could no longer dart my eyes around willy-nilly. Tending to a host of kitchen tasks all at once was out of the question. These days, I have to carefully plan and predict pitfalls. I have to have everything set out and ready, as if I was on a TV cooking program—one of the proper old-fashioned ones, not those stupid modern reality-show ones where they all run around bitching at each other.
Steering Brendan to the vegetable section—he doesn't seem quite so enthusiastic about this leg of the journey—I pick up the carrots and turnips and onions. Next stop is the bakery, where I grab a crusty grain sourdough, followed by the cheese section, where I pick up a wedge of imported pecorino. My final stop is in the grocery aisles, where I buy some thick spiral pasta and a few jars of antipasto goodies.
On my way home, with my stuffed backpack weighing down my shoulders, I feel a sudden pang of doubt. I’m waiting at a crossing light and I reach down to ruffle Brendan’s head. “You reckon I’ve gone overboard here, buddy? Do I look desperate?”
Desperate. A shudder goes through me. I'm certainly not desperate to rekindle anything sexual with Jarrod. It’s not just because I’ve got a hot new Italian… Italian what ? What do I call him? I hate that ‘f’-buddy word. It makes it sound like all we do is cop each other’s dicks up our arseholes. Bruno is my… paramour. Yes, I like the sound of that. It’s illicit, it’s verboten , but it’s sensual.
“No, this definitely isn’t about Bruno, OK?” I say.
Brendan glances up at me with his best ‘What the hell are you waffling on about?’ expression.
“Jarrod just doesn’t like us anymore. But we’re cool with that, aren’t we?” I reach down and ruffle Brendan’s neck.
He snaps to attention as he hears the crossing light go off. To my left, a woman comes into view, turning her head and shooting us a bemused smile. Gee, I must look like a complete madman having these detailed discussions with my labrador in public.
“Why on earth do I put up with his crap, buddy?” I say as we round the next corner. “Why do I keep him around? Am I really that pissweak? Why can’t I confront him, eh?”
Brendan doesn’t respond; he’s too busy concentrating. But I know the answer: Yes, I am weak. I know I won’t tackle this right now, I’ll just let sleeping dogs lie. When the time comes, I’ll make my move. At least that’s what I always tell myself.
***
Back at home, Brendan and I have a couple of hours to spend out on the lawn—me lying on the picnic blanket listening to my audiobook, and him annihilating his bone. I watch him there as he attacks the grotesque item. The joy it brings him is priceless. I wouldn’t swap these little moments for anything.
I’m the first to admit I’m a shocking gardener. I have zero talent for keeping plants alive. However, I have managed to successfully grow several herbs in the box outside my kitchen window. My parsley is thriving right now and it comes in handy tonight, tossed through Jarrod’s meat and veggies, and thrown in liberal amounts into the thick white sauce. While the meat is busy cooking, I rustle up my all-time favourite vego pasta dish, with onions, garlic, green chillies, artichokes, sun-dried tomatoes and kalamata olives.
I’ve organised it so everything’s all done by six-fifteen. There’s no way I’d ever expect Jarrod to be home on time, but I wanted dinner to be well underway in the event he did actually show up when he said he would. It feels pathetic, worrying about things like this. But I’ve put in a lot of effort and I don’t want that to be tarnished if he gets back here and it looks like I’m nowhere near ready.
I sit there at the nicely-laid table, and I wait. Much longer than I should. It gets to the point where I know dinner will be ruined if I don’t eat it. So, I do. I dish myself up a king-sized bowl of pasta, shave tons of pecorino on top, and eat till I’m stuffed full. In between mouthfuls, I help myself to sourdough with lashings of Lurpak butter. It’s decadent and I’m determined to enjoy every bite.
When I’m done, I stare at the table, at the napkins and cutlery and glassware and side plates and breadboard. And I feel embarrassed. Gathering as many things as I can, I make my way to the kitchen. There in the low oven, I spot the silverside, still clinging to life.
Why did I bother? What’s wrong with me? What did I expect? Am I really surprised? It’s my fault. It’s definitely my fault. I’m an idiot and I should have known better.
Pulling out the casserole dish from the oven, I grab a knife and hack the beef to bits. All it amounts to in the end is a couple of handfuls of sad slices.
“Hey, buddy,” I call out. Brendan’s there in a flash, sitting tall in front of me. One by one, I hand-feed the morsels to my best friend, smiling at the way he beams after every bite.
Seeing as Jarrod’s not home, I decide to put on a movie after dinner. Brendan’s not allowed on the couch, but I deliberately bought one with removable seat cushions. I arrange a couple of them on the floor in front of the couch and sit down on them. As soon as I’m in position, Brendan lies next to me and rests his head on my lap. It’s our little cinema ritual and it’s something we only get to do on occasion. Jarrod won’t be pleased if he sees it. I can just hear him now: “You treat that bloody dog like it’s a child.” At this late stage, though, I couldn’t care less. I’ve gone above and beyond for him today and he can go to hell.
There’s still no sign of Jarrod when I’m getting ready for bed. Once upon a time, I used to sleep naked. I loved that sensation of complete freedom; it made me feel sexy. But after a while living with Jarrod, it started to make me feel shame. More specifically, Jarrod made me feel shame. These days, I wear boxers. I guess I’m not as confident as I thought.
Brendan wanders into the bedroom, just like he does every night. He gives the space a cursory check, then comes up and gently touches his nose on my leg. Satisfied that I’m OK, he trots off back out to the lounge room to his own bed.
I am loved. This is my final thought before I fall asleep.
***
It seems like hours later when I’m woken by Jarrod barging through the bedroom door. There’s not a hint of consideration for the fact I’m in here sleeping. He’s clearly in a foul mood, tossing his bag down and swearing at God knows what. At times like these, I’d normally keep a low profile. But his careless entrance adds insult to injury after his no-show tonight.
“Where were you, Jarrod?”
“Caught up with Davo. Not that it’s any of your business.” Jarrod’s rifling through his bag. I can see his dark form hunched down. I can hear zips being wrenched open. I can also hear objects being tossed all over the floor. The floor that I tidied when Jarrod left.
“So, what was that text about being home for dinner at six?”
Jarrod lets out a huff. “What are you? My bloody keeper? I don’t have to answer to you. It’s my life and I’ll do what I damn well want.”
I’m trying my best to control myself. “After I got your message, I went shopping. I bought a ton of food and lugged it all back here. I made silverside and veggies exactly the way you like it, then I sat there for ages waiting for you to show up.”
“Well, I never asked you to do that.” Jarrod’s using his arrogant sing-song voice. “Stop your bitching. I’ll fuckin’ eat it tomorrow.”
“Too late. I fed it to Brendan.”
Jarrod stands up, turning on me. It’s dark in here, but I know him so well I can sense the way he’s leering. “Jesus, you and that fuckin’ dog of yours.” I watch his silhouette as he throws whatever he’s holding on the floor. “Anyway, why are you always around? Can’t I get a bit of peace and quiet without you lurking in my fuckin’ space?”
“This is my bedroom too, Jarrod.”
“Oh really? Well it’s my bed!”
“Because I got rid of mine when you moved in!” This is escalating fast. My heart is racing and I’m starting to wish I’d never said anything, but I don’t seem to be able to stop myself. “Why don’t you go and sleep in the study if you want some space?”
Jarrod rips the blanket and sheet off the bed, throwing them across the room. “No, you go and sleep in the fuckin’ study.” He switches on the light, exposing me as I’m cowering on the mattress in my underwear. The look of repulsion on his face robs me of any self esteem I’ve been able to rekindle in his absence. “In fact, you can take all your shit with you. I don't want you in here anymore.”
I’ve never felt more pitiful, more lame, more worthless than I do right now. With my tail between my legs, I grab as many things off my bedside table as I can and slink out. In the lounge room, I feel a cold nose against my leg. Brendan’s been waiting. He’s heard what was going on and he’s worried about me. I could just about cry right now.
“Come on, buddy,” I whisper, and lead him into the study. After plonking down my salvaged items on the desk, I shut the door behind us. Bruno and I have slept in this room every time he’s been over, so I have sheets and blankets folded underneath the sofa. Brendan sits quietly as I make up the bed and slip under the covers. “You wanna get up?” I pat the mattress.
He seems confused for a minute. This is something that never happens. He always sleeps in his bed. But I’m not about to go out there and drag it in here. I can hear Jarrod moving around making noise and I don’t want to run into him again right now. When I pat the mattress once more, Brendan suddenly twigs. This is a treat. With lightning speed, he hops up to settle on the end of the sofa bed. “This is just for one night , OK?” I may as well be speaking Swahili, but Brendan can read my tone. I’m sure he understands. Settling back, I hope like hell I can recapture the remainder of tonight’s sleep.
There are all kinds of sounds going on out there now. I don’t think Jarrod’s trashing the place, it’s not loud enough. He wouldn’t be moving furniture at this time of night, would he? I close my eyes and try to tune it out. Whatever it is, I’ll deal with it tomorrow. Somehow, I manage to bring my focus onto my breathing, listening to the sound of my body inhaling and exhaling.
The door bursts open and something slaps against my face. Light is streaming in from the lounge room and Jarrod’s standing at the door, hands on his hips. I grope around and pick up the item that hit me. It’s a dildo. It’s my dildo. He’s clearly been going right through my stuff because I have it well-hidden. I should be mortified, but it’s hard to keep a straight face as I hold the big eight-inch dong and look back at Jarrod. I never actually cared about the fact Jarrod’s dick is nothing to write home about. But I know it’s a sore point with him. And he knows this is exactly what I’m thinking as he slams the door.
My sleep is turbulent and I wake up early. I don’t want to go out there if Jarrod’s around. It seems quiet. Maybe he’s still asleep. No, no—maybe he’s doing an early shift. He hates working those, he only does them when he’s desperate for the money. And he has just been away for weeks . That would explain last night: his supposed intention for dinner at six, his foul mood when he got in late. Please, please let him have left already.
I decide to chance it. Brendan needs to go outside for his dunny run, anyway. When I open the study door, I’m met with mayhem. All my stuff has been thrown on the floor or tossed over the couch. The shelving unit that held my folded clothes has been dragged out and unceremoniously dumped on its side. My shorts and t-shirts and underwear are now spilling out of their baskets in all directions. My hanging rack is upended; pretty much thrown from Jarrod’s doorway. Yes, it’s Jarrod’s doorway now.
The impact of this scene is too much for me to handle right now. A wet nose tentatively brushes against my hand. I glance down to see Brendan standing beside me, his usual morning enthusiasm replaced by a quiet and sombre countenance. “Oh, buddy. I’m so glad I didn't leave you out here last night.”
Slowly and carefully, I pick my way through the mess, looking closely at the floor to avoid stepping on anything. The only time my eyes leave the carpet is to check for signs of Jarrod. Squinting into the bedroom, I'm relieved to see that it’s devoid of human occupants. Down the hall in front of me, I spot the open bathroom door and note the lack of any noise coming from there. Thank God.
After I’ve pulled on some clothes from the mess, Brendan and I make a pit stop through the laundry for his leash and harness and doggie bags, then we’re straight out the back door. It’s such a relief to escape the apartment and all that bad energy in there. Sinking down into one of my dilapidated plastic chairs, I stare at the blurry figure of my dog. I envy the simple joy he finds in things. You’d think he’d been taken on a special outing, the way he roves across our meagre strip of grass.
“It doesn’t seem like it right now, but this is for the greater good, Bradford.”
My mother’s voice makes me jump for a split second. It shouldn’t, in all honesty. This is exactly the kind of moment she might have shown up for in the past. “Nice of you to drop in, mum. It’s been a little while.”
“You were doing really well, Bradford. There was no need for me to hang around.”
“Tell me, mum—in all this time, have you ever visited Summer like this?” It’s only now that I turn around and spot her there, lounging back in the chair next to me with her right leg casually slung over her left. She has a kind smile on her face, that warm expression that always made me feel better as a child, no matter what.
“Summer has Nathan and her girls. A career she loves. She’s truly happy.”
I know what mum’s trying to say, I really do. But I feel wretched. Loser Bradford with his lame excuse for a life. She can’t even escape me in death.
“Darling, don’t ever feel like I’m here out of some begrudging sense of pity. I know I always tell you I can only show up when I’m needed, but you know what?” She pauses till I make eye contact with her again. “I’ll take it. Any chance that I get to see you again is a blessing, you understand?”
“It’s the same for me, mum.” My voice is the faintest whisper. I feel like I should speak up, but I can see in mum’s eyes that the message has got through. It’s like this connection is… otherworldly. That word is just a little bit too obvious, though. I can never be sure if mum is actually here. As this thought runs through my mind, her image begins to fade. “Don’t go!” I cry out. The knee-jerk desperation in my voice shocks me, but it’s exactly what the doctor ordered: slowly, her form becomes more opaque again. “You're right. I need you, Mum. I don’t even know how to move on from here.”
She reaches out to me. Her right hand tries to touch my cheek, but it stops short and I notice the pain in her expression. I notice the way she draws in a deep breath. I notice the effort she’s making to hold herself together. It takes her a while, but eventually she begins to talk. “Bradford, this is the first step. This is the beginning of the end for you and Jarrod. And you didn’t even have to lift a finger—Jarrod did it all for you. The next move should be yours. And you’ll know when it’s time to make it.” As her image fades again, she mouths the words: I love you.
“I love you too, Mum,” I whisper to the empty chair beside me.
Back inside the apartment, I survey the damage once more. This is for the greater good. This is for the greater good. Mum’s words buzz round in my head like a mantra as I bend down and begin to pick up the pieces of my life.