Chapter 7 December 7th
I went straight home after work yesterday and waited for his call.
It came at nine, and the rush of blood to my head made me dizzy, no matter how hard I tried to control it.
I faced up to myself in the mirror—had a stern word with myself—and repeatedly stated that I’m not falling for him.
I can’t fall for him. And then I answered his call, heard his voice, and was freefalling once again.
I can’t have children.
Me neither.
The question is, does he want them?
We talked for an hour. He walked me through the rest of his day—the ten million was accepted, the competition chased away—and I listened, his deep, smooth voice sinking past me and warming me deeply. The tug inside is getting stronger, as is my conflict. Getting close means getting close. Sharing.
Exposing myself, being vulnerable.
I hate it, but I also hate the constant constriction in my throat—of having no purpose—the dizziness, the regret, the heaviness.
The unbearable pain of self-inflicted solitude.
And the fact that his call brought light into the cold silence of my apartment. My life.
Don’t grow dependent, Camryn.
How long can we talk, be together, and not get deeper? More personal? And will I withdraw when we do? Or is it okay to start feeling a modicum of joy? Have I done my time feeling so broken? They’re all hard-hitting questions that I have no answers to. Will I ever?
Today’s banal workday included waiting to hear back from Finance, which eventually happened at six o’clock.
The company accountant requested a call tomorrow.
I punch out a reply on my way to the elevator, slightly concerned by his request but too gripped by anticipation too see Dec to really pay much attention to it. “Camryn!”
I look back, seeing Debbie hurrying my way, today’s tights a rare shade of emerald-green. She reaches up and pulls the reindeer antlers off her head, smiling awkwardly. She’s obviously forgotten about the tinsel wrapped around her wrists and ankles. “You’re late this evening,” I say.
“I’ve been wrapping gifts for . . . never mind.
” She comes to a stop, a little out of breath, and realises she’s forgot about her bracelets and anklets, quickly ripping them off.
Her scraps of tinsel are the least of my problems. “The draw for Secret Santa was today.” The caution in her voice is borderline pitiful.
I know what’s happened here. They’ve drawn straws over who’s going to tell me who I need to buy for.
“And you excluded me from the draw, right?”
“Not right. You see, the new girl, Lacy, she wasn’t told that you don’t . . . well, take part, so you were included and emails have gone out to everyone. You’ve got me.” She smiles, toothy and wide. Nervous. “But it’s fine because I’ll pretend I don’t know who my gift is from.”
“What’s the budget?” The doors open, and I step inside.
“Twenty quid.”
“I’ll give you twenty quid. You can buy yourself something.”
“Where’s your Christmas spirit?”
“Dead.”
“Right.” She shakes her head in exasperation. “Thomas asked me to make sure you’ve not forgotten the event tomorrow evening.”
“I haven’t forgotten since the last time he asked you to remind me.”
Her lips press into a straight line. “Dress code is glam.”
My hand shoots up, stopping the doors from meeting in the middle. “Glam as in glamorous?”
She nods.
“Of course it is.” I let the doors close and drop my head back, mentally searching through the endless unopened boxes for something I can wear. I see in my mind’s eye many things I can’t face, so actually searching them? No. I’ll have to buy something.
My phone rings as I’m heading across the road to The Royal Constantine, and I stop just shy of the kerbside, my stomach dropping. “Hello.”
“Mrs. Moore, it’s D—”
“It’s Ms.”
“Ms. Moore, it’s Deirdre from Long Acres.”
“How can I help you?”
“It’s your mother.”
A horrible sick feeling rises. “What about her?”
“She’s asking for you.”
My spine lengthens, my eyes staring forward at nothing. “What?” She’s not asked for me for months. Rarely recognises me at all anymore.
“She’s getting rather distressed. Crying for you. I think you should come.”
The lump in my throat is instant. I feel like I could choke when I try to swallow it down.
“I’m on my way.” I hang up and reroute to the Tube.
No walking today, I haven’t got time. I text Dec as I’m hurrying down the steps to let him know I can’t make drinks, and he answers immediately, telling me to call him when I can.
She’s asking for me?
I push my way through the door and dash past the receptionist. “Can you open the doors?”
“You need to sign in,” she yells after me.
My teeth grit as I do an about-turn and rush back to the desk, scribbling my name, time, and who I’m visiting, throwing the pen back down.
“Done.” I hear the door click as I grab the handle, and I haul it open with too much force, making it smack the wall behind it.
Mum’s room in the last on the left, and I hurry in, out of breath but still managing to hold it.
Three nurses are surrounding the bed, all bent over her.
“Are you kidding?” I yell outraged, muscling my way through them.
“She scarcely weighs ninety pounds, it does not need three of you to hold her down.” No one should be holding her anywhere; it’s not as if she can escape, she can’t even fucking walk now, her strength gone.
“Mum,” I say, throwing my bag to the floor. “Mum, I’m here, it’s okay.”
Her flailing limbs still, her clenched eyes pop open, and she looks me directly in the eyes. My heart squeezes, searching for any recognition. Please know who I am today. Please.
“It’s me, Mum. Camryn.”
“They’re trying to kill me!” she yells “Making me take pills so they can get my money. They’ve taken all of my money! The cash in the wardrobe. In a Tesco bag. They’ve taken it, the robbing bastards. They’re stealing my money!”
“Your money is safe, Mum. I have your money.” I’ve done this a million times and will do it a million more. “They were bringing your money to me so I can keep it safe for you.”
Her frail body rolls with her laboured breathing. “Who are you?” My heart falls. “You’re stealing my money too! I don’t know this woman. Who is she? Get her out. Out!”
“Mum, it’s me. Camryn,” I say, moving in, taking her hand and holding on tightly. Desperately. See me.
“I don’t know no Camryn.”
“Your daughter. I’m your little buttercup, Mum.”
Her hand comes at me so fast, I don’t have a chance to dodge her slap, and my head snaps to the side, my neck cricking. The sting is instant, the afterburn brutal. “Shit,” I whisper, releasing her and clenching my cheek. She’s weak, yes, but that slap was far from it.
“Get her out!” she shrieks. “I want Noah. Where’s my little Noah?”
I step away when the nurse moves back in, one of them armed with a needle. I can’t watch, so I turn my back on my mum, thankful that she settles after they administer a sedative to calm her down.
She hit me. My mum hit me.
No, it’s not your mum.
The confused, angry lady in that bed isn’t the beautiful, kind woman who raised me. I’m still grieving the loss of her to Alzheimer’s. “Let me check you over, Camryn,” Deirdre says, coming at me, concern drenching her face.
“It’s fine. I’m fine.” I release my cheek, feeling a wet warmth trickling down my skin.
The nurse hisses, taking my wrist and pulling it down to get a better look. “She’s caught you with her ring.”
“I’m okay.” I swoop up my bag and leave, the walls closing in again. I don’t need to bang on the door this time, as another visitor is coming through when I get there. I make it outside and take a moment, wiping my sore cheek with a tissue from my bag, hissing and wincing. Who is she? Get her out!
My heart breaks a little bit more as I fumble through my bag for my phone, texting my brother.
I can’t do this anymore. You have to come and help me.
My weak legs give way, and I lower to one of the steps, sliding my fingers into my hair.
Clenching. I don’t know no Camryn. What hurts most is she’s right.
I’m not her daughter. Not how she would have remembered her girl, if she could even remember.
She doesn’t know me. I don’t even know myself anymore.
Everything I’ve ever known, ever loved? It’s all gone.
Predictably, resentment and anger rise and start to blend with my relentless grief.
I check the time; it’s just past seven.
A drink. I need a drink.
I clench the rail and drag myself up, my weary body protesting. But I don’t go to the bar. I hate myself for it, but I don’t go. Because today, oddly, I would hate myself more if I did.
And with that revelation bouncing around rapidly in my mind, I walk home, feeling the most alone I have since my life was torn apart.
As I turn up the path to the door of my building, I come to a startled stop, my lagging, tired mind trying to compute what I’m looking at. “Mr. Percival?” I say, tilting my head and dipping, seeing his snow boots sticking out from beneath the bottom of a Christmas tree.
That’s wedged in the doorway.
“Yes, dear?” he yells, his voice muffled.
“Are you okay?” What a daft question. He’s clearly not okay—the top half of his body’s inside the building with the top of the tree, his lower half hanging out the door with the bottom of it.
“I seem to have got myself stuck.”
“You don’t say,” I mumble, making my way up the path, something crunching under my heels.
I look down, lifting each shoe, finding a blanket of pine needles paving the way.
Did he actually drag this tree home from wherever he’s bought it?
How? He can hardly hold himself up. I shake my head and assess the situation.
This tree is worthy of Trafalgar Square, for Christ’s sake.
Bending, looking through the busy branches, I try to figure out who to try and get out first—the tree or Mr. Percival. “Are you lying down?”
“I fell, dear. Or folded.”