Chapter 42 #3
‘It is remarkable how you manage to make everything about you.’ She crosses one leg over the other.
‘Do you remember when you were seven and you got sent home from school because you wanted to be in Nick’s class, and they wouldn’t let you, so you threw a pen at a teacher?
’ The mention of my brother’s name feels like a wasp sting to my core.
I haven’t heard her say it in years. Hearing it come from her mouth, voiced so casually, makes me freeze, as if ice has been injected into my system.
‘You’ve always found things harder than they need to be.
You have found it hard to do things alone – to do things for yourself.
Either myself or Nick – and now Ronan – have had to hold your hand.
I tried to raise you to be self-sufficient. ’
‘Well, I’m sorry I was so needy.’
‘Oh, come off it, you’re not needy, Mallory, because you don’t need anything.
And you never have. You have always been looked after.
You seem to place yourself in a position of pain – but I’m not sure you really know what it is to struggle.
You like to think you do, but your life is enviable.
Look around you. I know you miss Nick, and I know full well that you blame me for it – but you really need to start moving on. You’re stuck.’
Her words slice like a knife. ‘Wow, say what you really mean, why don’t you, Mum.’
‘Someone should.’
‘Who said I blame you?’
‘Sorry?’
‘For Nick’s death.’
‘Oh, come off it, Mallory. The way you have acted with me for the past ten years – I know you see his death as a direct result of my parenting.’
‘What?’ Is she drunk? Or has she been wanting to say this for years? Did she come downstairs while I was outside and wait for me to have this conversation? She is so confident, so assured—
‘Is that why you don’t want to be a mother, Mallory? You’re worried you’ll mess your children up, like I did?’
‘Jesus Christ, Mum.’
‘You painted me as a monster in this book.’ She holds up the Shallow Embers hardback. ‘Is this what you’re scared of becoming? A shitty mother?’
She never swears. Never. ‘I’d like to leave this conversation now.’
‘Are you ever honest?’
‘Sorry?’ Again, I freeze. I want to say, You have no idea. You didn’t know him like I did. You’re the one who can’t see the truth. ‘Fine. Yes. I think it was your fault. I think it was your fault Nick died.’
She narrows her eyes. ‘There it is.’
‘You weren’t there for him when he needed you.
You never were. You were obsessed with yourself.
With being seen in a certain way.’ She raises her eyebrows.
Go on. Keep going. Is she enjoying this?
‘I have often wondered what happened to him the night before he did it. I want to know if his decision was planned. If he had some very clear and rational understanding that his life should be over. Or if it was impulsive. I want to know what was going on inside him. It wasn’t a mistake, I know that much.
He wasn’t asking for help – it was too intentional and too secret.
He never asked me for help. Not once. I want to know what was inside that made him want to keep all that in.
It was so unexpected – because he never told me.
I want to know why him. Because let’s face it, we both assumed I would be the one that would end up that way. ’
‘Finally, some honesty.’ She pauses. ‘I’m glad you didn’t end up that way.
’ Her eyes glint, watery under the light of the corner lamp, but she looks at the floor.
‘You’re lucky to have Ronan. I’m glad you have him, Mal.
He is good for you. I know you don’t want to hear it, but you struggle on your own.
You need him, and that’s OK.’ I feel like I might cry again.
Or be sick. I can’t tell the difference.
‘We need to put this behind us now, Mallory. I am here to help you. Tomorrow you can show me some of your book, and we can talk about getting you back to work – doing your therapy. Doing what you need to do to be a part of the life you have created...’
I don’t even excuse myself. I just leave the living room. I don’t know how I get upstairs, but I do, my mind moving, firing, rapidly weaving something together. I tiptoe into the en suite and sit.
I pull the laptop out from under the sink cabinet and begin to type.
Hi Stan –
Here is the new version of the final third of the book. I hope the publisher finds this to be more aligned with what they are looking for.
The words pour out of me.
So much so that soon the laptop is about to die on me. I sneak back downstairs, plug it in at the kitchen table, pour myself a glass of wine and continue.
When I am done, it is 3 a.m.
In an exhausted post-creative haze, I stare at what I have written. At my future. It’s good enough. I know it is. It’s what they want.
I press send.
I go back up to bed, to my sleeping husband, and lie next to him. I stare at the ceiling and do something I haven’t done for a long time. I pray.
Please let this work. Please let this end.