Chapter Monday 16 September 2024 Connor #2
These weren’t ideal storytelling conditions, Connor thought. Ideally, his tale would unfold in a more relaxed way and without his audience already having seen through his aim in telling it.
“Mum thought she only had two choices,” he said, “and she hated them both: either change her mind and be fine with the tattoo—try and convince herself it wasn’t the disaster she thought it was so that she and our Danielle could still see each other and have a good relationship—or else stop seeing her own daughter, like, distance herself, maybe just see her for Christmas and birthdays, that kind of thing.
Sounds extreme, I know, but, sir, you don’t know how much Mum hates tattoos. ”
“I’m starting to get an idea,” said Large.
“And our Danielle wore nothing but shorts that were, like, up here, to show it off. Mum was convinced she had to make this awful choice: her only daughter or her…integrity, I suppose you’d call it.”
“No need for the ‘only,’” said Large.
“Pardon, sir?”
“Her daughter or her integrity: That’s the choice. It doesn’t matter how many daughters she’s got. She could have fourteen.”
“No, she’s only got one,” said Connor. “It’s just me and our Danielle.”
Large shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. The ‘only’ acts as a distraction.
We don’t need to wonder if the dilemma would be less painful if she had some daughters to spare.
It wouldn’t be.” He eyed the stained manuscript.
Leaning forward, he tapped his fingers on the title page, then looked up at Connor expectantly. “Well? Go on. What did she choose?”
“Neither of the options she hated, thanks to my wife, Flo, who explained to her about the boxes and saved the day.”
Large sighed. “What boxes?”
“It’s a thought experiment,” Connor told him.
“You imagine you have two boxes, right? Both big, both empty. And neither one ever has to have any contact with the other. They can just sit side by side, quite separately, being none of each other’s business.
That’s what Flo told Mum. She said, ‘There’s no need to change your opinion about Danielle’s tattoo, or tattoos in general.
In Box Number 1, you put your acceptance of all the pain and anger you’re feeling, and all the crying and raging and pillow-thumping you need to do about it.
You’ll always hate that Danielle’s vandalized her body, you’ll never be okay with it—and you just, like, fully accept that.
You don’t judge yourself for it or try to change your thoughts or feelings about it, just stick them all in Box 1.
“‘Then, in Box 2, you put all your feelings and wishes and hopes for Danielle and your relationship with her. In Box 2, you want only the best for her and trust her to make her own decisions and to know what’s right for her. You accept all her choices and love her no matter what. In Box 2, you’re just there for her.
’ That’s what Flo said, and it saved Mum’s sanity and the relationship.
She and our Danielle are closer than ever, because both boxes were full of acceptance.
And acceptance and acceptance can’t ever be at war, you see, sir.
Nothing can ever be at war with itself. It’s like Flo says: Accepting that we don’t like or want something doesn’t mean we have to push anything away—either our true feelings or the thing we dislike. ”
“I see. Is your wife some sort of counselor?” Large asked.
“No. She’s got her own catering company, though.
Sir, speaking of boxes, this”—Connor put his hand on the manuscript—“arrived in a box with my name on it. A big, damp cardboard box that disintegrated when I opened it. The pages had been stuffed in, no particular order—some scrunched, some folded, some flat. It took me ages to arrange them so they made sense. I think if you read it the way I’ve put it together, you’ll have as many questions as I’ve got.
Think of it like this: We’ve got Box 1 over here”—Connor drew a square shape in the air with his fingers—“where we know it was natural causes because a coroner said so—”
“That’s the only box I’m interested in,” said Large.
“But there’s also Box 2, the one I found sitting between my car and our garage door a few days ago, with this…book, thing, inside it, but all jumbled up. And in that box what happened was—”
“Inside or outside?” Large interrupted.
“Huh?”
“Your garage.”
“Outside,” said Connor. “There’s no room for the car inside the garage. It’s still full of unopened boxes from when we moved.”
“Always unpack straight away, Chantree, or you’ll never get the job finished.”
“Yes, sir. Sir, in Box 2, there’s a murder.”
“I don’t like Box 2.”
“A description of one, anyway.” Connor pressed on. “It’s one that’ll be impossible to prove because nothing physical happened. So, we still get to keep our Box 1, because there’s no evidence—”
“What do you mean, ‘nothing physical’?” asked Large.
“Please consider reading the…thing, sir. If whoever wrote it is telling the truth… Though I don’t think they can be…” Connor felt obliged to interrupt himself with this caveat.
“If it’s a pack of lies, I don’t need to read it,” said Large.
“But I don’t think it’s that either. It feels very…
true.” It was the only way Connor could think to describe it.
“Sir, I’ll be honest: I’ve got absolutely no idea what it is, who wrote it, or who left it for me.
And it contains the most unflattering portrait of me—looks and personality—that anyone will ever write, I hope, but it’s still important that you know what’s in it, and nothing I can tell you about it could convey the full…
effect. You need to see it for yourself.
Just…please forget the horrible description of me as soon as you’ve read it, if you wouldn’t mind.
And don’t share it with anyone if you can help it.
Not even as a joke.” I’m feeling bad enough about myself as it is, Connor considered adding, just in case appearing as pitiable as possible might help the cause.
No need. Large was reaching for the smelly bundle of paper, removing the second of the elastic bands.