Chapter 17
SARAH
So there it is, I’m going to be a grandmother.
I know that it’s good news in almost every sense of the word – Louis and Summer are twenty-two and while it’s young, it’s not disastrously young like it was for Hal and me.
They’re in love, they’re getting married.
They’re having a baby. These are all good things.
At least, they are as long as Louis – or both of them, obviously – are happy about it.
And that’s something you can’t ask, is it?
Certainly not by text. When he told me, I sent immediate congratulations, together with a picture of a champagne bottle that my phone provider suggested.
What I wanted to say was, ‘Are you OK about it?’, ‘Is Summer?’ and ‘Was it planned?’
But these worries are mixed up too with my own feelings – I’m thirty-nine, an age where lots of my friends are still on the cusp of things.
Some are mothers trying for a second, some are married.
Some are still single, still determined to find the right relationship and settle down.
They are in the stage of life classed as ‘young’.
Somehow, in the same amount of years, I’ve had a baby, watched him grow into a man, and now I’m mother-of-the-groom and prospective grandmother.
Both of these descriptions conjure a mental picture of a woman in her fifties at least, dressed in a flowery hat and matching dress.
A side character in a drama at best. Not someone you expect anything interesting to happen to.
I’m not sure whether I’d ordinarily be able to shake this off.
Remind myself that this is just a stereotype, that I haven’t missed the happiness boat when it comes to relationships or even family – women have babies well into their forties these days.
But the combination of the leg and fatigue that seems to have engulfed me over the past couple of days is weighing on me, and I feel about 102.
Sébastien borrowed Hal’s spare sleeping bag to sleep under the stars, next to the camper, so we had a bit of privacy last night.
But although I’d hoped to talk to Hal properly about how he’s feeling about Louis and whether he’s worried at all about our son’s sudden transition to full-blown adulthood, I felt myself being dragged into sleep.
The painkillers are strong, they knock out the feeling, but they also mess with my head and make me drowsy.
This morning, when I woke up, Hal and Sébastien were already sitting outside at the table, eating bacon sandwiches that Hal had cooked on his tiny portable stove.
The smell of them makes my stomach rumble, so I pull on an enormous cardigan over my pyjamas and gingerly make my way from the bed to Betty’s door.
The pair of them look at me when I exit, and I feel a bit like a child walking into the room where her parents are dining.
‘How did you sleep?’ Hal asks.
‘Coffee?’ Sébastien offers at the same time.
They’ve clearly been up for a while, based on the fact that there’s a bag of shopping at Hal’s feet and their mugs are empty. I wonder what they find to talk about between them and hope to God it’s not me. But I’m sure I’ve come up.
‘We’re heading off in a bit,’ Hal tells me. ‘Seb knows a good spot near here for a river swim.’
‘You’re really going through with that?’
‘Why not?’
I can think of a million reasons why not, but then realise that if they both bugger off for a few hours it gives me a chance to shower, reset myself, have a rest and catch up on work.
I’m no workaholic, but even doing a little bit of work seems to reset my mood.
It’s as if I can step into another version of myself.
One without hang-ups, who knows what she’s doing.
Practising law is somehow a welcome respite with its clear perimeters and rules, and frees me for a while from the chaos of my private life.
The boys pack a rucksack each and after making sure I really, truly don’t want to come (and believe me, I really, truly don’t), set off companionably.
When they’re gone, I feel myself relax. It’s nice to swear when my leg twinges, which it seems to be doing a lot at the moment, and let my face fall into a grimace at times without anyone asking me what’s wrong.
I open my laptop and bring up my emails, but before starting anything I decide to ring Mum.
‘Hello, who am I speaking to?’ she says. Mum has a mobile and I know for a fact my number is programmed into it. She is fully aware that it’s me calling.
‘Hi, Mum, it’s Sarah.’
‘Oh, Sarah! Lovely to hear from you.’ Sounds fine on paper, doesn’t it? But the underlying tone is that I’ve been lax in getting in touch. She misses off the ‘at last’ from the end of the sentence, but believe me – we both know it’s there.
‘Yeah, sorry, Mum, it’s been… busy. Signal’s not always great here either so…’ I lie.
‘Of course. Of course. You’re still on your little holiday!’ she says, all brightness. ‘How long until you arrive now?’
‘Oh, not long. A few days.’
‘Well, I should think so! The wedding’s in a few days.’ She harrumphs.
‘I know, Mum. I know exactly when the wedding is. And we’re going to be there, OK?’
‘I’ll be honest, I’m not sure why you chose to make a holiday of it. Surely the most important thing is coming to support your son and his wonderful fiancée, not treating yourself to a sunshine break!’
This hurts. ‘Mum, you know I was coming over early. I broke my leg, remember—’
‘Well, about that. Judith broke her leg last September and she still flew to Germany for the Christmas markets…’
‘The doctor told me not to fly.’
‘Oh, doctors!’ Mum says dismissively as if that’s all she has to say on the matter.
I decide, as I often do, to back away from the precipice of the argument. In so many ways I’d love to give her a piece of my mind. But I know that when it comes to emotional resolve, she’s so much stronger than I am. I’ll capitulate eventually, then feel even worse.
‘How’s Louis?’ I ask instead.
‘Yes. Good. I mean, as you’d expect, he’s a little stressed.’
‘And Summer?’
‘Yes, yes,’ she says dismissively.
‘Did you know they were…’
‘Having a baby? Of course! They told me a few weeks ago, in fact. Summer found out just after they flew out here for the summer.’
I feel the prickle of threatening tears. They told my mother a few weeks ago, and only just thought to tell me? But I steel myself. ‘And are they… happy about it?’
Another harrumph. ‘Of course they are! Why wouldn’t they be?’
‘Good, that’s good. I just worry, you know. They’re ever so young.’
I hear the words coming out of my mouth before I realise what I’m saying. I’ve literally teed mum up for her favourite topic of conversation.
‘Too young! You had a five-year-old by their age! And you seemed to think you were very grown-up at the time. And a single mum too! Summer’s man is standing by her at least.’
‘Mum! OK, maybe I did a grown-up thing, but I didn’t feel very grown-up. I was terrified most of the time. I needed support, not admonishment.’
‘Oh, and I suppose you’re saying I didn’t look after you enough. Well, I’m sorry, Sarah. But who put a roof over your head, bought that baby a cot? Who fed you and made sure you had everything you needed in those early years?’
I sigh. ‘You did, Mum.’
‘Well, then.’
I have so much I want to say. A few years ago, before Dad got sick, I sometimes used to confide in him.
He used to have a way with Mum, a way of gently breaking down her defences and getting her to see life from other points of view.
He was a buffer between Mum and me – stopped us butting heads, helped us to find the middle ground.
Now, without his guidance, we’re adrift. Butting into each other and pushing each other away. I love Mum and I’m pretty sure she loves me. But we lack the ability to communicate with each other without him.
It’s impossible to make Mum understand that sometimes, all I’d needed was her arm around my shoulders, a bit of understanding of how difficult things were.
Yes, sure, she and Dad provided for me. Helped me financially.
But still, caring for a toddler and studying when all the other students had the time of their lives was hard.
It would have been nice to know she was proud of the fact I defied the odds and went on to achieve… well, quite a lot actually.
And yes, she helped me enormously in the early days.
But it was me who stumped up for the childminder when I started back at work; me who tried to be present for Louis as much as I could.
Me who sacrificed the kind of nights out people apparently have in their twenties in favour of early nights and bedtime stories.
Mum’s retired now, but back in the day she used to work in administration.
It’s a different field from mine and a whole different career trajectory.
When I was young, she went part-time – but she had Dad’s salary to support her.
On paper, I suppose I’m the more successful of us.
But despite the accolades and the won cases and the profits and the fact that I’m able to actually employ people, I still feel a desperate need for her approval. Or even, her pride.
Why I give her so much power to influence my mood, I don’t know.
But there you have it. I want her to say ‘Yes, I was a little disappointed when you got pregnant so young, but you raised a wonderful man and have managed to carve out a fantastic career for yourself. I’m so proud of you.
’ Instead, our conversations move through the same cycle – her digs about my past mistakes, and a sense that whatever I say to her is the wrong thing.
I get frustrated with her, but also with myself. Why do I even need this?
Before I can say anything else, a wave of heat goes through me and I feel my vision shift a little. I steady myself, a hand on the table, and wait for it to pass. I can feel sweat prickle on my brow, the back of my neck. My stomach rolls and dips and even the backs of my knees feel damp.
‘Sarah?’ Mum is saying. ‘Sarah?’
‘Yes. Here, Mum. Just feeling—’
‘The line’s terrible, love. I have to go. But do get a wriggle on and get here. Your son needs you.’
I let the phone rest on the table and, with some difficulty, get myself up and into the van. I lie on my back on the bed, my head spinning, waiting for the room to right itself.
I haven’t eaten today – didn’t feel hungry – and sitting in the hot sun with only a drink of water inside me was probably inadvisable, I reassure myself.
But when the prickly feeling returns and my head explodes with pain, it’s hard to believe there’s not something more to it.