Chapter Twenty-One
Twenty-one
Downstairs, the door clicks. Mum’s home. I go out to meet her, encouraged by my message to Catherine. Usually, we avoid unnecessary interactions as though the other is contagious, but I’m in a better mood now and I can’t deny Mum’s recent absences have spiked my curiosity.
She doesn’t see me instantly. I stand at the top of the stairs, watching her.
She’s unwinding her scarf from round her neck in the hallway.
It’s one I haven’t seen before—a chunky knit—though I could have sworn she hasn’t been shopping in years.
Mostly, she keeps the same old, ratty items on rotation.
The same faded jeans, jumpers stretched with age and peppered with moth holes.
Stained T-shirts. When things were really bad, an old pair of Dad’s pajama bottoms.
Under her coat, which she hangs on the peg, she’s wearing a bright red dress, cinched in the middle to show off her tiny waist. Another piece I’ve not seen before.
Maybe she’s met someone. Maybe I’ve given her too little credit and she’s spent the last few years squirreled away in her room swiping on dating apps.
I hope so. Anything to put her in a better way.
She must sense my presence, because she looks up as she’s removing her coat.
“Where’ve you been?” I ask, leaning casually against the banister. She doesn’t scare me as much as she used to. I stopped trying to make her love me years ago, and some of her power died with that impulse.
“Out,” she says, evidently not in the mood to talk, but I go downstairs anyway and follow her through to the kitchen.
“Nice dress.”
She pats her hair. It’s looking suspiciously clean. In the light, I can see she’s wearing makeup.
“I thought it was time for a change. Can’t be wearing the same old tatty stuff all the time.”
“It suits you,” I say generously. It does. I’d forgotten how pretty she could be. How like Marcie she looked. “You should mix things up more often.”
“Thank you.” My flattery doesn’t seem to be working. Her tone is clipped.
I take a seat at the table as she bustles around making tea. Tea. I check the time on my phone. It’s five p.m. By this time, she’d usually be half a bottle deep. Something is definitely off. When she clocks me at the table, she sighs, then—reluctantly, I think—sits opposite.
“Was there something you wanted?” she asks. There’s something off about her voice, too. It’s too high, the question coming out too fast to be convincing. It feels performative, like she knows how she would usually act toward me, but for some reason she can’t emulate her usual demeanor.
“No. Do I need a reason to want to spend time with my own mother?”
Her expression says that I very much do.
We lapse into silence. I watch as she hunches over the table, scratching at something on the linoleum.
It must be a man. I can’t think of another reason for such a sudden shift in her.
If I could find out who, it would balance the scales between us even further—give me more leverage, more time to find alternative accommodation.
Because the truth is, my information on Dad is running thin on the ground.
“Is he nice?”
I ask it so casually I could be inquiring about the weather, but her hand stills on the table. I can’t see what she’s scratching at. She’s got her other hand cupped round it, like a child trying to prevent another from copying her work.
“Who?” There’s a definite quiver to her voice now. Sensing weakness, sensing blood, I lean forward.
“The man you’re seeing.”
“What man?” Her eyes dart to the left, and a flush travels up her neck.
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed, Mum. You’re out a lot these days. I’m glad for you. It’s important you don’t sit here, wasting away, surrounded by Dad’s things.”
“You’ve been in my room.” Not a question, a statement. Her jaw juts defiantly, just like Marcie’s used to.
“No more than you’ve been in mine.” I wonder if she’s noticed the bracelet is missing. I put it where it belongs, in among the box of Freddie’s things.
“I haven’t. Been seeing anyone,” she says, but I don’t believe her. “I made a vow.”
God, this persistent allegiance to Dad is boring. “A vow he broke the minute he left us. In sickness and in health, doesn’t it go? I’d hardly say either of us was healthy.”
“Don’t talk about that time. Please.” She swallows weakly. “I’m not like you,” she says quietly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Only that you’ve been going out just as much—more, even—than I have. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
“I’ve been going to work?” I cock my head, keep my tone light. As though I have absolutely no idea what she’s talking about.
“I didn’t think cafés were open that late.”
“I’ve been seeing a friend.”
“A male friend?”
“Does it matter?”
“Well, given your partner died six months ago, I’d say yes, it does.”
“I don’t think Freddie would have wanted me to be single forever, Mum. Not all of us go into self-imposed exile after a breakup.”
“All I’m saying is it can’t have been that serious if you’re already considering someone new.”
This is exactly the sort of poisonous comment that has eroded our relationship.
The sort of thing that leaves a bad taste in my mouth, that sends anger zipping through my veins.
She has no idea how serious Freddie and I were.
Serious enough that he bought a ring and buried it, right at the bottom of his sock drawer.
I stumbled upon it by accident when Freddie was out one evening.
When I saw that little box, my heart leaped.
I couldn’t help myself: I opened it. A beautiful diamond set into a simple silver band.
Not quite the right fit, but close enough.
I want to tell her about it, prove how serious we were, but Mum’s not finished yet. “You always were fickle,” she says, and there’s a horrible, weary resignation in it.
“Meaning what?” If I was thinking straight, I’d do something to steer us off this path I’ve sent us down, but I’m not. We spend so long avoiding the past, and I want her to say it. To finally tell me what she really thinks.
But Mum only gathers herself and stays quiet, sipping at her tea with a dignity I’d thought had long deserted her.
“Shall I get you a drink?” The question drips with sarcasm, but she doesn’t rise.
“Bit early for me.” Then, after a pause, “Any word?”
I sigh heavily, remind myself what’s at stake, and collect myself. “Yes. I spoke to Dad yesterday.”
“And?”
I’m not quite sure what makes me say it.
The implication that Freddie and I were not serious, perhaps.
Or her calmness in the face of my rising anger.
I come out with the lie before I can think it through.
“They’re having problems. The wife’s not attracted to him anymore.
Thinks he’s too old. Divorce might be on the cards.
” I don’t use her name with Mum if I can help it.
It always elicits a catlike hiss from her lips, as though it dredges up some animalistic instinct within her that is out of her control.
Mum’s hand goes back to her hair. “Are you sure?” And there’s the emotion I’ve been looking for, except it’s not aimed at me.
I shrug, a petulant child. “Not a hundred percent, but it doesn’t sound good.”
“I should…” Mum swallows and gestures to the door. “Go,” she finishes somewhat feebly, and she hurries out.
It is only after I hear her door close that I notice what she was carving into the table with her thumbnail. My sister’s name is crudely written into the plastic, spiky and uneven. Just like Marcie was. And I know she has carved here what she wouldn’t say to my face.