Chapter 10 Two Missing Baby Teeth and One Magic Cushion
I am about to leave work a few days later when Karim pops his head round the classroom door. We have chatted and exchanged messages, and I have danced around setting a time to go out with him again. I am, I think, being a bit of a prick.
“You’re avoiding me,” he says, sauntering over to my desk and perching his rather fine backside upon it.
“No, I’m not; I’m in the same room as you right now.”
“Only because I tracked you down, and because you didn’t have time to climb out the window.”
I glance over at the glass and its slightly rusted aluminum frame. We’re on the third floor, but I might have been tempted.
“Okay,” I concede, leaning back in my chair and trying to appear relaxed. I am far from relaxed, and not just because Karim is here. This is the evening I am due to go round to Erin and Katie’s house for dinner. “I’m sorry if I’ve been avoiding you. If it’s any consolation, it’s not because of you or anything you’ve done, or not done, or might do . . .”
“Right. Well, that makes perfect sense,” he says, grinning. He runs his hand through his hair, looks me right in the eyes, and adds: “Look, I don’t want to be that guy—that guy who hassles someone when the someone isn’t interested, but is too polite to say so? In fact, I’d hate to be that guy. It’d mess with my otherwise robust self-image.”
“Honestly, you’re not that guy, and I’m really not that polite. It’s—well, it’s like a list of clichés: it’s not you, it’s me; it’s complicated; this isn’t the right time; my head’s not in the right place. Take your pick—they’re all true. I do like you, Karim, and I know your robust self-image tells you that anyway—but I have a lot of stuff going on.”
“Any stuff I can, you know, help with?” he asks, sounding genuine. “I’m a good listener. Trained by the best.”
Having met Asha, and knowing about his childhood now, I am sure that he is a good listener. I’m sure that he is a kind man, that he has a fine heart as well as a fine backside. That he is someone who could matter in my life—which, of course, terrifies me.
I gaze at him for a moment and realize I am performing some kind of emotional risk assessment. I am wondering how much I can tell him, how much I can trust him. How much space I can allow him in my usually controlled world.
I decide within a few moments that this isn’t the right time. That I don’t even know what’s going on myself, that I still have no real answers. That he is a teacher and Katie is a student and it’s all a bit too tangled up and messy. I don’t want to drag him into all of this, but at the same time I don’t want to lie to him or dismiss him.
“I don’t know yet,” I reply simply. “I don’t know how the stuff in question is going to turn out. My friend Margie, who lives in the flat below me, suggested that I need distracting.”
“From the stuff?”
“From the stuff. She also suggested that you might be good at distracting me.”
“Ah, a wise woman. It is indeed one of my very best skills. I could probably get business cards made up that say Distractor for Hire. Also, I’m glad to hear you’ve been talking about me behind my back.”
I laugh, and feel a hint of red touch my cheeks, and say: “Don’t get too excited. I also talk to her about the postman and the senior hottie who does the quiz at the Hornet.”
He smiles at me, and it is an excellent smile. One that comes with a depth of warmth and promise that makes me blink, slowly, and sends a little shiver down my spine.
“Anytime you need distracting, let me know,” he says. “Anytime you want to talk, or go for a run, or have a drink, I’m your man. And if you’re too busy or too wrapped up in your mysterious stuff, just say so—you really don’t need to climb out of windows.”
“Okay,” I reply, nodding. “I get it. And thank you.”
“No worries,” he answers, getting up and walking slowly toward the door. I look on with way too much interest, until he says, “I know you’re watching!” and disappears into the corridor.
I find that I am mildly embarrassed, unreasonably warm, and grinning. I realize that Karim is, as Margie suggested, the perfect distraction—I haven’t thought about my impending visit to the Bell household for the last five minutes.
Now, though, those five minutes of respite are up. I do a quick breath-counting exercise and stay still and silent until I can hear the slowing thud of my heartbeat within my chest. I move my pens in the Konami Code formation before packing them up, and find myself wondering how many pens I have used in my lifetime. I would usually allow this to be almost as good a distraction as Karim, calculating the number of times I need a new one, multiplying that by workdays, adding in my time at school, going back over the years and spending a huge amount of time doing weird mental arithmetic until I come to some random number like seven thousand, which I will find oddly comforting. I am, I freely admit, a very strange person sometimes.
This evening, I don’t have that mental energy to spare. I stayed later to finish some grading and plan to go straight to Erin’s house on the way home. Katie has had free periods for part of the day and will “probably be lurking around,” I’ve been told.
I make my way to the car park, gulls screeching overhead, the sky a vivid blue, my mind a confused bruise. I manage the drive to their house on autopilot, parking near to the terraced house with the purple door and the green gate and the lavender pots outside. The lavender is fading now, a few late-season bees humming around it hopefully.
For some reason, I stand on the doorstep and smooth down my hair and straighten my skirt before I knock—as though I’m going to a job interview, or facing some kind of judging panel on a reality TV show.
Erin throws open the door, a cloud of white around her. There is a random moment of visual uncertainty: it looks as though she is standing in a cloud of snow, a tiny pixie inside a glass globe. I realize that it is, in fact, flour, whooshing up from coated hands that she’s wiped on her top before letting me in.
Bits of it settle in her hair and on her face, and white fingerprints appear on her hips as she holds her hands against her leggings.
She is already laughing as she ushers me inside, and starts to apologize when a small flurry of flour lands on my jacket shoulders.
“Oh lordy!” she says, giggling, “I’m a disaster zone! Come on through, don’t mind the mess. I had this idea that I’d bake a pie. It was a pretty stupid idea because I’m crap at baking, and no amount of watching strangers do it on telly ever helps.”
I follow her into the narrow corridor, through a door that leads to a long living-and-dining area, the kitchen at the end.
I stand for a while looking around me, taking it all in and letting the assault on my senses have its way with me.
It smells of cinnamon and ginger, which might be from the attempt at baking, or from one of the several scented candles that are burning around the place. The room is cluttered in a way I could never tolerate but which feels wonderful to step into as a guest—piles of books randomly stacked on and around shelves, houseplants curling their leaves over the mantelpiece next to a huge vase of lilies, framed art deco prints of moonscapes against pale-green-painted walls, a huge black sofa covered in mismatched cushions in a kaleidoscope of colors and textures.
A big pine dining table is covered in papers, textbooks, yellow notepads, pens, all scattered chaotically. Erin’s work, I think, wondering how she functions like that and also a little bit envious of her ability to do so.
Music is playing in the background, something deep and soulful, and I spot an old-fashioned turntable in one corner, a huge stack of vinyl next to it. I spy albums by Billie Holiday and Otis Redding and Aretha Franklin, alongside Nirvana and the Kings of Leon and Blur. It’s quite a mix, and I don’t know if some are Erin’s and some are Katie’s, or if Katie is like most kids of her generation and digital only.
There are framed photos all over the room, and I walk slowly around, inspecting them. Erin is chatting to me from the kitchen, and I am somehow managing to reply even while my focus disappears into the world of their past, of a life lived by Katie and her mum and a sandy-haired man with glasses, who I presume is her dad. I see Katie as a toddler, bundled up in a snowsuit, sitting on Erin’s lap on a sled. I see her at a similar age in a high chair holding a bright yellow spoon covered in yogurt. I see Katie as a gap-toothed schoolgirl, beaming smile and ginger bunches. I see Katie waving from a turquoise sea on an obviously foreign holiday, a snorkel mask on her face. I see her in school plays, in a variety of costumes. I see her at parties, in fancy dress, in uniforms, playing a violin, at her high school prom, on sports days. I see her as a tiny tot and as she is now, and every stage in between. I see her grow up before my eyes, and I am not quite prepared for how that affects me.
I am staring at these images and wondering if the face of the baby I held in my arms eighteen years ago could have grown into this face—into this person. I am wondering how I can have lived without her, how I can have missed so much, how I ever could have given this up. But I am also wondering what kind of life she would have had with me, what our photo wall would have looked like—how many magical and carefree moments she would have experienced if I’d kept her in my world. I don’t suppose that is a question I can ever answer, but it is also one that I will never be able to stop asking myself.
“Are you all right?” I hear Erin say, her voice miles away. “You look as white as a sheet. Do you want to sit down? I’ve given up on cooking. It’s like that scene in Bridget Jones where she makes blue string soup, only worse. Come on, sit down, I’ll make you a cuppa, if you fancy? Or get you a pint of Baileys or whatever?”
I let myself be guided to the sofa and half sit, half fall onto it—or into it, more accurately—immediately enveloped in a soft fabric cuddle. It’s one of those sofas you can never get out of. Erin passes me a cushion, bright lime-green velvet, super-soft to the touch, and says: “Here. Hug this. It’s my Wonky Cushion, for when I’m feeling a bit below par. Pure magic.”
I squeeze the cushion as instructed and manage to mutter a few words of apology and fictional explanation. I tell her I forgot my lunch, that I’ve been extra busy today, that I’m prone to getting a bit light-headed occasionally. And, of course, the biggest fiction of all—that I’ll be absolutely fine in a minute or so.
“Don’t worry about it,” she replies firmly. “At least you’ve not farted yet, so we’re off to a good start. It was probably looking at our ugly mugs made you feel a bit queasy.”
She is gazing up at the photos, and I shake my head.
“No, they’re gorgeous,” I say. “Really lovely. You can see how much you all love each other. No wonder Katie’s such a great kid.”
“Yeah, she is, isn’t she?” answers Erin, grinning proudly. “Even after this last year and a half, she’s stayed on top of her schoolwork, handled the move, made new friends. She misses her dad—we both do—and that will never change, but at least now it feels like we’re not trapped in the grief—well, she’s not anyway. I think I’m just really good at faking it. I’m hoping that if I keep faking it, it’ll eventually be true.”
Either the Wonky Cushion is working its alleged magic, or Erin’s obvious pain somehow nudges mine away. I cannot be so selfish as to sit in this woman’s house, surrounded by pictures of her now-dead husband, and make it all about me.
“What was his name?” I say gently, following her gaze to a photo of him and Katie standing by mountain bikes against the backdrop of a rugged green landscape.
“Ian,” she says, smiling slightly. “He was only fifty-two. Fit as a fiddle, he was, even though I’ve never quite understood why fiddles are considered so fit. Pancreatic cancer. Bit of a bastard, that. It was hard for all of us, but I think we were most concerned about Katie. She was only just sixteen when he was first diagnosed, and it was so tough seeing him fight and fight and go through everything he went through, and the way he ended up . . .”
“She told me you both needed a fresh start.”
“Yes. We did. We never want to forget him, but we want to remember him the way he was for most of his life, not that last part—and moving away was part of it all, really. I think—I hope—it was the right thing for her. She said she wanted to, was ready for a change, but I always worry whether she agreed for my benefit. Whether I thought I was doing it for her sake and she thought she was doing it for mine, you know?”
“I know,” I reply quietly. “But would that be so awful? I think it sounds really sweet, actually.”
She laughs and swipes away a tear.
“Maybe you’re right—that’s a good way of looking at it! Anyway, enough of the doom and gloom. I’ve totally wrecked the food, which is par for the course. I’ll get us a takeaway instead. It’s for the best, believe me. I’ll just get Katie downstairs. She’s in her room playing games with her headphones on, I’m sure, but luckily it’s that time of the month, so it’ll be easy to attract her attention.”
“That time of the month?” I echo, uncertain.
Erin winks at me and walks over to a plug in the corner of the room. “That time of the month when she’s run out of data and needs the Wi-Fi to survive.”
She flicks the switch off and stands frozen, one ear cocked toward the door.
“Any minute now . . .”
Sure enough, right on cue, I hear the sound of feet thundering down the stairs so fast it seems inevitable that it will end with a thud. It does, as Katie presumably jumps down the last couple of steps.
She bursts into the room, wailing, “Muuuuuuuum! The Wi-Fi’s down again!”
Erin has, by this stage, moved away from the wall and is the picture of innocence.
“Oh no!” she says, sounding genuinely upset. “I’d better phone them, see if there’s a problem in the area—but while you’re here, do you fancy nipping out to collect a takeaway for us?”
“Have you performed your usual culinary miracles in the kitchen, then?” she says, hands on hips, her gaze finally finding me on the sofa.
“Oh! Hello, miss. Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine, Katie. Why?”
“Well, you’re holding the Wonky Cushion. Weird, you’ve got exactly the same shade of hair as me. People always want us to wear green, don’t they? But looking at you and looking at that cushion, I’d have to say it hurts my eyes.”
I give the cushion a last squeeze and set it aside. I am feeling less wonky. I am feeling the same flush of energy and light that I always get when I am in the same room as this young woman. This young woman who does, indeed, have exactly the same shade of hair as I have.
“Not to worry. I was just a bit tired after a hard day shaping young minds.”
She makes a humph sound and turns to Erin. “Right then, Mother dearest. Chinese, Indian, kebab, chippy?”
There is some debate between the two of them, some lack of opinion offered by me, and then Katie is finally dispatched with a cash card, a reminder of her mum’s PIN (which I will, of course, now always remember), and instructions not to “get abducted by aliens on the way.”
As she leaves, the door slamming behind her, the house feels suddenly so much quieter. So much less alive. I glance out the window and see her jogging down the street, hair streaming behind her, wearing some kind of purple cape with her skinny jeans and Converse and looking a bit like a superhero.
“There she goes,” murmurs Erin, “Kebab Girl, off on another mission. I don’t know what I’ll do when she goes off to uni.”
I know that Katie has applied to Liverpool, but also to Edinburgh, as well as Leeds, Nottingham, and Brighton.
I’m guessing she’ll have the grades to go anywhere she wants.
“She might not go off; she might go to Liverpool—it’s a great uni.”
“Oh, I know, I went there too—but part of me wants her to go, you know? It’s all about spreading your wings, isn’t it? Taking those first steps into the big wide world? Leaving home for the first time, but doing it in a safe way? You must remember how exciting it was, that great escape!”
I nod and smile but remain silent. My university experience was different from most people’s, and I had never felt safe. I am aware enough to understand that that is why I am usually so careful about my environment now, in an attempt to make up for the underlying sense of threat and fear that defined so much of my younger life. None of which Erin needs to hear.
“He’d have been so proud of her,” she says, looking up at that picture of Ian and Katie again. “So amazed to see how well she’s doing. What a brilliant creature she is. What brilliant things she might do with her life.”
She looks at the picture, and I look at her. Tiny, pixielike, eyes shining. A great mum, a grieving widow. Someone strong enough not to be afraid of showing her emotions, of being vulnerable. Of sharing these moments with me, a woman she has only recently met. Trusting me to honor them.
I am suddenly overcome with uncertainty. I have no idea what I am doing here. I have no idea how I expected this to go. Did I really think it would be the kind of thing I could drop in over dinner conversation? How did I think I could ever approach this particular subject with anything less than a hammer blow? There is too much pain in this house already, too much loss.
I have no right to disrupt their lives. I have no right to blunder in and scatter their certainties, at a time when they are both suffering anyway.
I have no right to tread here, softly or otherwise.
With or without dreams.
I cannot risk hurting Erin, or Katie. I cannot risk causing them further pain. I must keep my questions to myself. I must keep my wildest assumptions private. I must control my need to reach out, and recognize it for the selfish beast that it is.
I must be a friend, a teacher, a good neighbor. For now, that is all I should be. If only I could persuade myself that that is all I want to be as well. If only I could persuade myself that that is all I am. But every minute I spend with Katie convinces me more and more: She is my daughter. I am her mother.
And yet, somehow, we are neither.