Chapter 21 Twenty-One Days of Silence and 500 Meters of Swimming
Erin and Margie are in the smaller pool, leaning together against one of the edges, arms draped along the side. I have just finished twenty lengths in the bigger pool and feel exhausted, in a good way.
I pull myself up the steps and join them.
“I thought you were supposed to be exercising?” I say, raising an eyebrow.
“We are!” says Margie. “Look down below!”
I gaze lower and see that both of them are kicking their legs, slowly but consistently. There is no movement above, but sure enough, I have to concede that some form of exercise is indeed being taken.
This is an experiment we are trying, at Karim’s suggestion. He thought it might help Margie, with both pain relief and flexibility, and as soon as he mentioned it her face lit up in excitement. In fact, it seems remiss that we hadn’t thought of it before, but I suppose we were too busy drinking and doing jigsaws most of the time.
I join them, leaning against the wall, lazily scooping my legs around in the water. I have already done my proper exercise for the day and will allow myself to slack.
“How is it?” I ask Margie. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, love, it’s marvelous—I can’t remember the last time I felt weightless like this, you know? I’d forgotten how much of a joy it is to just float around! I feel like a mermaid!”
It is good to see her so relaxed, and good to at least try to relax myself. I feel edgy these days, vaguely disturbed and in a constant state of flux. Like I’m a can of pop that keeps getting shaken into a fizz every time I come near to settling.
It is now twenty-one days since Katie, and she-who-cannot-be-named-because-I-don’t-know-her-name, turned eighteen. Twenty-one days of checking, of telling myself off for checking, of checking again. Also thrown into the mix at the moment is the almost-as-strange knowledge that, any day now, I might hear from Geoff, might find out more about my mum. Or I might not. It could go either way, and I am not sure which way I would prefer.
No, I think, I do want to hear—I do want to know, one way or another. I need to, even if I don’t exactly relish the prospect. It is, though, adding to the blend of anxiety and weirdly creeping fear that I am feeling.
Fear is a strange word to use, but I think it’s the right one. On the surface, I am the most settled I have ever been in my life. This is the longest period of time I have lived in one place and done one job as an adult. I have friends I am closer to than I have ever been. I have Karim, and the wonders of that particular relationship continue to surprise me. I almost have a dog. I have sneakily laid down the roots I never thought I would manage to lay down.
The thing about roots, though, is that you can get tangled up in them as well—and there is part of me, part that I know is rubbish and wrong and made entirely of badness, that worries about that. About entanglement. If you’re tangled up in roots, how can you make a run for it when the boogeyman comes chasing? You only need to watch any horror film ever to know that roots can be the difference between life and death when you’re running through the woods at night with a slasher in a mask on your heels.
I dip my head under the water, shake it about a bit, come back up and gasp in air. I need to stop thinking like this. Stop expecting the slasher in a mask to appear around every corner.
In my case, though, the slasher in the mask feels like he’s cleverly disguised himself as The Past. The Past is coming for me, and it is undermining The Present. The two could meet, quietly and calmly, and say hello to each other and arrange to go for coffee. Or they could spectacularly collide and blow me to pieces as collateral damage. Boom.
It is an uncomfortable way to feel, but no matter how hard I try to shake it off, it persists, like fine drizzle in your hair on a damp day. You barely notice it’s raining, but you get soaked through and chilled to the bone anyway.
“What’s Katie up to today?” I ask, changing the internal subject.
Erin’s face breaks out into a smile, and she replies, “She’s at a gaming workshop in town. Making little figures of trolls or whatever and painting them. She’s the only girl who goes, and I suspect she is the subject of a lot of crushes.”
“I’d imagine she is,” I say, knowing exactly the kind of boys who get into those kinds of games. Nice ones, usually. As eighteen-year-old pastimes go, it is extremely benign.
“Could be worse.” Erin shrugs. “It certainly was when I was her age.”
Margie cackles and adds, “I was a bit of a handful myself back then!”
“You still are!” say Erin and I at exactly the same time. Margie pretends to look offended, but I can tell she is secretly delighted to be considered a source of trouble.
Once she’s had enough, Erin and I help Margie out of the pool and into the changing rooms. It takes her a while, but Margie manages alone while I sit in the cubicle next to her, listening to her swear and curse. I am alert for any signs of distress, but hear only mild frustration as she dries off and gets back into her clothes. We head for the café, and Erin gets the coffees in while Margie and I settle at a table by the vending machine.
A half-in, half-out Mars bar tells a tale of bitter sadness and disappointment.
Margie is recounting a story about one of her grandchildren winning Reader of the Week at school, and about her plans to visit them in the new year. She seems happy, animated, her hair damp on her shoulders as she chats.
I am half listening but am also distracted by a group of toddlers being led in a line toward the small pool, like brightly colored ducklings. They’re wearing inflatable arm bands, and there are eight of them, so sixteen inflatable arm bands in total. Which is, of course, completely irrelevant to anything in the world but automatically noted by my whacked-out brain.
My phone is out on the table, and as Erin returns with a tray of drinks that she is merrily sloshing all over the place, it does a little jump as it chirrups and vibrates.
“Ooh! Get that!” cries Margie. “It might be a pic of your Karim in the nude! If it is, I want to see . . .”
I grab the phone, knowing that it won’t be a picture of “my Karim” in the nude. At least I don’t think it will. I see that it is my email app. That I have a new message from Geoff with a G. The subject heading is “your mother.”
I feel a sudden rush of nerves, and the sound of the pool—the giggling kids, the slosh of the water, the background chatter of the café—recedes into the distance. I grip the phone so hard I see my knuckles go white, and I have a strong urge to just delete it. Slasher in mask, just ahead.
“You all right, love?” asks Margie, reaching out to touch my arm. I jump, as though I had forgotten she was there. Maybe I had.
“Yep. Just a work thing. I’ll be back in a sec.”
I get up and stride away, heading outside to the car park. I have no idea why I lied. Why I felt the need to escape. Why I do many of the things I do.
I shelter in the doorway, hiding from the rain, and calm myself down by watching the cars for a few minutes. Audi seems to be the favored brand of the local swimmer, and most of them are black.
I take a deep breath and open my inbox. I have shared a few messages with Geoff, and he is chatty and friendly even in writing. He has told me about his retirement, about his children and his three grandchildren, and about his dog, a springer spaniel called Mabel. He seems genuinely very pleased to hear from me and is delighted at the way my life has gone. I suppose it must be good to hear a success story when much of his career was probably taken up with meeting people at the lowest point of their lives.
When I broached the issue of my mum and told him I was trying to find out what had happened to her, he was supportive but also professional. He said he was still in touch with some people from that place and time, but also that even though he was retired, there were still rules. Protocols. Matters of confidentiality.
I told him that I understood all that and would be grateful for anything he could do. And now, here it is—the moment I’ve been partially dreading. I could, of course, open the email and find that he has discovered nothing. I could find that he has discovered she is in fact dead. I could find that she has been abducted by space aliens and is currently running a vaping shop on Venus. Or I could, of course, actually read the damned thing.
Dear Gemma, the email says.
I hope you’re well, and not too busy with work! Now I’m retired I find myself always a bit concerned about overwork in others! Anyway, I have news about your mother. As we’ve discussed before, I am limited in what I can say, and what I can share. However, would you be happy for me to pass your details on to my former colleague, who could then pass them on to the relevant parties? Your phone number and email address, perhaps? I think, then, maybe you could get all the information you need from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. Let me know either way—best wishes as ever, Geoff.
He is not of the generation that posts kisses after signing off, and I am glad, as I still think of him as an adult talking to the teenage me and that would be weird.
I look over the email again, and again. I am reading between the lines, I know, but I think he is telling me that my mother is still alive. I think he is asking me if, via some convoluted process, I would be okay with her being given my contact details. Or am I completely misinterpreting that “horse’s mouth” comment?
Where did that saying come from, anyway? I’ve never heard a horse speak, so I’m unsure about why they’re considered to be such a reliable source. And while I’m at it, what are gift horses, and why shouldn’t we look them in the mouth? Why are there so many phrases about horses? And why am I so bothered about it, right now, as I stand in the rain clutching my phone?
I am bothered, I know, because it is a distraction from what is really bothering me. Saying yes to Geoff’s question will open doors—possible stable doors, allowing horses to bolt. It will open doors to my mother getting in touch, or even my mother choosing not to get in touch, and I wonder if I am ready for that.
I went looking for her, but I never felt ready. I asked Geoff, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know. Remembering my life with my mother in it makes me feel dizzy. My life with my mother in it was uncertain, and unpredictable, and those are not qualities I am renowned for liking. My life without my mother in it is undoubtedly simpler, easier, safer.
But still . . . she is my mother. She is the only blood relation I know of, apart from my own daughter. Isn’t it hypocritical of me to expect my own offspring to want me in her life, while turning my back on my own mum? It is, I decide. I understand why I feel like this, and I think it is reasonable—but it is also going to be hard to turn my back on. She is part of me, whether I like it or not. I owe it to her, and to myself, to at least have the backbone to take these first steps.
I am an adult now, and things are very different. I reassure myself that I am too strong, too grown, too bloody rooted, to be sucked into her chaos again. It is the fear of it that is controlling me, and I refuse to be controlled by fear.
I tap out a reply, tell Geoff I am out and about and will send a longer email later, but that yes, I would be happy for him to pass along my details.
I press Send before I can change my mind. I close the app down, switch off my phone, and go back inside.
I have, I realize, added yet another person to the ever-expanding List of People Who Might Not Actually Want to Know Me. Talk about setting yourself up to fail.