SEBASTIAN
SEBASTIAN
From the outside, Mum’s house looks entirely unchanged from my childhood memories. A smart semi-detached two-storey, fronted by a prim little garden and a flagstone drive, its tidy exterior gives away nothing of the shambles that has befallen the inside.
It’s several months since my last visit here, a call-in cut short by Clark’s insistence on behaving like the father figure he most decidedly has never been. I spent most of yesterday gearing myself to come through, only to end up at the stables with Firecracker instead.
I’m not expected, and the empty space where Mum’s mini should be parked isn’t encouraging. Still, I pull my truck up at the curb and climb out.
I’m knocking for a solid five minutes to no response before I try the door and let myself in. The smell that hits me has my nose scrunching — stale beer and cigarettes and something too sweet to be pleasant.
Shoes and coats are piled haphazardly on my right, beside the dented radiator, holes in the wall above marking where the coat pegs once hung. The photographs lining the stairway are just as they’ve ever been, but the broken bannister is new.
To my left, the lounge curtains are drawn against the daylight. At a glance, I almost think the darkened room is empty until a snored grunt pulls me to an instant halt one step beyond its open doorway.
Pivoting on my heel, I crash noisily into the room and flick on the light, startling Clark awake and off the sofa to the floor with a satisfying thunk !
“Shit the—”
“Where’s Mum?”
“—fucking bed!” Bleary eyes blink up at me, a bewildered frown creasing his brow. “Sebby?”
“Where’s Mum?” I repeat louder.
“Holy hell, son.” He straightens up, awkwardly hauling himself back onto the sofa as my gaze sweeps over the spilt ashtray, crisp packets and empty cans littering the carpet. “There’re kinder ways to surprise your poor old man.”
I put my back to him. “Could you please, fasten your dressing gown?” Another unpleasant sight greets me through the kitchen door, glimpsing dirty dishes piled high in the sink. “It’s two in the afternoon, Clark. What the hell?”
“Oh, come on! Ain’t no harm in enjoying a lazy weekend.”
“Today’s Monday.”
My peripheral catches the pause in his movement to readjust his robe. “Huh.” He shrugs me off. “Anyway, your mum won’t be too much longer, I shouldn’t think. Can’t quite recall where she said she was going. Shopping, hopefully. I’d offer you a drink of something, except, well—”
“I’m fine. Thanks.” There’s likely not even a single clean cup left in the cupboard, in any case, and I won’t ever understand how my mum tolerates living with him like this. For a brief moment, I contemplate shifting the mound of his smelly clothes from the armchair, pitching them out the front door. I also consider retreating the hell away before he inevitably provokes me into doing worse than that. Instead, I cross to the window, yanking the curtains wide.
“Hey!” Clark’s objection is immediate. He baulks from the onslaught of daylight. “Youch, you’re killing me here! Those were shut for a reas— ”
“While we’re waiting for her, we may as well make ourselves useful, right?”
“Son, I really don’t—”
“ Stepfather ,” I interject again through gritted teeth, my finger jabbing the light switch off as I finally whip around on him. He audibly yelps when I snag the unlit cigarette from between his lips and drop it to the floor. “I really don’t want to hear a single word about your migraines or your bad back or whatever else you have in your plentiful bag of excuses. So, save your breath.”
“Sorry, Sebby, but—”
“Nope.” I most especially don’t want to hear that word tumbling from his mouth with meaningless ease.
By this point, Mum would’ve undoubtedly admonished me. I never thought I’d welcome any circumstance that meant spending time in Clark’s company alone. But whatever it was that kept me moving despite the absence of Mum’s car and an answer to my knock, I’m not done with it yet. “Get up,” I continue before he recovers his tongue. “Get dressed. Get into the kitchen. I’ll wash, you can dry, and no chit-chat is necessary.”
His greying head shakes, and his bloodshot stare tracks me as I kick empty cans clear of my path to the armchair. Braving the dirty laundry dumped there, I throw a green polo shirt onto his lap, followed by a pair of plaid pyjama pants that land at his feet. I glower at him until he blinks away. “They’re not excuses, Sebby, and my pain meds have me feeling all out of sorts.” The clothes are spared as little regard as my instructions.
“I daresay it’s what you’re chugging your meds down with causing that issue, Clark.”
“Cheeky sod! You’ve no idea what—”
“What happened to Mum’s arm?” A vicious sneer slams him. “No, you’re right. Maybe I should sit down for a minute so you can tell me about it, eh?”
But there’s no triumph to be taken, watching the colour drain from his face. My fists clench at my sides in an effort to stem the dangerous rise of my temper. For one fleeting moment, I ache for the charming man full of promises I’d idolised once upon a foolish time, and I curse myself.
Because if any part of that man had ever been real, he’s long since gambled his soul away alongside his wealth. “Ain’t nothing to tell,” he lies to me, just as I knew he would.
We’ve done this dance before, too many times, and I’m perfectly aware of what comes next here. I’ll push, for Mum’s sake, urging him to seek help. He’ll continue to lie, calling me Sebby and S on until I storm out. Then, after another few months of active avoidance, we’ll rinse and repeat. My stepdad won’t ever admit he has a problem, nor can he be convinced to let my mum go. And each cycle knocks me that little bit nearer to being shut out, following in Uncle Kye’s footsteps.
Unless a change is made. “I’m asking you to dry some damn dishes, Clark, not deep clean the entire house!”
Silence hangs between us. I hold my breath, staring him down.
He moves at last. Leaning forward to collect the pants from the floor, his eyes dodge mine. “You weren’t always such a bossy little toerag,” he mutters. “We used to have fun, you and me, remember?”
It’s not easy to bite my tongue, turning briskly for the kitchen when he unabashedly shirks off his flannel robe. “The sooner we get started…” I recoil from the overflowing bin and focus on the window above the heavily laden sink. “The sooner we get done.”
Looking beyond Mum’s pretty flower beds, a quick scan of the neighbour’s backyard across the narrow alley and two doors down distracts me enough to block the stream of mumbled curses that hit my back. The yard, which had been Dobby’s prison not so very long ago, is reassuringly empty of terrified beasts cowering amongst its weeds today. My shoulders relax the barest fraction as I begin to unload the sink, only to tense up again with Clark’s reluctant appearance at my side.
“Something will end up smashed,” he says with a grimace at the tea towel I’ve readied for him on the bench. “Fair warning.”
My hand delves into the cupboard underneath and pulls out the dustpan and brush. “Consider me prepared.”
“And we’ve no hot water until Ree’s back with the gas card.”
I grab the kettle, fill it, and start it to boil. “Problem solved.”
“It might be wiser to let them soak for a bit.”
“No.”
He slides me a sidelong look of annoyance as I fit the plug and turn on the tap, mixing cold water, boiling water, and the dregs of washing-up liquid in the basin. “What the fuck has bitten your butt?”
That question doesn’t warrant an answer, even if I had a simple one to give.
“Your bad mood ain’t any fault of mine, Sebby.” His ignorance never ceases to amaze.
Sleeves rolled up, the scourer is found in a plant pot on the windowsill, and the cutlery takes the first plunge. “Better to be busy than bored, Clark,” I deem it fairer not to warn him of precisely how much worse this bossy little toerag’s mood could become if he continues stalling.