Chapter 15
Fifteen
“We are all hollow now.”
—“The Reprise,” The Wooden Horse, Act Two
The week went by without a word from Dexter. He called in sick for their combat rehearsal on Tuesday, and again for vocals
on Thursday, and Jonah waited and waited for a message to pop up on his screen, but nothing came. He debated contacting him
himself, throwing a casual noncommittal text his way, something along the lines of Hey, I can’t stop thinking about your lips or the even more casual I want you to run your hands through my hair again and make me moan.
But he couldn’t be the one reaching out; the ball was in Dexter’s court, and Jonah wasn’t climbing over the net to fetch
it. More than anything, he hated how Dexter somehow bewitched him; only a few days ago he couldn’t stand the sight of him,
and now . . . Well, now he wanted to look at all of him for hours, preferably naked in his bed.
Even now, as Jonah sat on the never-ending train to Cornwall, his head resting against the window, he willed a message to
come through. But no, the only thing that happened as he neared new destinations were FullStack notifications telling him
single men were nearby. Which, in all fairness, wasn’t a bad thing to be aware of. The notifications and thoughts of Dexter
were a welcome distraction as the train hurtled him toward home.
It only took a week for him to find somewhere perfect for his dad: a picturesque old manor refurbished into a specialized dementia-care nursing home.
The gardens were lush and green, and to its left there was a gorgeous view of the sea.
His father had a special affinity for the ocean, a true water sign if there ever was one.
Jonah hoped if his father looked at the waves enough small memories might come back in the sea foam and he could collect them up, and for a moment he might be like the old dad Jonah once knew.
A fantasy, of course, but one he could easily put his faith in if it meant his father might return from the hazy place he now lived in.
Jonah let out a heavy breath as he thought about his dad and how anxious he was at seeing him again.
He wasn’t due back in the theatre until Tuesday night, which meant he had half of today then all of Monday and Tuesday morning to help his mum settle Dad in at the new home.
And honestly, thank God they didn’t perform on Sundays and Mondays, or he might never be able to help with this kind of thing.
But would him being there really make much of a difference?
Would his dad even recognize him? He didn’t the last time he saw him, and the pure pain of having his father not recognize him tore Jonah apart.
But Jonah needed to face him, face the Alzheimer’s and support his mother through it.
His mother was another problem.
He’d kept his promise to Aunt Penny and called his mum more often, just little check-ins to make sure things were okay. But
during each call she ended up tearful, not about his dad, but about the bloody chickens. He wasn’t sure if she was pushing
her grief over effectively losing her husband onto the death of her “babies,” as she lovingly referred to them, but her tears
each night broke Jonah’s heart. He left the calls reluctantly, the speaker at the theatre asking for first positions, something
he couldn’t ignore, and she seemed to understand, but the disappointment in her voice didn’t waver. Which meant he’d felt
immeasurably guilty the whole week but knew he would be home with her Sunday—today—and, hopefully, he would head back to London
knowing she would be okay.
Bill Penrose once swam in the sea every day without fail.
Even when the heavens opened or when snow came down in thick flurries, he made his way to the beach and set off for his fifteen-minute swim, always returning for a mug of Ovaltine and Marmite on toast. He looked out at the sea now from the deck chair in the back garden, his limbs thin and frail, and danced his fingers through the air as if pushing through water, swimming again, in his mind, at least. Jonah sat down in the chair beside him, the green and white stripes of the material faded from the sun, and looked out at the beams of light kissing the skyline.
“Gorgeous day,” Jonah said, keeping his eyes on the horizon so he didn’t have to look at his father’s sunken cheeks. “Bet
the sea is warm.”
“Yes,” his dad said, voice full of rubble and years of nicotine damage. “Went out there this morning on the boat.”
“You did?”
“Took my boy with me.”
Jonah’s heart tugged in his chest. “Bet he loved that.”
“He did.” He lowered his hand and placed it on the arm of the chair, his knuckles protruding from the skin, little mountains
on his hand, extreme dips and highs. His skin seemed blemished, one hand still wrapped in a bandage, the other bare but covered
in deep-purple bruises. He didn’t recall his dad ever having a boat, but it was okay him having one now, moored on the shores
of his mind, and he hoped he did him proud on the boat, manned the sails and . . . whatever else sailors did on boats.
“Where you from, then?” his dad asked, turning his head to look at Jonah, and Jonah dared himself to look back. His father’s
strands of wispy white hair were thin, his skin pale, eyes still striking blue, the ocean not lost from them.
“Oh, here, St. Ives.”
“A local lad, then.”
“Born and bred.”
“You got a wife?”
Jonah laughed and shook his head. “No. No wife.”
His father pondered the answer before asking, “Got a husband?”
Jonah tutted and shook his head again. “Sadly not.”
“Hmph,” he grumbled and tried to stand from his seat, but Jonah placed a hand on his knee to settle him back down. “I’ve got
a wife. Call her and get her to bring us some tea.”
“She’s a bit busy at the moment,” Jonah said; his mum was inside speaking with the nurses who were going to help get his dad moved on Monday. “I can make you a tea a little later, though.”
“You don’t look like you would make a good cup of tea.”
“Wow, what a cutting insult.” Jonah smiled. “You’re no good at making tea, either, you know. You never brew it long enough.”
“My son can’t make tea. He has a habit of stirring it too much, and it bursts the tea bag.”
Jonah bit down on his bottom lip to stop himself from crying. His father spoke about him as if he were a ghost, someone far
away, the distant tea bag destroyer with no face and no name.
“I still do that, you know.”
His father narrowed his eyes at him. “You’re a strange one, you are. What’s your name?”
“Jonah.”
Something registered behind his blue eyes. “Jonah. My boy’s called Jonah. We play the piano together . . . he always likes
to play the same song . . .” He tapped his finger against his forehead. “Can’t for the life of me remember it now.”
“‘You Win Again’ by the Bee Gees,” Jonah provided. “It’s actually quite an aggressive song when you look at the lyrics.”
“A God-awful song if you ask me.” His dad laughed. “But my boy liked it. He liked ABBA too. Always with the sequins, that
kid.”
Jonah didn’t like ABBA. When Bastien found out, he threatened to take his gay card from him and called him a disgrace, which
only made Jonah become more vocal over his dislike of them.
“It wasn’t ABBA,” Jonah said. “You’re thinking of Girls Aloud. Slightly different era, though.”
“Still camp as hell.”
Jonah laughed loudly then. “You’re not wrong.”
His dad raised his hand again, but this time he reached for Jonah’s and took it in his. “You remind me of him,” he said, his
voice full to the brim with sincerity. “My boy. You remind me of him.”
Jonah squeezed his hand lightly, careful to not hurt him; he wanted to wrap him in cotton wool. “I love you very much. I want you to know that.”
“You do? Why say that? Am I dying?”
“No,” Jonah whispered. “But I think it’s important to tell people when you love them, don’t you?”
“I wish I could tell my son.”
“Don’t worry. He knows.”
Jonah unscrewed the second bottle of red wine and left it open on the kitchen table to breathe. He wasn’t sure if you let
screw-top wines breathe, but he wanted to pretend he was sophisticated so let it bask in the warm evening air. His mum swirled
the dregs of the wine in her glass around, her eyes fixated on the red liquid the same color as the nail polish on her fingernails.
Her lips were slightly stained from the drink, her eyes heavy and dark, and Jonah’s eyes fell to the line of empty wine bottles
by the back door waiting to be taken to the recycling center.
“You have your friends over a lot, Mum?” he asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.
“Yes. And book club.”
“I didn’t know you did a book club,” Jonah said, genuinely pleased to hear she was involving herself in the things she used
to enjoy, reading being one of her many passions. He could remember when he was a child, her sitting on the edge of his bed
reading him stories, letting him get lost in fantastical worlds where the troubles of the real life didn’t exist. “What have
you been reading?”
“Something about murder and old people. We don’t actually read the books, Jonah, it’s just an excuse for a gossip and cake.”
He eyed the wine bottles again. “And tea?”
“Sometimes.” She waved her hand in the air dismissively, ending the topic of conversation.
“Dad seemed in good spirits today,” he said, subtly screwing the lid onto the bottle he opened and sliding it back into the
wine rack. “I think tomorrow will go well.”
“Maybe,” she said, eyes still lost in her glass. Jonah sat down beside her. “Jonah, have you found a boyfriend yet?” she asked, tearing herself away from the tiny puddle of wine to look at her son. “Why can’t you fall in love and make me worry about you less?”
“Why would being in love make you worry about me less?”
“Because then I’d know you wouldn’t be lonely in London.”
“I’m not lonely.”
“You have friends?” She ran her finger around the rim of the glass. “Outside of your job?”