Chapter Thirty-Nine
JESS
I’m just checking through my bullet journal for what might be on my agenda today when my phone rings.
‘Hey, you … Fancy going out for a drink and some gossip this evening?’
‘I’d love to, but I’m going out with Luke this evening – it’s our anniversary.’
‘Oh, God! Yes! What day is it today?’
‘Saturday.’
Hannah sighs. ‘For some reason it feels like a Sunday. I’ve been twenty-four hours ahead all day!’
I laugh. This is the most ‘Hannah’ things she could’ve said. ‘How about sometime next week? Thursday?’
‘Ugh … Connor is back on Thursday, so I’m probably going to want to spend time with him. Can you do Wednesday?’
I quickly pull up my calendar on my phone and check. ‘I’ve got a late appointment – footballing knee injury at six – but I should be able to get away after that.’
‘It’s a date!’
‘Where has he gone this time?’
‘Dublin. I do miss him when he’s away.’
‘I’m sure.’ I don’t know what else to say. Future me knows that some of Connor’s ‘work trips’ were less about hard graft and more about playing away. He’s in sales for a luxury brand, so he always seems to be travelling. ‘Do you speak much while he’s away?’
‘Not as much as I’d like. You know how it is. He’s got meetings, client dinners … Sometimes it’s hard to find a moment when we’re both free. We text, though.’
Very convenient. I’m sure it would be much harder to FaceTime Hannah from his hotel bedroom if he had company.
I can’t tell her what’s on my mind, but maybe I can point her in the right direction, help her see the red flags that are waving wildly.
‘Do you ever … you know, worry about him while he’s away? ’
‘Not really. He’s a seasoned traveller and knows how to handle himself.’
‘That’s not quite what I meant. I meant … You know the kind of people he mixes with. And some of the women … They’re very glamorous.’
‘Oh.’
Yes, oh.
‘You mean about him being faithful?’
I swallow. ‘Yes,’ I say carefully. I just realized I have no idea how I’m going to handle this if she says she has suspicions. What hole have I dug for myself now?
Hannah is silent for a few seconds. ‘No,’ she eventually says, sounding very certain. My heart sinks. It was such a blindside when she found out. I’d do anything to save her from even just a bit of that pain. ‘He loves me. I’m sure of that.’
‘I know.’ I’m sure of it too. Connor does love Han in his own way.
But that doesn’t mean he’s able to keep it in his trousers.
He’s all about the ambition, the upward motion.
I don’t think one woman will ever be enough for him, because there will always be lush green grass on the other side of the fence.
Younger, prettier, richer – take your pick.
There’s not much else I can say. I don’t want to sour my friendship with Hannah on unfounded accusations. Connor hasn’t actually done anything yet – that I know about.
‘Anyway,’ I say, changing the subject, ‘where do you want to go on Wednesday? How about that new wine bar in Langley Park? It’s not far from the physio practice I’m at that day, so I shouldn’t delay the first tequila shot by too much.’
Hannah laughs. ‘You know me so well. I’ll see you then at, say, seven?’
‘Better make it seven-thirty,’ I reply. ‘Rashid is a bit of a talker, and I hardly ever get out of his appointments on time.’
After speaking to Hannah, I check my journal for any other useful information. I’ve left myself the morning clear, but I have a few physio clients this afternoon. I flick back through the previous weeks and months, trying to glean details about my life since our Venice trip.
To my surprise, there are quite a few entries concerning Elena.
I can see from the notes of events and to-do lists that I’ve been much more involved in her life than I was in the past. Luke and I have visited her multiple times.
I’ve even run a few errands for her. When I pick up my phone and scroll through it, I see a friendly message thread between us, where I’m wishing her well and she’s thanking me for my support.
When I put my phone back down, I’m actually feeling quite proud of myself.
I find it hard to open up to people, especially people that I feel might be secretly judging me or looking down on me.
I think I always expected Elena to be doing that, not because of anything she said or did, but just because she is who she is and I am who I am. That was a bit immature, really.
I lean back in the office chair in front of the desk and stare at the wall.
Did all of this with Elena – her illness, Luke supporting her – happen exactly the same way last time?
At first, I want to believe this is something new, but as I think back over the years I already lived, I realize tiny clues are littered throughout my memories.
I suspect she was ill last time, and I’m pretty sure Luke would have been a good friend to her; I just wasn’t aware of it.
But why wasn’t I?
On the night Luke walked out on me, he said I was oblivious. I was offended at the time, but now I’m starting to wonder if he was right.
I continue flicking through the journal, going right back to the front, and then also checking the back page, where I often scribble random things to myself or slapping a sticky note with a scrawled reminder that I will later add into my to-do list proper.
There’s a little paper pouch at the back of the book, and I notice a pale-blue piece of paper sticking out from it.
I don’t know what it is, but it must be important if I saved it there.
With a sense of foreboding, I pull the corner of the paper and release it from its hiding place. My stomach drops as I unfold it and see that it is not one sheet of paper but several, and all of them are covered with my mother’s handwriting.
Dear Jess,
I know you probably don’t want to read this letter.
I probably wouldn’t if I were you. I would have phoned or sent a message over social media, but I think you’ve blocked me on absolutely everything.
I don’t blame you for that, either. So this was the only way I could think of contacting you.
Maybe I shouldn’t have done, but when did I ever do the sensible thing?
Anyway, I wanted to tell you that you refusing to acknowledge me in any way was incredibly painful.
I bristle. Of course she would make it all about her. Of course she would talk about her pain first. Does she honestly not understand the concept of no-contact? I want to rip the letter up without reading the rest, but my curiosity – and maybe my hope – is insatiable.
But that was a good thing. At first, I was angry with you.
So angry that I thought, ‘I’ll show her!
If she thinks I’m an alcoholic, then I’ll behave like an alcoholic!
’, so I went out and bought a large bottle of vodka and proved you right …
all the way into a hospital bed, thanks to alcohol poisoning.
I didn’t kill myself, but I made a good start.
Keep doing that on a regular basis and one day my body might not recover.
That scared me. I had no one to blame but myself.
I gasp at that last sentence. I don’t think I’ve ever heard those words come out of my mother’s mouth. I’m not sure I thought they even flitted through her head.
When I came home, I collected all the bottles I’d hidden around the house, including the ones on my dressing table that looked as if they were make-up remover but were actually gin, and I threw it all down the sink.
Then I went online and found my nearest AA meeting.
I went that night, and I’ve been going four to five times a week since, sometimes in person, sometimes online.
That was just over eight months ago. I even got a chip for that last Tuesday.
I wanted to thank you. That’s why I’m writing this letter.
You gave me a wake-up call. I want to do better, be better.
But I know we’ve been here before, and you’ve heard this all from me before – well, some of it – but I wanted you to know it’s different this time.
I don’t expect you to believe that, but it is.
I suppose only time will tell which of us is right about this.
And I suppose that brings me to the point of writing this letter.
I’ve been going through the ‘big book’, doing the twelve steps, and I’ve got to the one where I need to say sorry, to make amends, and I would very much like to meet up with you, so I can do that face-to-face.
If you feel you can, please give me a call or send me a text.
I’m still at the same number. You know where I live.
Lots of love,
Mum x
I don’t know what to do. She’s right: we’ve been here before.
She’s said a lot of this before. But it’s the things that she’s never said that give me a worrying glimmer of hope.
It’s easier not to hope, because it’s exhausting to wait and believe, always wondering when the other shoe it going to drop.
Part of the relief in going no-contact was that I’d ended that cycle. I told myself I didn’t care anymore.
I could meet with her. She might say all the right things.
But it’s also highly likely she will not, that she will continue with her blaming and gaslighting, her complete lack of ability to take responsibility for anything, that she would attack me because she became painfully aware of the wounds she has caused me, blaming me for making her feel bad about them, and I just don’t know if I can do that anymore.
I stare at the crumpled piece of blue paper I’m holding.
It looks as if it has been folded and unfolded many times, and yet, as I scan back through my journal, I can find no hint I have ever acted on it, that I’ve contacted my mother since the day I blocked her on everything.
I even go back through my journals for previous years and discover a note marking the day the letter arrived sixteen months ago.
Obviously, I didn’t know about this letter on our last anniversary, because we were in Venice and my journal was tucked away safely back home, possibly even in this house, because I think we may have moved in fourteen months after we originally did.
Glancing through the pages of my life held in these bullet journals, I get the impression that the sale to whoever else wanted it fell through and the house was put back on the market again just as we were ready for it.
We could’ve bought something bigger with the deposit Luke got flipping houses, but I’m glad we didn’t. Even if we let go of this house one day, I’m happy to be here now. One more change may be too much.
I fold the letter back up and tuck it in the pocket at the back of the journal, then place the journal back on the stack of notebooks at the side of the desk, ready for the next day.
As I do so, I catch the sparkle of diamonds and emeralds of my new eternity ring.
New to me, anyway. Not all change is bad.
As I think back to my blueberry pancakes, I remind myself that some change is very, very good.
I trace over the tiny stones with the pad of my index finger, feeling the bumps and curving lines of the design.
I don’t need to decide anything about my mother right now.
I stand with the Jess who’s been living this life much more fully than I have, the one who made these notes.
I’ll let her make the call because I have something much more important to focus on.
This year is our iron anniversary. This year we are strong. We are unbreakable. And I’m going to enlist every ounce of the magic in this ring to keep it that way.