EZRA

‘ J ESUS . F REEZING , ISN ’ T IT ?’

‘Mm,’ I say, hunching into my new coat. It’s navy wool, long and sharply cut – it was among the clothes that Maggie bought for me, so I know it must have been eye-wateringly expensive. I feel vaguely guilty about liking it as much as I do.

‘What a time to quit smoking,’ Caroline continues with a huff. ‘I’d kill you both for a cigarette right now.’

‘Love you too,’ Maggie says, voice muffled by her scarf.

‘I smoked my first cigarette on a day like this,’ I tell them. ‘I thought it would warm me up.’

Caroline snorts with laughter. Maggie frowns.

‘I don’t know if it’s appropriate to laugh in a cemetery,’ she says. Then, after a pause – ‘It is fucking cold, though.’

‘Come here,’ Caroline says, throwing an arm around her. Maggie stiffly accepts the gesture, brow furrowed. I know that she’s probably struggling the most today, but she’s here anyway. We all are.

This is a nice place, against the odds, on the edge of a quiet Downtown neighbourhood. It’s gated and shrouded by trees, rust-coloured leaves carpeting our path as we watch Dad tend to the grave, replacing wilted violets with fresh ones. He looks strangely at ease amongst the headstones, head bowed, gently sweeping loose petals aside with his hands – he comes here every week. Both Caroline and Maggie knew that, I’ve since learned, but today is the first time that all three of us have joined him.

It’s not at all like I’d imagined. I’d been picturing rain, actually – a slate-coloured sky and black umbrellas, the perfect backdrop for some tearful, snotty catharsis. But the sky is a crisp, cloudless blue, and I don’t feel her here. Not like when I’m reading a book or watching a film and there’s a line or a joke that I know she’d like so I make a little mental note to mention it to her before I remember, and then …

In the back of my mind she’s alive, sometimes.

‘Need any help?’ Caroline calls over to Dad. He turns and looks over his shoulder at us, then offers a hesitant thumbs up.

‘He can’t hear,’ I murmur and start walking towards him. Dad gets to his feet as he sees me approach, wiping his hands on his trousers – he’s wearing khakis and a jumper underneath his waxed jacket, a very different ensemble to his usual get-up of crisp suits and tasteful ties.

‘She was asking if you need any help,’ I tell him once I’m in earshot.

‘No, no. All done here.’ He nods, glancing back at the grave. ‘Ready to head off?’

‘I guess,’ I say, hands firmly tucked into my pockets, and we head back for the path. ‘Maggie and Caroline are pretty cold.’

‘Right, of course,’ he says. Then, ‘Caroline said that it was your idea to come here today.’

‘Yep,’ I say, picking up the pace a little. ‘Thanks for having us.’

Shit . That sounded sarcastic, which is definitely not what I’m going for today. I quickly rack my brains for something nicer to say but before I know it, we’re back on the path.

‘The flowers look good,’ Caroline tells him. ‘Mum told me once that you nearly called me Violet.’

‘But then you were born and we realised that you were Caroline.’ Dad nods. ‘It was the same for Maggie. She was Lucy, almost.’

‘What was Ezra’s almost-name?’

‘Oh, Ezra was always Ezra,’ he replies. ‘We knew that from the very beginning.’

I think Caroline can tell that I don’t really know how to respond to that – she claps her gloved hands together, a muffled smack.

‘Food,’ she says decisively. ‘It’s gone twelve and I’m hungry. Who’s in?’

Dad glances at me. They’re all looking at me, actually.

‘Sounds good,’ I say and Maggie smiles.

‘Great. We’ll find a place,’ she says, taking Caroline by the arm and turning on her heel. Dad and I slope after them at a slight distance, dutifully accepting their less-than-subtle invitation to talk amongst ourselves. Take two on the whole be-a-better-son deal.

‘So – how are things?’ he begins, which feels like a loaded question. I don’t know how much he knows about the past few days.

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I’ve taken a break from work.’

‘Oh. Is everything all right?’ He frowns, sounding genuinely concerned – maybe because he is genuinely concerned , I remind myself.

Everything is not all right, no, but it’s starting to feel like it might be someday. I’m still at Caroline’s. I’ve been hanging out at the apartment while she paints, watching movies and helping Romy with dinner in the evenings. Caroline and I are both trying to quit smoking, too, which I think she’s finding harder than me – she’s been chewing her fancy paintbrushes so aggressively that there are flakes of paint in her teeth, sometimes. And I’ve stopped drinking, too, which is where I’m struggling. A lot , if I’m honest.

To put it plainly, I miss it. I miss the routine drinking offered, the ritual – I miss knowing that I had something to look forward to at the end of each day. I miss being able to soften my ugly feelings and thoughts with it. I miss the taste, be it that of a bottom shelf vodka or a beautifully mixed cocktail. I even miss the feel of a wine glass or a whisky tumbler in my hand, and when I told that to Caroline, she started putting my soda into a gin balloon, which is another thing – I miss the sugar. Turns out there’s loads of it in booze, so now I’m drinking soft drinks all the time like a kid. I’ll probably be toothless before the year is out.

But I won’t miss the hangovers. The memory lapses. The puking, sometimes so propulsive that my throat would hurt for days afterwards. And worse, the shame, vague and formless and near-constant by the end. The idea that I could bid goodbye to all of that for ever is, for lack of a better word, intoxicating. I just wish I could be sure that it’ll be enough, because the prospect of being sober for ever is terrifying. A part of me wants to keep bargaining – to convince myself that I can start reining it in, now that I know how bad it can get. I’m the master of my own universe, after all, and if I really want a drink then I can just have one. I’m still young – plenty of people my age drink like I do, then they ease off as they get older. It’s normal. It’s fine.

The illusion of control is very appealing, I’m realising, when you lack the actual thing.

So I’ll drink my soda. I’ll read the books that Caroline bought me – The Recovering , The Outrun , The Trip to Echo Spring – all these sober books seem to start with a ‘the’, I’ve noticed. And I’ll take each day as it comes.

It doesn’t feel like such a good idea to relay all of that to Dad, though.

‘Yeah,’ I say instead. ‘Things are all right.’

‘Right,’ he replies, and I can sense his trepidation – the unwillingness to overstep. But it’s my turn to try and bridge the gap between us. I know that now.

‘And – I want you to know that I did think about what you said regarding the whole NYU thing,’ I venture. ‘I mean – I’m still not sure about university, but I do want to get back into taking pictures, so – yeah. I’ll keep you updated how that goes.’

It might be the longest unbroken speech I’ve made to him in years. He looks distinctly startled by it.

‘Well – that’s great,’ he replies. ‘If that’s what you want.’

‘Maybe. I think it makes sense.’

‘So long as you’re happy. That’s all I care about.’

A week ago, I wouldn’t have believed that. But today, I do. I decide to.

‘I’m getting there,’ I say, offering a smile. ‘So – how are you?’

‘Oh, fine. Busy. But – I might take some time off for Christmas this year.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yes, well – it might be nice to do it properly, now we’re all together again.’

‘Ice skating and cookie decorating?’

‘If you want,’ he says seriously.

I laugh. ‘I mean – whatever, yeah. You don’t have to go out of your way, though.’

‘I’d like to,’ he replies. ‘I’d like to spend more time with you all.’

‘Well – me too,’ I say awkwardly. ‘Like – I’m aware that I could be doing better as a member of this family. And I’m going to work on that, so …’

‘No,’ Dad says, stopping in his tracks. ‘You being a part of this family isn’t conditional. I’m the only one that should be trying to do “better”. I’m your dad, I’m – that’s my job. It’s the only one that matters, and I didn’t – I know that I haven’t …’

He seems to falter, then, resting his hand on a low stone wall as if to steady himself. His wedding ring catches the light, glinting in the midday sun.

‘You did your best,’ I say. ‘I just haven’t felt like admitting that, before.’

My dad smiles at that. It’s a strange smile – lopsided, sad, but infinitely better than any of his forced grimaces. And while I’m looking – really looking at him, I realise that he’s getting older. There are lines around his mouth and a papery quality to his skin beneath his eyes. Even the grey coming in at his roots looks more substantial than it used to, and it occurs to me then that maybe he didn’t stop smoking and start jogging because of his own vanity. Maybe he’s just trying to stick around a little longer for his bratty, ungrateful kids who never tell him how much they love him.

I’m struck by a sudden (and deeply jarring) impulse to hug him, then. I mean – I can’t. I don’t even know how many years of therapy it would take for me to be able to express emotion in such a conventionally healthy way – therapy that I should look into, probably. But I manage to clap my hand on his shoulder instead, and it’s something.

If anyone can understand that, it’s him.

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