Chapter 38 #3
‘But ever since you were a teenager – I have worried about you.’
‘Right.’
‘And when you met Ronan, it was a bit of an answered prayer, if I’m honest.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘Your book happened and it was wonderful. But I still knew, deep down – that it wouldn’t be enough.
I worried that despite this life you found – you wouldn’t be happy.
I thought once you were married, you would be OK.
But then with the hospital admission seven years ago – I didn’t want to pry or meddle, because you weren’t my responsibility anymore.
You were your own woman, and you had a husband.
You were so erratic. He had to do everything for you. ’
‘Mum—’
‘You going into the hospital was not nice for any of us.’
‘Mum—’
‘And then, over time, you got better. And I thought – maybe this is it. Maybe she’s found a way to be settled now. You still had your writer’s block, but you started your counselling course. And you seemed happy. You did. Calm. And you had this – this house. You have so much, Mal.’
‘I know.’
She takes another large swig of her wine.
I forgot how much of a lightweight she is.
I watch her inhale, readying herself, like she has prepared this.
Like it is written down on the back of one of her wilted tissues, and she has rehearsed it.
‘I want to tell you this, and then I won’t bring it up again.
I think you use a generated perception of your past to justify your behaviour, Mallory.
It is like you have told yourself a story over and over, and now believe it to be true.
You need to get yourself together, accept what has happened, and move on.
I know you, Mallory. I’ve known your desire for drama and your pull towards mess since you were a child.
This needs to stop. This is a version of you that you must leave behind.
It’s childish. It’s time to grow up – get in the real world.
You’re not a character from one of your books.
You have responsibilities. You are a wife.
And hopefully, soon, a mother. That is, if you get yourself together, before you miss your chance. ’
‘Mum – this is a bit much if I’m honest.’
‘Is it? Ronan told me everything. The young man outside the house in the middle of the night. Following him. Using Ronan’s pictures on a...
’ She pauses, stopping herself, then whispers, ‘Gay app,’ like it is blasphemy.
‘He could lose his job, Mallory. He is in a very brilliant and very powerful job – that is providing for you, no less – allowing you to do your counselling and write your books. And he could lose it. And then what would you do?’ She doesn’t give me time to answer.
‘You need to grow up. No more of this childish fantasy world you live in. I know you justify this to yourself as creative flare. As freedom. But frankly, it’s just a bit embarrassing.
’ She shakes her head. ‘You need to be careful, or you will push him away.’
I stand still, staring at the marble counter top.
My Shallow Embers book advance is buried in the stone.
The weight of Mum’s words pushes down on me.
I feel the pressure like I’m miles underwater, like it’s trying to drown me.
I look at the dead salmon I am still holding in my hands. ‘Well. That was quite the monologue.’
‘Well. You needed to hear it.’
My brain feels like it has been put on spin-dry. This is the mother I know. The mother I remember. ‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t get sarcastic with me. Don’t get performative.’
‘I’m not, Mum.’
‘I would have killed for your life, Mallory. You don’t know how easy you have it.’ She gulps her wine, emptying her glass. ‘Now, I’d love a top up, if that’s OK? It’s beautiful, is it Sauvignon Blanc?’
I keep staring at the jelly eyes of the fish. I thought that when things died, they felt peace. It doesn’t look peaceful. More in complete shock. ‘It’s in the fridge,’ I say.
She stands, opens the fridge door behind me and finds the bottle.
‘It’s lovely. Yes, from New Zealand – I thought so.
’ I can feel the scales of the fish beginning to peel off in my hands, sticking to my skin.
She keeps pouring. ‘You think you know so much, Mallory. You live in your own perceived reality of the world. But however you try to spin this to yourself, I am not to be blamed for your inability to participate in your own life.’
‘What are you two nattering about?’ I snap my head up to see Ronan stood in the kitchen doorway, now wearing an olive-green T-shirt and some loose-fitting joggers.
And Birkenstocks.
‘Oh, nothing,’ I reply. ‘I was just telling Mum about The Air Between Us. I have an idea for the ending.’
‘I can’t wait to hear about it, darling,’ he says, then looks at my mother. ‘I opened the window in your bedroom, Stace. It was getting a bit stuffy up there.’
‘Thank you, Ronan.’ She nods, then takes a sip of her wine. ‘Right. I’m starving. Do you need a hand with that salmon, Mal? You look like you’re about to hit someone with it.’