Chapter 22
That evening, when I glance out of my bedroom window and into the drizzling gray rain, I see one of the saddest sights ever—Joy, her rails all tucked in, her windows and skylights all shut, her adapter cable and wire stretching to the side of the house as she charges up. I catch a glimpse of Luke through the lit-up window, and see him wrapping mugs and hooking cupboards shut. I imagine Betty curled up on the sofa, and his music playing, and all the activities that go on before Joy embarks on a journey.
They are familiar routines to me now, usually both comforting and exciting—routines that signify the next leg of our travels. Routines that are the boring prelude to drawing a scrunched-up piece of paper out of a baseball cap, planning a route, finding a random stone circle to visit or a fairy glen to swim in. Routines that mean, Yay, we’re hitting the road again, and who knows where that will take us? Now the road will only be taking us in different directions. Now it means saying goodbye.
Tonight, as I watch him go about his business, those routines signal none of the fun stuff—at least not for me. It is the end of an era—though, admittedly, a very short era. I am grateful for having had it, that brief spell of freedom, and also grateful for where it led me—back to my real home, back to my family. To people I love, people I have missed. It has given me the chance to forgive and be forgiven.
Solemnly, I close my curtains against the dying evening light and make my way downstairs for dinner. I offered to cook for my parents, but they said they couldn’t face beans on toast yet again and would take their turn tonight.
It has been a day of bittersweet goodbyes, I think, as I walk slowly down the stairs. I have lost both of the men in my life, and that will take some time to settle—but I also have to remember what I have gained. I am back in Foxgloves, which I never thought was possible. I am in my mum and dad’s lives, which is a complicated but joyous thing. I can make up for lost time, be the daughter they need, and even rebuild my own life. I can start afresh, older, wiser, more useful. I am only young, still, no matter what Charlie says—and I have a lot of life left to live. I will do at least some of it here, in this beautiful place I can now call home again.
I have been giving myself pep talks like this all afternoon, and as I make my way toward the shiny new kitchen, I am halfway to believing it. Maybe a third of the way, at least.
I amble through the hallway, Frank coming to greet me. He snuffles at my hand but seems subdued, and I wonder if he understands, on some basic doggie level, that Betty is leaving us, or if I’m just projecting my own feelings onto a big, slobbery fur-baby. Both are possible. I find my parents sitting at the dining table, mugs of tea in front of them. There is no food apparent, which momentarily disappoints me, until I realize that I actually have very little appetite at all.
“Jennifer,” my mother says seriously, “please join us.”
I immediately wonder what I have done wrong, and glance at my dad to try to find a clue—my mother is always inscrutable. She is absolutely impossible to scrute, whatever that may be.
“Don’t worry, love,” he supplies, gesturing to the chair across from them, “it’s nothing bad!”
He might say that, but as I take a seat, with both of them facing me, I can’t help feeling that it is. I suppose it might at least be good practice for a job interview. I do hope they’re not going to ask me where I see myself in ten years’ time, because, frankly, I have no idea.
“So, we’ve been having a chat,” he continues, his arms folded on the table in front of him, “your mum and me. And we’ve decided that we’re kicking you out.”
“What?” I splutter, not quite believing what I’m hearing. “What do you mean? Why? What have I done?!”
I am a fraction of a second away from adding, “But it’s not fair!” when my mother holds up a placating hand. She has a slight smile on her lips, which, for her, is almost a belly laugh, and she says: “Now, now, none of that! First of all, we don’t actually mean exactly that—if you really want to stay here with us, then we would be delighted to have you. Your father is simply indulging in his flair for the dramatic.”
“Guilty as charged,” he admits, looking sheepish.
“Well, what do you mean then?” I ask, frowning. “I know I’ve been gone a long time. I don’t blame you if you’re still upset, but I thought we were working through it. I thought you were glad I’d come back...”
“It’s nothing like that, silly child,” she replies dismissively. “Of course we’re glad you came back! This has been complicated for all of us, but I never want you to doubt that you walking back into our lives was the best thing that has happened to us for a very long time. We’ve loved having you here—but we simply don’t think you should stay.”
“But I want to stay!” I reply, still beyond confused at what she is trying to explain. “I want to be here with you two. I want to be part of your lives. I want to help when Dad has his surgery.”
My mum nods briskly and picks up her phone from the table. She finds what she is looking for and holds the screen up to me. I look, and see a photo of a middle-aged woman with curly brown hair and a big smile.
“Um... she looks nice? How is that relevant?”
“This is Elaine,” she says, putting the phone down again. “She’s a fully qualified nurse, experienced in the cardio wards in several hospitals, now working privately. She is the person we have already interviewed, already decided we like, and already asked to come and help us after your father’s bypass. Don’t take this the wrong way, Jenny, but I suspect she’ll be more useful.”
It is a lot to take in, and it has been a tough day, and I am tender—it is difficult not to take it the wrong way. “You’re saying that you don’t need me here? Don’t want me here?”
“You’re half right, sweetie,” my dad chips in. “Of course we want you here—but we don’t need you here. Those are two very different things, aren’t they? I appreciate that you want to stick around and help out your old pops, but it’s really not necessary.”
I pause and look at their faces. Their new lines, their new wrinkles, their new strands of gray and silver. But when I look beyond that, I see them as they used to be—just as my parents.
“Look,” I say, laying my hands on the table, “I hear what you’re saying, and I appreciate it, but I think I should stay. I’ve been away for long enough, and I want to make up for it.”
“Jenny, darling,” my mum replies earnestly, “that was all so long ago, and it was as much our fault as it was yours—a marvelous team effort by the whole family, in fact! I hope you know that whatever we did, we did for the best of reasons—we were trying to protect you. But we went about it in such a terrible fashion, we really did—we got everything wrong, and we have never regretted anything more. We see now how well you’ve done, how fabulously you’ve raised Charlie, and we feel nothing but pride. But you are, and always will be, our baby, and we still only want one thing—for you to be happy. And neither of us thinks that staying here with us is what will make you happy.”
“It will, Mum—I have a job interview and everything! I can be happy here, I know I can. I promise I’ll try!”
The two of them look at each other and share a smile. “We don’t want you to have to try,” Dad says. “We want you to just be happy. And we think you will be, if you go with Luke.”
“If I go with Luke?” I echo, not at all sure of what they are trying to say.
“Yes,” he replies simply. “Go with Luke. We’ve seen the way you two are together. I’ve even read your infamous Sausage Dog Diaries! You should carry on with that life—you should find your joy. You might find some peace here, Jen, but you won’t find joy. And we’re old now, and wise, and we know that joy doesn’t come along often—when it does, you need to grab it with both hands!” He makes a clapping gesture in the air, as though he is catching something, and Frank looks up in interest.
Mum is looking on, tapping her fingers on the tabletop, and I can see that she has more to add. I raise my eyebrows at her, and she speaks: “You know I can be a frightful snob, dear. And I must confess that when I first met Luke, that part of me came to the fore. I didn’t like it, but I found myself judging him. But since then... well, as your father says, we’ve seen you together. Darling, you light up when he walks into a room. You come alive when he is near. He lifts you up when you are down, and whether you realize it or not, you’re so very good together. I may be old and past it, but I can still see when two people are in love.”
I stare at her, dumbfounded. I open my mouth to argue, to tell her that is the stupidest thing I have ever heard. To explain that we are nothing more than friends. Two people whose lives accidentally crossed, two people who have become closer than either of them perhaps expected—but still just friends. Part of me is even resentful at them daring to try to tell me what to do with my life again—we have spent eighteen painful years apart, and maybe I don’t feel they have yet earned the right to tell me they know me well enough to give me advice.
That aside, they have the wrong idea. I want to tell them they are wrong. Maybe even to convince myself that they are wrong. I want to tell them that, yet again, they have firmly grasped the incorrect end of the stick. I want to deny all of it, and yet... and yet I cannot. I remember all the moments Luke and I have shared; the casual touches of skin against skin that left me yearning for more; the heat that could build from a simple glance; the way he makes me feel safe and calm and excited to be alive all at once. The way he comforts me, confides in me, draws out the very best in me. The way I felt just minutes ago, as I looked out of my window and saw him getting ready to leave.
Could they be right? Could I have been in denial about this? I am not experienced in the ways of love, the ways of partnership—my only real encounter with it left me battered, bruised, and cynical. I have spent so long alone, so long convincing myself that I need nobody else, that perhaps I have refused to let myself see the signs that my parents seem so convinced are there.
My mum reaches across the table, takes my hand in both of hers. Papery skin, delicate bones—but still strong.
“Are you scared?” she asks, leaning across toward me.
I nod dumbly—I am scared. I’m terrified.
“Good,” she says briskly. “All the best things in life are scary to start off with. Now, as I see it, you’ve shown incredible courage all through your life. You had the backbone to defy us when you were a girl, to leave behind everything you’d ever known because you thought it was right for you. You’ve raised a child, all alone, which takes astonishing amounts of spine and bravery. You’ve built a life for yourself on the foundations of your own abilities. Now, dear, I think you need to find a touch more of that courage—and take a chance on Luke. On the two of you. You will always have a home here. Charlie will always have a home here. And believe me, dear, we plan on sticking around for a good long time yet! You will always be our daughter, and we will always love you—but it’s time to live for yourself. Not for us, not for Charlie—but for you.”
She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest. She narrows her eyes at me and shakes her head.
“Jennifer,” she says, nodding toward the door. “What on earth are you waiting for?”