Chapter Thirty-four
My parents’ house is at the top of a hill that overlooks the water. It stands shoulder to shoulder between two other grand houses, as though the three of them are competing to see who is the tallest.
It’s not easily accessible by public transport, so Yumi lends me her car. Her only two rules are that the radio must be played at full volume and that I promise not to get distracted by falling leaves.
After two weeks away from the bookshop it feels strange to be back home and to not be behind the counter at Brooks’.
It feels stranger still to drive across the city.
But it’s long past time that I speak to my mother.
I finally listened to her voicemails last night, both of them basically repeats of the same message – that she’s made progress on the sale, and can I please call her.
There is no mention of the fact that she is trying to dismantle and reassemble my life. To take away the bookshop. I could call her, but the conviction that began in me on the hill in Mayfield has taken root. I need to see her in person.
The salt air is fresh against my skin when I step out of Yumi’s hatchback. Mum and Dad’s house stands tall and silent, casting shadows even in the morning light. I mean, to be honest, the position of the sun means that every house on the street is casting shadows.
It’s such a contrast to the places where we’ve been the past couple of weeks that, despite the fresh air, I feel like I can’t breathe.
The glue on the pieces that I’ve been trying to patch together since yesterday feels so fresh, but there’s something about knowing that Brooks’ Books beats in my blood, about the love I rediscovered on the tour, that gives me confidence.
No matter how nervous I feel . . . I have to do this.
I push my legs up their front steps, ringing the doorbell before I can talk myself out of it.
I can hear it echo through the house, and the click of my mother’s heels against the timber floors.
She opens the door dressed in a pencil skirt and blouse, which means she’s probably getting ready to go out.
I see the surprise light her sharp brown eyes before she covers it.
‘Clarence,’ she says. ‘Lovely to see you.’
‘Do you have time to talk?’ I ask her.
She stands for just a second, taking me in. Then, ‘Of course,’ she says, moving gracefully to the side to let me in.
I follow her through the spotless house to the sleek white couches by the front windows that look out over the water. I don’t sit down, and Mum doesn’t either.
‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’ she asks, ever the hostess.
‘I would like to know what the hell you’re doing, trying to sell the bookshop from under me,’ I say, my voice as mild as I can make it.
I curse myself almost as soon as the words are out.
I wasn’t going to lead with this. I was going to be calm and reasonable, and at least ask how she was first. But I can’t take my words back now, and . . . maybe it’s better this way.
Mum holds my gaze, her eyes unreadable. She doesn’t bluster or stiffen or pretend that she’s not trying to do the exact thing I’m accusing her of doing, and I ignore the disappointment that trickles through me. As though there was still a part of me hoping that I might be wrong.
‘I’m trying to help you,’ says Mum. The words are such a vivid reminder of Declan yesterday that pain slices through my gut, spilling anger out with it.
‘To help?’ My breath catches in my throat. ‘Are you kidding me? Having Gran declared mentally unfit? Taking away my career? Constantly judging me and finding me wanting? Selling my freaking home? Tell me, Mum, how is any of that helping?’
I’m breathless by the end of it, and I hate that I am. She’s just standing there, immaculate and entirely unruffled.
‘Home?’ she asks, her perfect eyebrows raised. And that’s it. That’s all she says.
‘What are you talking about?’ I say. I go to rub my head, but it reminds me too much of Declan and I really don’t need to be reminded of Declan right now. I clench my fist by my side.
‘You said I was trying to sell your home,’ says Mum. ‘Is the bookshop really your “freaking home”?’
‘You know it is,’ I say, and my voice sounds broken, like it’s coming from someone else. Because, no matter how sure I am about the bookshop, Mum talking about it like this hurts .
‘No,’ says my mother, and her voice is sharp, clipped.
She smooths down her skirt, and the action freezes something in me, because she never fidgets.
‘I know that the bookshop was my parents’ home.
They poured themselves into it, but that was okay for them because they loved it; it was their dream.
But I will never forgive my mother for the burden that she placed on you by giving it to you.
I cannot believe that she actually had the gall to ask you to leave university – to leave behind your future and your dreams – just so that you could pour all of yourself into hers. ’
My mother’s voice is fierce in a way that I’ve never heard it, and when I look at her there’s fire in her eyes too.
‘I will be the bad guy in your story, Clarence, and I will find a way to sell the bookshop if it means that you can finally find your way back to doing the thing that you love, rather than the thing that she loved. You might be her granddaughter, but you are my daughter, and I won’t let that place destroy you. ’
My legs feel shaky, and I take a step back to sink into the couch. I can’t take my eyes off her, though, off the bright fury in her eyes. Trying to process the words that she’s saying.
‘What?’ I whisper. ‘What are you talking about?’
Mum delicately arranges herself on the couch opposite me, her face set with determination.
And, as her words filter through me, all I can think about is Declan, sitting on the hill and saying he felt like he spent his life mad at his father without understanding him.
‘Is that really what you think?’ I ask, searching her eyes. ‘That I left university because she asked me to?’
I try to read her, but she’s silent and still.
‘I didn’t leave my degree because Gran asked me to. I left because studying law made me feel like I was drowning.’
My mother doesn’t move a muscle, apart from to shake her head.
‘No,’ she says. ‘She told me that she was giving you the shop. That if I was going to be mad at anyone for you leaving your degree, it should be her.’
Oh, Gran.
‘She gave it to me after I left,’ I say, all of the residual anger draining out of my body. My mother has seriously spent the last two years thinking that Gran asked me to give up my degree?
But why would she think otherwise? I never told her. I spoke to Gran about everything that had happened, not to Mum. And, for the first time in my life, I wonder how that must have felt for her.
‘She gave it to me so that I had a home, while I was working myself out.’
My mother’s face freezes, and when she smooths her skirt again, her hand is shaking.
‘You hate the bookshop,’ she says, and there’s a rigid certainty still hanging on to her voice, like she’s rereading the story, trying to understand the pieces. ‘Every time I speak with you, you sound so stressed. You called it a black hole.’
I rub my hands across my face, because I can’t even deny it. Because of course she thinks I hate the bookshop. I’ve never given her a reason to think otherwise. Up until the tour, up until I thought it might be taken away from me – I didn’t know that it was what I wanted, either.
And I realise that by not talking about how I feel about it, all I’ve given her is space to imagine the worst. I can’t change everything that’s happened between us, but maybe . . . maybe I can talk to her.
‘Some days, running the bookshop is really hard,’ I tell her.
She’s watching me, but she doesn’t say anything.
‘But some days . . . it’s like magic. The idea that I can give someone a story that means something to them, or opens up new worlds for them, or that just helps them escape for a few hours is powerful.
I know that I’m not fighting for the law to be upheld, or bringing people to justice, but what we do in the bookshop matters.
I might not always have good days, but it’s home, Mum. And it’s not for sale.’
Mum turns to look out at the water, and for a moment she doesn’t speak. In the kitchen, I can hear the faint tick of the wall clock.
‘I used to hate it when she said that me not loving reading was the ultimate act of teenage rebellion,’ she whispers finally, her gaze still fixed out of the window.
‘It always made me feel as though I’d failed, somehow.
’ She smooths her skirt again. ‘I told myself it was okay, that I was good at other things. I didn’t need to love reading.
I made a good life for myself, Clarence.
A successful life.’ She takes a breath, then turns to look at me.
‘But I was so jealous that reading gave her that relationship with you.’
The words are stark in the space between us.
‘Mum,’ I whisper.
She holds up a hand. Then she inhales sharply, and stands.
No matter what has shifted in the past ten minutes, her ability to pull herself together hasn’t, and by the time her knees straighten, she looks exactly the same as she always does.
‘Are you sure?’ she asks. ‘About not wanting to sell?’
It’s not an apology, but the fact that she asks lodges itself in my throat, and, at my nod, she types something into her phone and slides it onto the coffee table beside her.
‘I was always going to give you the money from the sale,’ she says, and her use of the past tense relaxes something in me.
‘You’ll stop the process?’
‘I’ve just messaged the agent,’ she says, slightly irritably, as though it’s ridiculous for me to even ask. ‘I’ll speak with your brother this afternoon.’