Chapter 5 #2
Scott can’t complete the sentence. He knows for a fact he hasn’t cried for over seven years.
But even though she’s the epitome of what he dislikes in a woman (needy, overprotective, insubstantial), she wants to do better, and she is at least trying.
Besides, there’s something else that keeps his attention focused on her – because in all other circumstances, Scott would have packed up his stuff and left her to it tonight – but there’s something about her face.
Smooth, smiling and worry-free in her online profile picture; cross, humiliated and wary in the kitchen when his hands were on her butt trying to prevent a fall; bothered and exasperated when she arrived at the restaurant wearing that dress and noticed him at the neighbouring table.
(He might have feigned ignorance, but yes, he saw her arrive, no decent man could allow a transformation like that go unnoticed).
There’s something captivating about the way her emotions are just there – open for the entire world to see.
Scott, who takes pride in his inscrutability and keeps his emotions tightly sealed away in a metaphorical box in his head, finds this total disregard for masking utterly compelling.
What you see is what you get. No mystery.
No surprises. Not all women are as straightforward as this.
And it’s her face, her absolute honesty, that keeps him there.
‘Do you know what I think?’ he says.
‘I’m guessing you’re going to tell me whether I want to hear it or not,’ she replies, more to her tissue than to him.
‘I reckon you’re terrified. You’re terrified of Georgia navigating the big scary world out there, but I reckon you’re scared for yourself, too. I reckon you’re afraid you’re going to arrive at a lonely, echoing house tomorrow morning and think, what the heck’s my life about now?’
His words are meant to calm her, to restore the gentle glow on her cheek, but instead, they have the opposite effect: she becomes near hysterical. Her loud, shuddering sobs need napkins from two neighbouring tables to absorb them.
‘But don’t you think,’ he says carefully once the tears eventually stop, ‘that all this stuff on social media – that parents' forum in particular, actually makes it worse?’
Heather looks up from her wodge of tissues and tilts her head.
‘No. Why? I mean, I know some of them can be over the top, but overall, these are well-meaning people, don’t you think?’
Well-meaning is one way of putting it.
‘I believe sometimes they promote over-parenting based on an assumption their kids can’t cope, and the whole thing spirals into one big self-fulfilling prophecy.’
Heather’s chin dips, and a small furrow appears between her light green eyes.
‘But some kids can’t cope. That’s the thing.’
He nods slowly. ‘Yeah. But why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why can’t they cope?’
Heather’s shoulders rise and she lifts her hands in an exasperated shrug.
‘I don’t know … neurodiversity, health reasons, anxieties, mental health issues.’ She counts out her evidence on slim, extended fingers.
‘Uh, huh. Uh, huh,’ he nods, ‘but how much of that is caused by the parents?’ Her forehead crinkles. Cute. ‘Okay, imagine this. A kid can’t do something or has a problem, like maybe they have a lumpy bed at university, so their parent, mother, father, whoever, sorts it for them. Good thing, right?’
She nods. ‘Yes.’
‘No. Wrong.’ This is where he excels at work.
Logic, reasoning, statistics. He’s on a familiar roll.
‘The thing parents need to do is teach, model, scaffold, so the kid can do this thing on their own. So they can source their own darned mattress topper in the future.’ (At what point was he going to admit he has a near pathological issue with mattress toppers?)
Heather shakes her head, clearly exasperated.
‘Okay, forget mattress toppers. But what if those tasks are impossible, whatever they are? What if it harms the kid’s self-esteem to keep trying at something they just can’t do?’
Scott is proud because he knows the answer. This describes how he’s parented himself ever since … ever since he’s needed to.
‘Then you teach it in smaller bits, discrete chunks, and build up to the complete picture.’
Heather nods.
‘Takes so much time.’
‘It does.’
‘And in the end—’
‘That’s the key. In the end, the kids can do things themselves, and the parents are redundant because they’ve done their job right.
And that’s why you … some people … hold on and keep their kids dependent on them.
Because they’re afraid of what life will be like without the kid to distract them. Nowhere to hide then, right?’
‘Right. I see. Nowhere to hide.’ Heather’s head slumps onto her chest and her bottom lip trembles. ‘And that’s what you think I’m dealing with now? Fear?’
Scott’s abruptly aware he’s gone too far and, in his enthusiasm, achieved the opposite of his intention.
‘Could be,’ he says more softly.
Her jaw tightens. ‘Right.’
‘Perhaps the empty nest is terrifying for you and lots of other parents out there. And you’re trying to hold on. Even when it’s not the best thing for your kids.’
Heather sucks her lower lip between her teeth and sits more upright.
‘So, you’ve got it right all these years, and I’ve got it all wrong. Is that what you’re getting at?’
Scott's heart sinks. He’s done that thing where he focuses on data and hard facts but has inadvertently offended. The data might never lie, but the human psyche can, and does, all the time.
‘No. Well …’ he stutters, trying to find the words to help dig him out of this hole.
‘Well ... Scott, I just want to tell you, you know nothing about me, or my daughter, or our circumstances, or how I’ve parented, or why.
And frankly … frankly ….’ Heather places her forefingers either side of the bridge of her nose and uses the palms of her hands to wipe her tears away and flatten her skin.
‘Frankly, it’s none of your damn business. ’