Chapter 31
HEATHER
It takes a moment for yesterday’s excitement to penetrate Heather’s waking thoughts, but the moment it does, she finds herself sitting bolt upright in bed, panic running through her veins.
When she finally fell asleep last night, there had been over a hundred orders on her website and Scott appeared to be screening her calls.
She reaches over to the bedside table, clicks the lamp on and locates her phone.
A series of thoughts race through her head:
And – the ultimate question of all –
No doubt her dad, who she’s visiting today with Fraser, will bring her down to earth and point out her limitations. Because Heather can’t do this. Of course she can’t. And she’s a fool to think otherwise.
She unlocks her phone and skims through her most recent communications, her anxiety spiking. She picks the contentious points off one by one:
Georgia’s safe. (Thank you, locations App.)
Scott’s definitely blanking her. (He’s not replied to any recent messages.)
Fraser is coming at 11 o’clock. (It’s now eight thirty.)
Maisie is still alive. (She’s yapping like crazy downstairs.)
Heather’s first task, therefore, is already clear in her mind. She types out a quick and concise email of resignation with immediate effect and sends it to her boss.
She refuses to let a single shred of self-doubt hold her back from this moment on. She’s destined for this line of work and, if it’s not to be, she’s resolved to die trying (metaphorically, of course – she’s not inclined to the same leaps of drama that Georgia is prone to).
She gets up, feeds the dog, messages Scott to confirm their coffee date this afternoon, showers, and prepares herself mentally for the day ahead. As she deep conditions her hair, one thought dominates all others. What will it be like seeing her dad again after all this time?
***
Heather and Fraser stand huddled on the front doorstep of their parents' house. Fraser gives her a quick “you got this” squeeze on her arm before knocking on the front door. Maisie bolts into the house the moment the door is ajar.
‘You came.’
Her mother stands on the threshold, a tea towel in her right hand, the door latch in her left.
Heather scrutinises her mother in a way she didn’t in the hospital recently.
In many ways, she is unchanged. The clothing, the hairdo, the nervous way she wraps the tea towel around her hands.
But other things are different. Her face is a spider’s web of fine lines, and the skin below her eyes is bagged. Even her lips look thinner.
But the most noticeable change is how small her mother has become.
Heather needs to adjust her gaze downwards by a good ten centimetres to meet her eyes. Didn’t they used to be the same height?
‘Hi, Mum.’ Fraser is the first to speak. He bends by about forty-five degrees to kiss their mother’s cheek.
‘Fraser,’ she says.
Fraser squeezes past his mother into the hallway, leaving her with nowhere other than Heather to look.
‘Hello, dear,’ she says, ‘I’m so glad you came.’
‘Hi Mum.’
Heather’s attempt at a hug – a kiss feels too intimate – turns into an awkward knocking of hips and a crow-like hand contacting her back in an attempt at an affectionate tap.
‘Your dad’s in the kitchen,’ her mother says, closing the door behind them.
If Heather’s mother was a surprise, her father is an enormous shock. He sits on an electric reclining chair designed for the terminally ill, his eyes fixed on the large silver birch in the garden.
‘He likes to watch the birds,’ her mother says.
Heather follows his gaze and notices a plethora of feeders, nesting boxes and bird tables affixed to the tree’s trunk and branches. ‘I think he likes to study the animals he used to mount in their natural environments.’
Heather is momentarily jettisoned back over thirty-five years, discovering her pet parrot is no longer in its cage.
Only this frail old man in front of her is not the domineering, opinionated father of her youth.
This man is skeletal, with chamois-like skin hanging from the same cheekbones that gave his face such definition in middle age.
‘This is Heather, Robert. Our Heather,’ her mother says, at least ten decibels louder than her conversational voice.
The old man’s eyes seek her out. ‘Huh?’ His false teeth rattle together as his lips part.
‘Hi Dad.’ Heather’s feet are fixed to the spot. She lifts her arm in a half-hearted wave which her father returns with a gnarled hand, which shakes visibly.
Her mum places a plate of pre-prepared egg sandwiches (Fraser’s childhood favourite) onto the kitchen table and peels the cling film off. Maisie scampers underneath the table, hoping for scraps.
‘Calm down, you,’ Fraser says, scratching the dog behind her ears.
‘Tea, Heather?’ her mother asks.
Heather accepts one of the cracked cups from her parents’ wedding china and adds a small dash of milk. Her mother places a plastic mug of milky tea with a bendy straw in front of her father. He used to take it black.
‘So, Heather. We’re dying to hear your news, aren’t we, Robert?’
Her dad’s eyes close in a slow, laborious blink.
Heather has come prepared. She passes photographs of Georgia through the ages around the table, pointing out her proficiency in hockey, dance and the guitar.
She shows them a map of St Andrews, pointing out the location of John Logie College, and tells them all about the new friends Georgia's made. Her father takes each photograph from the table as they’re passed around and holds them in a trembling left hand whilst tracing his granddaughter’s face with the crooked forefinger of his right.
‘Wonderful. Wonderful,’ her mother says in response to each photograph.
‘And how’s work?’ she asks once Heather has accepted her second triangular sandwich. She nibbles the crust.
‘Actually, I resigned today,’ she says.
‘No!’ Her father brings a fisted hand to his small side table and shouts the word across the room. Small fragments of egg escape from his lips.
Heather’s mum’s eyes widen in horror, and Heather senses her accompanying frustration. The purpose of today’s visit is to bring her back into the fold, not to re-open old wounds and cause new rifts to form. Her mum stares hard at her husband before returning her gaze to her daughter.
‘I think what your dad means is that accountancy is a highly skilled, well-paid job. And you worked so hard to get those qualifications.’
‘I know, Mum. I passed my first exam nineteen years ago. I’ve been doing the job, or something like it, for almost two decades.
But my firm were taking advantage of me, giving me low-skilled work to fit in alongside my responsible role, and it’s just too much.
There are things I want to do now Georgia’s at university. Things for me.’
‘Jeez,’ Fraser says, reaching over and patting her on the back. ‘Proud of you, sis.’
‘So?’ Her father speaks for the second time.
Heather knows he wants to hear there’s a new plan in place.
‘I’ve started up a painting business, focused on memorials for family pets, either once they’ve passed away, or for students when they’ve left their pets behind when they go off to university.’
She shows the partially finished picture of Maisie that had caused such a stir the day before.
‘I’ve had loads of orders come through on my website, and there’s no way I’d be able to fulfil them whilst working full time in finance.’
Heather’s mum places her hand over her heart.
‘My goodness. Imagine that, Robert. We’ve got a daughter with her own business and a website.’
Robert, his hands now shaking uncontrollably, nods, his lips thinned. Is this what pride in her looks like in his older, wizened face?
Noticing the sudden change in her husband’s demeanour, Heather’s mum scurries around to the other side of the table and gestures for Fraser to help. It’s clearly a routine they’ve mastered together.
‘I’m sorry, love,’ her mother says over her shoulder as she bends to assist Robert to his feet with Fraser’s help. ‘It’s time for his pills and a nap. I think we’ve had the best out of him today.’
***
Is it her imagination, or have some of her mother’s worry lines smoothed out a little now her father’s in bed? She finds a space beside Heather on the sofa and falls into it with a heavy sigh.
Fraser sits on the armchair by the fire, which always used to be her father’s preferred seat, and one Heather would only sit in once she knew he was safely asleep in bed.
The power dynamics in her parents’ home have taken a significant turn since she was last here.
Her mother reaches over and taps Heather’s knee gently.
‘Your dad’s proud of you, love. I know he doesn’t show it. It’s just not his way. And I also know he regrets what happened between the two of you.’ Her eyes lower. ‘I know I do.’
Heather opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out. Her mother fills the silence.
‘We sold that awful taxidermy stuff, Heather. His tremors got too bad for him to work. I’m not sure he even remembers he used to do it.
I’m so sorry. I know how much you hated them.
I should have stood up to him for your sake.
It was a morbid fascination. I now know it was the first sign of a personality change and what was to come.
There’s nothing wrong with taxidermy per se, it’s just with your father, he seemed to take it to an extreme.
It was as if he was glad when something died.
His empathy was on the decline. Maybe, in some ways, it was already on the way out when he reacted as he did to your pregnancy. ’
Heather pulls Maisie onto her lap and counsels herself not to cry as her mother continues.
‘I thought I was being loyal to him, you see. He didn’t want anyone knowing about his health struggles, but he was already slowing down when you fell pregnant with Georgia.
Outwardly, he blamed Dougie for what was happening at work.
But Dougie just picked up on what the other guys already knew.
Your dad was making mistakes and losing the firm clients.
I think Dougie saw a lack of cognitive functioning in your dad and was calling him out on it and that’s why your dad hated him as he did.
There was nowhere to hide under Dougie's scrutiny and, despite the measures he put in place, your dad fell further and further behind on his targets. Dougie wanted him to speak to Occupational Health, but your dad fought back. So, I guess it’s not surprising he took it as a betrayal when you decided to marry the man he blamed for his condition. ’
Her mother allows Heather some time to process this new information. She glances at Fraser, who smiles in her direction. The idea that it was her father’s illness that initiated the distance between them will take a lot of unpacking.
‘And that time with Georgia? When he fed her nuts after I expressly told him not to?’
Her mother nods, her gaze shifting towards the lampshade before returning to Heather.
‘He forgot. There was no malice intended. But he was so ashamed he couldn’t bring himself to admit it, so he turned on you and blamed you for over-parenting. I think that’s why he told you not to come back. He couldn’t stand to see the judgment on your face.’
Heather swallows. ‘I was never—’
‘I know. I know, pet.’ Her mother taps her leg reassuringly. ‘But he felt exposed when you were here, I guess. Shutting you out was the only behaviour he could contemplate. And now we’ve missed out on all this time.’
Heather’s heart contracts when she sees a film of tears form over her mother’s corneas.
Heather leaves her mother’s house with a promise to visit more regularly.
Perhaps to bring Georgia one time during her holidays.
By the time she returns home, she has only twenty minutes before her appointment with Scott.
She changes her blouse and speed walks to the coffee shop, her tummy flipping and her heart working double time.