Craig isn’t a bad man, but he wasn’t the right husband for me—and he’s the wrong stepfather for Nick. He left us a year ago, and no matter how many times he tries to justify that decision, it doesn’t change the fact that he walked away when the going got tough. I married him to give stability to my son; I can no longer trust Craig to provide that. From now on, I will do things my way. I’ll keep listening to my heart. And my son.
I was overprotective of Nick when he was born: I had lost his dad, I was alone. I was determined my precious child would never know pain. When he survived to school age, I foolishly breathed a sigh of relief. I still cannot fathom the wickedness that made other kids torment him; the growing-up years feel fraught with more peril than the childhood illnesses I used to drive myself mad worrying about. Playground cliques, dark temptations and unseen monsters on the Internet, the lure of teenage freedom he craves but is too young to handle . . .
I still want to protect Nick, but I know he’s not my little boy anymore. He’s far stronger than I knew, and we’re closer than I feared. But whether I like it or not, he’s growing up in a world very different to the one of my childhood. We have to know the world our kids live in. That’s what his favorite teacher said, and I realize that even though I almost lost Nick, what I’ve found is greater understanding of what’s going on in his head—and hopefully stronger trust between us: the confidence for both of us to hide less and share more.
For the time being, he has retreated into his thoughts, but I hope that with counseling, and the support of true friends, he will gradually reemerge. I’ve left him with Katie, Ayesha, and Samir right now; they’re helping him make a memorial for Marzipan, in her favorite spot at the end of the garden. Tomorrow, Nick and I will lay flowers on Jason’s grave. I’m thankful for his friendship to my son; I’m grateful I haven’t lost his mum’s.
Afterward, I’ll take Nick to see the small memorial plaque that was all I could afford for his dad twelve years ago. I’ll tell him the truth about Alex, and that he is like his father in so many wonderful ways, but that he is his own person, too. As Sean Newton also said: Nick dances to his own tune. He’s always been a little different, but that’s what I love most about him. My boy with the flying feet. I hope one day he’ll dance again, both on stage and in life. If he does, I know he will soar. My little sunbeam.
EPILOGUE
The curtain rises in a scarlet swish; the spotlight is a gold circle, center stage. I turn in my seat to see three sets of eyes staring anxiously ahead; I catch the whispers from row upon row of close to a thousand people behind us.
Filming is not permitted: no cameras, no phones. There will be no clips on YouTube, no Facebook photos. This tale begins and ends here, a onetime electric connection between cast and audience. Three hours of drama; a lifetime of memories for me. Beginning with the first moment, as exhilarating as Nick’s very first step, yet infinitely more nerve-racking.
A bell rings somewhere backstage; I slide my palms down my jeans.
“Cookie?” Ayesha offers. “Pass them along, sweetheart. Chocolate chip. Homemade.”
“I love these.” Sammy takes three.
“You put us to shame, Ayesha.” Katie smiles. “Senior accountant and master chef. How are we supposed to compete with that? G and T, anyone?” Surreptitiously she opens her bag to reveal three slim cans of ready-mixed spirit.
“Thanks, Katie.” I’m not talking about the gin. I reach between us to squeeze her hand, knowing what it cost her to come here tonight: to sit surrounded by excited children and proud parents; to be without her son.
“Jase would have wanted me to be here.” She squeezes my hand back.
My eyes blur with tears as I turn back to stare at the stage. I blink them away, not wanting to miss that first intake of breath, the first public step in a whole year. My darling son reborn on the stage where he has lived the happiest moments of his twelve years.
Shadows flit in the wings, music soars into the gilt domed ceiling, and suddenly he leaps onto the stage, his body launching into a furious, dizzying spin. I hear a collective gasp from the audience as he controls the feverish whirling motion into a dead stop, face miraculously forward to gaze steadily—defiantly—out into the auditorium.
He seems to be searching, and I can tell the exact moment he finds what he’s looking for. Head held high, Nick’s eyes are so blue they dazzle as they fix on me. I hold my breath, waiting for him to launch into his next move, nervously wondering if he’s forgotten it.
I needn’t have worried. Brave, uncompromising, unapologetic, my son claims his right to be who he wants to be, no matter what anyone else thinks, on the most public stage he could find. The crooked smile I adore crinkles his lips, and then, so clearly it’s as though he’s shouted them out loud, he mouths the words he hasn’t said to me in so long.
“I love you, Mum.”
The Sleepover Page 28
