by Natasha Bell
It was harder for him to remain neutral more recently when I helped Patrick’s daughter with her art project. For a while Pip would turn up every Saturday to work secretly away on her GCSE coursework in our garage. Patrick was delighted. Pip was going through a “difficult” stage, he said, having been thrown out by her mum. My interest in her was really a positive influence, he thought. That’s not what he said when he saw her work in the showcase, though. How could I encourage her to do that? he asked. “It’s self-expression,” I replied calmly as the stupid head teacher and the idiot art director flapped around Pip’s work trying to avert the attention of the younger members of the audience. “She’s violated herself,” wailed Susan, prudishly horrified to see her new step-daughter’s sixteen-year-old form splashed across canvases slashed by knives, smeared with menstrual blood and scrawled with angst. “This is not appropriate,” muttered the head, while I stood back, amused and proud of the havoc Pip and I had wrought.
“She’s not a child,” I told Marc later. “She felt those things and needed an outlet. Her work was far more honest and provocative, far more worthy than any of the fruit-bowl still lives and ‘Grandpa in a chair’ crap on the other walls. I can’t help it if her parents and her school want to suppress creativity, curtail originality.”
It blew over in the end. Pip got an A, which cheered Patrick and Susan up, and somehow they moved beyond my refusal to apologize.
During our one and only row, Marc called me “myopic.” That’s always stuck with me. It was years ago, not long after Lizzie was born. I probably still had a cocktail of hormones rushing around my body. I started it, deciding to poke a non-existent bruise. I didn’t really want to move us or change anything, but I’d got it into my head that everything about our relationship, our life, was on Marc’s terms. I wanted to see if he’d make sacrifices for me. So instead of sitting down and talking to my husband, like a proper little wife should, I went ahead and applied for a teaching job at an international school in Cambodia.
“Cambodia!” Marc shouted when I told him, perfectly calmly, that they’d accepted my application and offered to pay to move our whole family out to Phnom Penh as long as I could start within a month.
“Why on earth would we move to Cambodia? What am I supposed to do in Cambodia? Who takes a newborn to Cambodia?” Marc trundled out question after rhetorical question.
It wasn’t about Cambodia, of course. I didn’t really want to go there, not more than anywhere else anyway. I just wanted to feel like I could still have adventures, like I wasn’t destined to be in the safe, middle-class town I’d grown up in for the rest of my life. Marc didn’t understand. He shouted about his job, about responsibilities, about the house, about everything. It would have been comical if I hadn’t been so angry and hurt by his immediate dismissal of the notion that we might change our lives for me, might move for my career, my passions.
“You’re utterly myopic,” he finally said more quietly. I watched him shake his head before leaving the room. I couldn’t let him be the one to leave, so I scooped myself off the settee and marched into the hallway, thrust my feet into boots and left the house, slamming the front door. I heard Lizzie wake from the noise, start screaming from her cot and I felt satisfied that Marc would have to rush upstairs and comfort her rather than chase me.
I had nowhere to go. I walked to the corner shop, bought a packet of cigarettes and some gum, smoked one sitting on the low wall by the bus stop. It tasted disgusting. I stubbed it out thinking of my milk poisoning my baby. What was I doing? How could I have thought of taking her to Cambodia? What kind of mother was I? I ran back to the house furiously chewing the flavor from my gum.
I brought it up later, though, in that gently passive-aggressive way you mention stuff that’s been on your mind as if it’s no big deal. “But I’m myopic,” you say with a smile when your husband asks if you can see what he means.
Marc sighed and said sorry, he never really meant that and if he did it’s just that I had a different way of looking at the world, that he understood it, loved me for it even, because I saw things he didn’t. I laughed and we kissed, a happy family again. I guess, though, I kind of liked the description. Maybe I do see the world a little strangely. Which is why Marc could never explain me to his mum and dad.
The best they could do that morning was agree to disagree. That was the subtext of their stilted good-byes. Marc and the girls waved until the car turned the corner and, deep down, my husband was happy to see them go.
* * *
He was less happy to be interrupted that afternoon by a phone call from a reporter asking him to give a statement about police proficiency.
“Do you feel North Yorkshire Police are doing enough? Are you worried budget cuts and staffing problems are affecting the search for your wife? Are you aware of the department’s track record in missing persons investigations?”
Marc had been warned he may receive these kinds of calls and briefed on how to deal with them. Nevertheless, the reporter’s queries burrowed into his brain, chattering away with the things he’d wanted to say to his mum until he was vibrating with anger and uncertainty. He grabbed the phone once more and dialed Nicola’s extension at the station.
“We’re following all potential leads,” she said when he asked exactly what DI Jones was doing.
“But what does that mean?”
Nicola exhaled. “I can’t disclose that information, Marc. It’s confidential and could jeopardize the investigation.”
“How could telling me what’s going on possibly jeopardize the investigation?” he said, infuriated. “I’m on the investigation’s side!”
Nicola was silent on the other end of the line.
“This is bullshit,” he said. “How am I supposed to trust you if you won’t even talk to me?”
“Marc,” she said curtly, “it’s going to be a lot easier if you let us do our jobs.”
“Then bloody do them, will you!” he shouted and hung up, feeling only marginally better.
* * *
My upper arms feel so tender I can barely rearrange myself on the bed without crying out. My legs and side are bruised too. Perhaps it’s good I don’t have a mirror. I think I’ll be black and blue in the morning. It was my fault, he told me. I made him do it. Maybe I did. Maybe I knew what would happen.
I didn’t really think it through, though. I heard his key in the lock and I grabbed the food tray. I positioned myself to the right of the door, so he couldn’t see me until he took a step forward. I caught him just below the eye, drew blood. He swore like a sailor, not what you expect from a man with his control. But he didn’t even hesitate before grabbing me and tackling me to the ground. For a split second I was impressed by his reflexes. Where did he learn to defend himself like that? Was it specifically to deal with me?
He pinned me there, his knee in my stomach. I could smell his sweat, sweet and familiar. We stared at each other as our panting turned to breathing. He wanted me to feel the whole force of him, to understand my place.
Maybe now I do.
2000
9/28/00
Dear Al,
How are you? I have a few hours to myself and I’m thinking of you. How is married life? I’m sorry about what happened with your mom. You were right about her, of course. I guess Marc thought he was doing a good thing, but he just can’t understand. Maybe no one can understand someone else’s family. Although I suppose he is your family now. Am I family too? I’m not quite sure.
Sorry, I’m in an odd mood. I had an email from an advertising agency earlier. I contacted them about curating a space in their offices and they seem interested. Weird, huh? I mean, it’s what I wanted, but part of me is always surprised when anyone responds to me as if I’m an adult. I feel like a kid wearing my mother’s makeup and high heels. Any moment I’m expecting to feel a tap on my shoulder and turn around to find a s
tern teacher ready to haul me off. These guys seem to be taking me seriously, though. I want to build a “Reception Gallery”—a venue for emerging artists to connect the language of art directly with advertising and pop culture. I’m thinking if the big galleries are closing their doors to recent grads and there’s no room for new artists to compete with the Establishment, then we need to find our own route. I want to put this chalkboard wall up in the agency and ask exhibiting artists to challenge the line between art and industry. And I want to film the people who work there, too, ask them what they think art is, what they think the difference is between what we do and they do. I have this other idea about building a paper house, or maybe a whole miniature paper town, about thinking about the concept of home as both a part of ourselves, our souls, and also a commodity, a concept to be sold and resold.
I don’t know if it’s enough yet. I don’t know if I’m enough. I want to be an artist. I want my life to mean something. In Artur Barrio’s manifesto, he writes: “What I look for is contact with reality in its totality, everything that is rejected, everything that is set aside because of its contentious character…” I mean, that should be everyone’s manifesto for life, not just art, right? Your mom is the ultimate contentious character, but you can’t ignore her impact on your life, can you? Her blood runs through your veins and somehow you have to accept that and turn it into something good. Too many people wander through the world without contacting anything or anyone, even themselves. They barely open their eyes for fear of seeing something challenging or disturbing. Instead they just tie fluffy bows around all that’s disagreeable and tell themselves their lives are perfect. There must be another way to live. I don’t want to be one of those people.
Am I? Am I Am, Am is I, but Am I?
Am x
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 9, 2000
Marc didn’t tell me he’d sent the invitation until the night before our wedding. I think he’d considered not telling me at all, just letting me see my mum’s face as I walked down the aisle, but thankfully he chickened out. Strangely, I didn’t get mad. I looked at Marc’s sweet, hopeful eyes and felt a deep sense of sadness at his misplaced optimism.
“She’s sober now,” Marc said, clearly picturing a Kodak reunion we’d one day tell our grandchildren about.
“So she says,” I replied. Then, “What have you done about the seating plan? She can’t be anywhere near my dad.”
“Don’t worry,” Marc said. “It’s all sorted out. They’re at opposite ends and I’ve spoken to your dad. There will be no drama.”
He was wrong, of course.
People talk of butterflies and jitters, but I wasn’t at all prepared for the shakes and stomachache that clutched me before I walked down the aisle.
“Are you okay?” my dad asked. My face was pale, my palm damp in his. I swallowed, my throat scratchy.
“Just nervous,” I said.
He squeezed my hand.
“Hold on,” I said. I unlaced my hand and reached down to remove my shoes. They were elegant and satin and ridiculously uncomfortable. “That’s better,” I said and my dad led me to meet my groom.
For Marc’s mother, walking barefoot down the aisle was only the first of my infractions that day. For years she talked about my handmade decorations as “quaint,” told people in the indulgent tone you use to explain a child’s scribble that her daughter-in-law used to be an “artist.” After the ceremony we had canapés on the lawn and, while Marc and I were posed and molded for photographs, Ruth sidled up to my mother. Discovering we hadn’t yet said hello, she dragged my mum across the lawn and into the frame of one of our portraits, demanding a reunion in a much less subtle version of Marc’s optimism. My mum and I hugged awkwardly, the photographer snapping away.
“Thank you for coming,” I said.
“Thank you for inviting me,” she said, her eyes narrowed.
“I assume your mother will be at the top table?” said Ruth and my mouth flapped. I reached for Marc’s hand.
“We were limited on numbers,” Marc said, coming to my rescue. He turned to my mum. “You’re on a table with our good friends. Here, let me introduce you to Patrick and Rebecca.”
“Nonsense,” said Ruth as Marc led my mum away. “I won’t hear of her sitting at a friends’ table. I’m sure we can squeeze another chair in, I’ll talk to someone.”
“Please,” I said, touching Ruth’s arm. “It’s not fair on my dad.”
Ruth hesitated. She looked across the lawn at my handsome dad. They’d met a few times and no one who met my dad had any reaction other than sheer adoration. I could almost see the cogs in Ruth’s brain as she tried to square her love for my dad with the intense five-minute bond she’d just formed with his ex-wife.
“Marc’s handling it,” I added and Ruth nodded her assent.
I saw my mum make a show of refusing the champagne and the wine with dinner, but somewhere along the way she must have found some liquid refreshment. I watched her flirt with every male member of the waiting staff. By the speeches, she was slumped on her arm, her eyes drooping just as they used to when she picked me up from primary school. I stared at her in horror, afraid of what might come. I barely heard Marc’s or Patrick’s speeches. But it was a wedding, everyone was merry. The only person in that room I could have pointed my mum out to and got the appropriate reaction from was my dad and I hoped beyond anything that he hadn’t yet noticed. He stood up beside me and cleared his throat. I read his typed-up speech later and it made me cry. But on the day my brilliant dad can’t have got more than six or seven lines in before my mum started making a low moaning noise. People looked around, curious at first. Then they began shuffling in their seats. My dad carried on, doing his best to ignore her. Marc put his arm around me. Her moan continued, low and persistent. I felt my body temperature rise, my heartbeat increase. I wanted to moan too, to wail and shout. I pushed back my chair and stumbled around our table. My dad finally stopped speaking and our guests paused in a collective hush. My mum moaned on. I tugged at her shoulder to make her sit up.
“You need to leave,” I said.
She looked at me with watery eyes. She blinked and moved her sagging mouth into an approximate smile. “My baby, you look so beautiful.”
“Darling,” my dad said behind me. “Alex, leave it.”
I shook my head, stared into my mother’s eyes. “Get out. You’re a disgrace.”
She stood up then, wobbling on her heels. She’d put on weight over the years, loomed over me. I felt like a child in my silly white dress.
“You’re making a mistake,” my mum said. She looked around. Every face was turned toward us. “You’re all deluded. Marriage is a joke.”
“Mum,” I said, pleading now.
She turned back to me. “Baby, it’s not too late. You know you’re not like these people, you can’t pretend. You’ll never be happy. Not like this.”
“Mum, please.”
She reached out and clutched my wrist. Her hand was hot and sweaty. “Come home with me. Don’t give yourself away, don’t waste your life with this man. Come home with your mummy.”
I shook her off. “You need to leave,” I said, tears on my cheeks but my anger bubbling once more.
Her expression dropped. “Ungrateful bitch.” She raised her right hand and I felt the sting of her palm on my cheek.
The slap was like the flick of a switch. Suddenly our guests were on their feet. Marc and my dad rushed around the top table and grabbed my mum by each arm. They led her out of the building while Fran fussed around me, protecting me from the crowd. I was persuaded to shuffle toward the bathrooms. “We just need a minute,” Fran told those around us. We reached the landing and I saw Marc coming up the stairs. I thought about my dad alone with my mum outside.
“Are you okay?” Marc said, scooping his arms around me. “I’m so sorry.”
I nod
ded. “It’s not your fault.”
“I just, I thought having her here might make this the perfect day.”
I managed to laugh.
“I’m really sorry,” he said again.
“Don’t be,” I said, feeling the warmth of his arms, the pull of his touch. Fran retreated.
“I wanted things to be special,” Marc said.
“They are,” I said, looking up at his face. “You don’t need to try so hard.”
He leant down and we kissed with our eyes open. This man is my husband, I thought. My family.
“I can’t believe you’re my wife,” Marc said.
I smiled and kissed him again.
“What do we do now?” he said, frowning.
He looked so serious and sad that I couldn’t help but laugh. “I think we’re supposed to cut the cake.”
Marc laughed too and then, for some reason, we couldn’t stop laughing. My dad came up the stairs to find us in fits of giggles and even he managed a smile. I reached for his hand and wrapped my arms around him. “I love you, Dad,” I said.
“I love you too, sweetheart.”
We walked back into the hall, my dad on one side and my husband on the other. My mum was in a taxi somewhere in the city, nodding off no doubt and in for an unremarkable hangover, but I was in a room with the people I loved most in the world and for a strange second I thought maybe this was the perfect day.
One Month Gone
“Is there news?” Marc said.
“Not as such,” DI Jones said, stepping into the hall. Nicola followed. Marc pointed them toward the living room.
“We’ve come to return Alexandra’s things and ask a few more questions.”
