A Good Enough Mother

by Bev Thomas

  It’s odd, looking back, how many things I chose to ignore. How many things shoot up in the air. Some like small damp squibs of fireworks, others are bright and clear, like red flares. There are things I see, but make a conscious choice to look away from. To choose denial. If my childhood taught me anything – it was that denial was a place of comfort, a place that was easy to hide in. If I was in my consulting room, if I hadn’t drunk nearly a bottle of red wine, I might have said something else. Instead, I say nothing. I make him a sandwich. As I turn my back on him and pick things out of the fridge, I drop a packet of ham over the floor. The pink flesh tumbles out, glistening on the black slate of the tiles. I scoop it up into the bin. My head is throbbing from bending down. I feel myself holding onto the side of the worktop to stop myself from swaying.

  As I’m reaching into the fridge, seeing him in my mind’s eye in the clothes I have brought down from upstairs, I imagine, just for a moment, that it’s Tom in my kitchen. That we are sitting at the table, late at night and I’m making him his favourite sandwich. Perhaps it’s because of this fantasy, I don’t ask what Dan wants to eat. I simply make him what I know Tom would have liked. He eats greedily, hungrily. I make him another. I cut up an apple, in small neat slices, like I did for the children when they were little. When I go to the cupboard for a plate, I am standing behind him. I move closer. I’m too close to him. I’m close enough to press my hand against his cheek. To sling an arm around his shoulder and pull him towards me. I put the apple on the plate, set it on the table and make myself a strong black coffee.

  ‘I felt—’ he falters. ‘I don’t know. I just had this urge to see her. Face to face. I didn’t think about it. Just went to Paddington – got the next train.’

  I nod.

  ‘On the way, I felt a rush of something. A sense of anticipation,’ he shrugs, ‘some kind of an ending.’

  ‘What happened?’ The words are thick and heavy in my mouth. It’s not just the wine, I can feel my throat is dry. There’s a tension I can see in his face. Fear in his eyes as they dart back and forth.

  He tells me he went to the house but it looked different from the outside. When he summoned up the courage to ring the bell, the door was opened by a young woman with a baby at her hip.

  ‘They’d lived there for three years …’ He pauses. ‘My mother had moved. Must have kept her telephone number – so still in the area I guess …’ His voice drifts.

  I don’t trust myself to speak. If Dan has noticed my blotchy red face from crying, or the slight slur in my words, or the clumsiness in my movements, he doesn’t say. He’s too caught up in his own story.

  ‘I asked for a forwarding address, but the woman didn’t have it. She’d been given it when they moved in, but that was ages ago – and then she sort of looked around her, at the baby in her arms, like it was a lifetime ago.’

  He tells me he stumbled away, into the nearest pub. ‘I was all pumped up. Ready,’ he says, ‘and I felt so angry that she wasn’t there. That she’d gone. Moved away. That I just didn’t fucking matter.’ His hands are clenched into fists.

  ‘I sank three pints. Way too quickly. Played pool. I was drinking like it was going out of fashion. Pints of beer and tequila shots. I was humming.’

  All of a sudden when he looks at me, he does a double take. ‘Oh,’ he says, ‘are you all right? You look—’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘I’d fallen asleep. It was late when you rang the bell.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says again.

  His green eyes are dazzling. Intense. I look away.

  ‘I got into an argument. I can barely remember what happened. I was trashed by then. I hardly ever drink. Not like that. I was steaming. Totally out of order – a complete wanker,’ he says, ‘ended up insulting some meat-head on his turf, surrounded by all his mates.’ He laughs. ‘Talk about a death wish.’

  I have the nudge of a memory. The conversation with Robert. Almost like a death wish.

  ‘I must have passed out. Woke up in hospital. Had a load of stitches. He turns to show me a neat criss-cross row at the back of his head. Couple of broken ribs.’ He shakes his head. ‘What a wanker, eh?’ he says again.

  ‘All this grief … for a mother who really doesn’t give a shit. All I can say,’ he laughs bitterly, ‘you’ve had a lucky escape. Kids … families – what a minefield.’

  It’s then I feel a stab of something. The flash of something dark that I catch a glimpse of underwater. Something I know I should be paying attention to. Something that is fighting to get to the surface. But keeps bobbing away. Out of reach.

  He tells me he saw one of the blokes from the pub. ‘I’m sure it was him, hovering about in A & E. I was scared. I left. Before the result of my x-ray …’

  His head drops down. ‘You were right. It was stupid to have gone to Bristol. I just wanted some answers. I just don’t understand,’ he says. ‘What did I do to make her hate me so much?’

  Then, out of nowhere, he starts to cry. I realise that I have never seen him cry before. He leans forwards. Tears slide down his cheeks. Then he starts to sob. Loud heaving sobs that send his body jerking back and forth. For a while, I say nothing. I get a box of tissues.

  ‘I felt so panicky. Just going back to the city. Scared – like I’d done something bad,’ he says, and his hands and legs start to shake.

  When I look at the clock, it’s gone one.

  ‘Is there a friend you can stay with?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Please?’ he says. Again, that plaintive voice. Those trembling hands.

  The police will ask me why I didn’t call them, or take him down to A & E. There is no rational response. The sight of his frightened, lost face in front of me will be no kind of answer. Nor is the fact that I am incapable of driving him anywhere in my car. Fleetingly, I think of calling a cab, but it never becomes a coherent plan. Just something that passes like a shadow across my face.

  I’d like to say it was a decision I reached by weighing up the pros and cons. The reality is that it feels more like a drift, like a leaf that floats down from a tree. An indefinable feeling propels me up to Tom’s room. ‘It’s late,’ I say. ‘I will take you to hospital in the morning. You can stay here tonight.’

  His face crumples with the weight of exhaustion and gratitude. I go into the bedroom, switch on the bedside light, find some clean pyjamas and a fresh toothbrush from the bathroom. By the time I have returned, his mood has shifted. At the time, I put it down to a sense of relief, a sense of safety – but he looks and seems different.

  ‘Can I take up some water?’ he asks. I pull out a bottle from the fridge.

  As I close the fridge door, he’s nodding over at the photos. ‘Cute kid,’ he says. Gone is the wounded hesitancy. The terror. The fear. He is moving around my kitchen with a confidence I haven’t seen before. He’s standing up straight. He looks tall. Older somehow.

  As we walk back to the hallway, he’s looking around. ‘Nice house,’ he says, as he follows me up the stairs. It’s then I sense him slow right down as we pass the walls of photographs. I feel his eyes feasting on the montage of family pictures: seaside holidays, Carolyn and Tom canoeing on the river, camping holidays in Devon, birthdays and cakes with candles, the four of us on snowmobiles, camels in the sand dunes. ‘Morocco?’ he asks, pointing at the desert. He looks at them all. All the endless pictures of the children. Pictures of the children I said I didn’t have.

  I show him to the bedroom, the bathroom next door. He hands me back the pyjama top, ‘I won’t need this,’ he says, fixing me with his bright green eyes.

  I take it back. ‘I’ll get a towel,’ I say, by way of an answer.

  ‘And what about your husband? Will he be OK with this?’

  The sensation is like a sudden darkening, as if the light is dimming in a tunnel. There’s a twist of discomfort that leaves a heavy weight of tension. I feel my cheeks colour. What would David say if he were here? I can’t even imagine a situation when I would hav
e conceived of the idea had he been here.

  ‘Of course,’ I say. I try to look nonchalant. Dismissive. But something about the way he’s looking at me makes it obvious to both of us that this is a lie. Gone is the sorrowful, wounded expression. He looks alert. Watchful.

  ‘He’s at a conference,’ I say, ‘he might be back late tonight – or first thing tomorrow. Depending on the trains.’

  He nods. He knows I’m lying. How does he know? Am I such a bad liar? I know I am. Can he see this? Again, it feels like he can see right through me.

  ‘Dan—’ I say, then stop and start again. ‘Giving you a bed for the night. A place to stay, it’s not usual practice. It’s an emergency. It’s not something—’ Again, the words feel big and unformed in my mouth. ‘It’s exceptional.’

  ‘I understand,’ he says, nodding gravely. ‘It’s not something you usually do. Exceptional,’ he repeats, rolling it round his mouth, like he’s enjoying the taste of a new food. Again, there’s something that nudges at me.

  ‘We can talk about this at our appointment next week.’

  ‘I understand. I do. And I appreciate it,’ he says, resting a hand on his chest, a gesture of sincerity.

  As I hand him the towel, it falls to the floor. Did I drop it? Or did he fail to take it? Either way, we both lurch to pick it up. We clash shoulders on the way down awkwardly. We each pull back. ‘Sorry, here we go,’ I mumble, opening the bedroom door.

  He looks at me. A strange indecipherable look, and I have that feeling again. That we are having two different conversations. Speaking two different languages. As I move to go past, he steps towards me.

  ‘Thank you,’ he breathes to the side of my face. Then he reaches out his arm, and leans in towards me. I pull back, but he moves forwards. The flash of his green eyes. His face moving towards mine. As I turn away, I feel his lips brush against my cheek.

  ‘Dan—’ I gasp, pulling back sharply. ‘What are you doing? What—’

  I’m struggling to speak.

  ‘It’s fine,’ he says. ‘Exceptional circumstances. I understand.’ He leans back in towards me conspiratorially. ‘Really – I get it. And anyway,’ he says quietly, ‘it’s not like I’m going to tell anyone – is it?’

  I stare back at him, feeling like I’m about to fall from a great height.

  ‘Goodnight,’ he says. Once again, he’s reverted back to how he was before. Shy almost in his gratitude and appreciation. But I have seen something else. Something dark and menacing. It leaves me with a feeling that he has stolen something from me and I’m not sure what it is. I don’t know it at the time, but this turns out to be the last conversation that I ever have with Dan.

  I mutter a goodnight. He turns. I walk away, and push my bedroom door shut. My face is hot and my cheek smarts from the brush of his lips. The sight of his fiery green eyes. His relaxed stance. His moving round my kitchen, light, like a dancer.

  Nice house.

  In my room, the error of judgement is like a burn. I sit on the bed, then stare at the bedroom door. I get up, wedge the chair under the door handle. Then get into bed. The house is quiet. What was I thinking? I am gripped by pure white thumping fear. I take deep breaths. Strangely, I think of calling David. Asking him to come around. I know he’d come. But I can’t bear the conversation. The look of horror on his face when I tell him what I’ve done. ‘A patient? In your house? You just can’t help yourself, can you?’ he’d say. I sit blinking at the chair wedged under the door handle and get up again. I move the chair away and move the chest of drawers across the doorway. It’s heavy and in my drunken clumsiness, a mug falls off and crashes to the floor. I don’t think about this, or care what Dan might think. I am beyond that now. I push it across the doorway. Only when it’s firmly in place do I begin to breathe.

  I get into bed fully clothed. My phone under the pillow. The house is so quiet. I can’t sleep.

  I lie there, blinking my eyes in the darkness. Rabbit-like and fearful. I am aware of him down the corridor in Tom’s room; the image looms in my mind. My face, my whole body burns with the wrongness of what I have done. At one point, I close my eyes, then I think I hear a noise in the house. I sit up with a start. I am rigid as I listen. All is quiet. Just the rain and wind against the window

  At 3 a.m., I am still wide awake Wired, thinking about the impact of this on the work, on the therapeutic relationship. To say nothing of my lie. The impossibility of being able to work with him again. My head throbs with last night’s red wine. A tight band of pain across my forehead. I take some Nurofen and watch the clock. The last time I register the time, it’s 4.40 a.m.

  When I next look, it’s 6.30. I get up. The chair in the middle of the room and the chest of drawers against the door both look ridiculous. Morning brings relief, and sobriety – and everything feels more manageable. I push the furniture away from the door and as I walk along the landing, I know instantly the house is empty. When I walk past Tom’s room, I see the bed is neatly made. The towel folded in a square on the duvet. Dan has gone.

  There’s a note in the kitchen. It’s pinned to the fridge.

  Thank you for your hospitality. I’m very sorry for the inconvenience. I am feeling better. I will see you at our appointment next week. Best, Dan.

  At first, I am filled with relief that he has left. It washes over me like a wave. I feel light and airy. I read the note again. It sounds normal. Appropriate and boundaried – back in the realm of patient and therapist. I almost want to laugh at the ridiculousness of my fear. Just hours ago, I was barricading the door with a heavy chest of drawers. What was I thinking? It was like a scene from one of Dan’s films. I stand in the shower and let the water run over my body. I close my eyes. I tilt my head back, and feel the water on my face. I think about Hayley. How I tried to stop her leaving. Bitch. I need to get in touch. A letter? Or maybe a call? I need to remind her of the date of her next appointment. I need her to know that I am here for her. That she can come back. I keep my eyes closed tight and I turn the tap up higher. I feel the needles of water jab on my cheeks. And I think about Denis Watson. The ring on the doorbell. Dan in my house. In my house. My relief about Dan has become something else. I see the two of us outside Tom’s bedroom and I feel a burn of shame. I don’t want to think about any of it. I flick the shower off, then sit on my bed wrapped in my towel.

  I look over at the outfit I’d planned to wear to the birthday party. Blue cords, sandals and a white shirt. It crosses my mind not to go. To simply climb under the duvet and stay in bed. The state I’m in. The lack of sleep. My face is so drawn and pale, I look ill. Then, I think of the carefully wrapped box of cars. And I think of Nicholas. His small peachy face. That smile. His cheek against my own and I heave myself up and off the bed. I get dressed and sit in front of the mirror. I’m at the age when makeup doesn’t seem to do much any more, but I work on my face. I do what I can.

  It’s odd not to be at work on a Friday. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had a day off. The party is in a room at the café in their local park. I feel gripped by nervousness as I walk through the gates and make my way over to the small red-brick building. As I step inside, there’s a hub of noise. There are plates of sandwiches and biscuits and drinks laid out on tables. Several babies are crawling across the floor among boxes of plastic toys and musical instruments. The parents clutch paper plates of food, having half-finished conversations as they watch over their scampering children. One little girl is walking, taking big drunken steps as she staggers across the floor, flapping her arms, her face shot with surprise. I can’t see Nicholas or Julie. It’s loud and noisy, but perhaps it’s the wine and lack of sleep. I have a dull ache across my temple and my eyes are gritty. I feel exposed, standing alone among huddles of young parents who all know one another. For something to do, I move towards the drinks. The smell of the sausage rolls makes me nauseous and when I pour out orange juice, the cup shakes in my hand. I set it down and close my eyes briefly. I want to be at home.

&nb
sp; Then suddenly, I hear my name. I turn. Julie is behind me. Her embrace is warm and welcoming. She’s dyed her hair a bright peroxide blonde and it’s twisted into bunches. I gesture to the box I’ve put down on the table of presents.

  ‘More cars, I’m afraid. I wasn’t sure what to get,’ I explain. ‘It’s something of Tom’s. Something that he used to love when he was a boy. I hope that’s OK?’

  She smiles. ‘Thank you.’ She reaches for my hand. ‘It’ll be nice to think of him playing with something that belonged to his father,’ she says, dropping her voice down low.

  I smile, too.

  ‘I’m so glad you could come. Nicholas will be happy to see you—’

  She’s interrupted by the sudden appearance of another woman. They hug. Then she turns to introduce us. ‘Bella from my antenatal class, and this is Ruth,’ she says. Ruth. Not Nicholas’s grandmother.

  ‘He’s outside,’ she says, when she sees me scan the room, ‘with Frank.’

  I nod, and edge towards the door.

  I see him from the doorway. There are blankets and toys on the grass near the baby slide. He’s wearing a red and blue t-shirt and is peering intently at a balloon tied to the side of the chair. He’s prodding it with his fingers, then shrieking with laughter as it bounces back and forth, bopping him on the nose. I sit on a chair by the door, content simply to watch him, even though my hands are twitching to reach for him, to feel his small body in my arms. Back and forth he goes, up to the balloon and back again. More shrieks of laughter.

  ‘Ruth?’ I look up. It’s the man I saw with Julie at the South Bank.

  ‘I’m Frank – Julie’s boyfriend,’ he says pointedly. We shake hands politely.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ I say. He looks older than Julie, by more than ten years. He has a kind face.

  We nod. It’s awkward. I feel his reticence. His caution.

  Julie comes out. Perhaps it is then that Nicholas looks up and sees his mother and shuffles over to us. Halfway across, he stops mid-crawl, staring at me. It’s as if he makes a connection, reaches for his digger on the blanket and looks at me. His face breaks into a smile and he speeds across the grass.