by Greg Fleet
‘Hello, Mum!’ he said, reaching a hand out to take hers. Of course, because she was blind she didn’t notice this gesture and his hand just remained awkwardly suspended in the space between them.
Fortunately for James, upon hearing ‘Robert’s’ voice, a beautiful smile spread across Tamara’s face and she immediately gestured for him to come and sit on the huge bone-coloured couch that was next to her wheelchair.
‘Oh, Robert, you certainly know how to make an exit. You said you were going for a couple of weeks, but you’ve been gone for about a hundred years.’
‘Well,’ replied James, ‘it wasn’t that long.’
‘Catherine, get your brother something to eat. There’s plenty in the refrigerator; Posey just came by and stocked it. Get him some ham and cheese and whatnot. Robert, you must be absolutely starving . . .’
‘Mum, I have eaten in the last twelve years,’ he replied.
‘I doubt that. You were never very good at taking care of yourself. There is also some fresh bread in the pantry, Catherine.’
‘Yes, Catherine,’ said James, ‘some fresh bread would be rather nice.’
Catherine was looking at him with the expression of someone who was neither interested in nor experienced at putting things on plates for the sustenance of other people. When she begrudgingly brought him a snack of rather delicious ham, cheese, olives and bread, her manner could best be described as disdainful. She crouched down by her mother and said, ‘You two obviously have a lot of catching up to do. I have to head down to High Street and do a couple of things at the Town Hall. Why don’t I just leave the two of you alone? I’ll be back in about an hour so relax until then.’
The look that she was giving James said anything but ‘relax’, though. It said ‘get this done and get it done quickly’.
‘That sounds wonderful, Catherine,’ said Tamara.
‘I’ll walk you out, sis,’ said James.
Catherine gave her mother a kiss on the cheek and then James followed her back along the hallway to the front door.
‘Where are you going?’ he whispered.
‘I’m not going anywhere. I just wanted to leave you two together. I will be sitting right out front in the car.’
‘What? What if she sees you?’ said James, starting to panic a little at Catherine’s cavalier attitude.
‘She won’t see me. Even if she wasn’t blind, she’s in a wheelchair – she can’t even make it into the front room of the house.’ Catherine then placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Look, James, relax. You are good at this, okay?’ And then more sternly: ‘Just get it done.’ With that she left James and Tamara alone. Together for the first time in twelve years, and for the first time ever.
On his return trip down the hallway James took his time. It really was a beautiful house and clearly someone had thought about the design and the decoration of each of the rooms very thoroughly. Nothing, it seemed, had been left to chance.
When he got back to Tamara, he apologised for having taken so long, explaining that he had had to help his sister with something in her car.
‘That’s all right, Robert. At least you came back this time. I didn’t want to wait another twelve years.’
They both smiled.
‘Do you want anything while I’m up, Mum?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Robert. I think I would like a very strong vodka and tonic, to celebrate the return of my prodigal son,’ she replied.
‘Is that okay? I mean, with the doctors?’
‘Vodka is fine, Robert; it’s one of my very last pleasures.’
‘All right, Mum, I was just checking,’ said James. ‘To be honest I could murder a vodka. Where is it?’
‘Where it has always been,’ said Tamara, causing James to have a minor anxiety attack.
‘God, it’s been a while . . .’
‘It’s in the pantry next to the refrigerator. You young people have no stamina for memory.’
James wasn’t sure if ‘stamina for memory’ was even a thing, but he certainly liked the way she used words. He made the drinks, handing one to Tamara and rejoining her on the end of the comfortable couch.
They drank and chatted, and James felt, considering the fraud he was perpetuating, remarkably at home in her presence. He wished she would take her large dark glasses off so that he could see more of her face, her eyes. But even with much of her face hidden by the glasses she was an incredibly compelling person to look at. She had the inherent confidence and natural grace of the radically beautiful. And that doesn’t go away, not ever.
To James, especially early in their chat, Tamara seemed to alternate between moments of great lucidity when she was sharp and vibrant and periods of foggy confusion in which she would ask the same questions she had already asked, or talk about something that had happened ten years earlier as though it were happening right now.
The first time that James broached the subject of her leaving the house and moving into the Peggy Day Home he felt awkward, but he powered through his spiel driven by the fact that he believed he was right. He explained that both he and Catherine had thought long and hard about it, and they knew, they just knew, that it was the best thing for her to do. He didn’t mention that Catherine had offered him 10 000 reasons to feel this way.
After he had finished speaking Tamara sat very still as though taking in everything that he had said, before replying, ‘You know, Robert, your father never, in his entire life, ate a meat pie.’
‘What?’
‘Not ever!’ she continued. ‘Not even as a child. I once asked him why he had never eaten one, but he changed the subject.’
‘Kind of like you just did,’ said James.
‘Yes. Yes, rather like that,’ she said, smiling. ‘Now, tell me about your adventures – and get me another vodka.’
This was not going to be easy.
The longer they talked, the more present Tamara seemed to become. After about forty minutes, James thought that he should bring up the topic of her moving into the home again. He found his opening and went for it. When he was about halfway through what was essentially a repeat of his earlier speech, Tamara lifted her drink in his direction and said, ‘Stop. Robert, please. Enough. I know, I know. Both you and Catherine make very good and very sensible points. I understand. As my health worsens it’s going to become more and more difficult for me to stay here in my house, in our house. I know you only want what’s right for me and what you’re talking about, me moving into a home, is sadly inevitable.’
James, who had been expecting more resistance, was temporarily stunned.
‘So will you do it? Can I tell Catherine that you said yes?’ He was close.
‘I tell you what. Are you going to be sleeping in your old room?’ she asked.
For some reason this simple question made his deception feel all too real.
‘Ah, no . . .’ said James, slightly thrown. ‘I have a hotel in the city, all my stuff is there.’
‘Well, can you come back tomorrow?’
‘Of course I can. I’m here for you. We both are.’ James wondered where this was going.
Tamara continued, ‘If you come back at around the same time tomorrow I’ll have an answer for you, okay? Now, before you start pushing, I think we both know that I’m going to say yes. But I simply refuse to be pressured into an immediate response; that’s Catherine’s doing and you can tell her that I know that. She has little to no patience. Come back tomorrow and you’ll get your answer. And have I ever been able to say no to you?’ She was smiling, which made James smile.
‘No, Mum, I guess you haven’t. But I better go now, I don’t want to miss my job interview. Do you need anything before I go?’
‘No, darling, I know where the fridge is and I know how to work the stereo. As long as you put the vodka back in the pantry, I’ll be a very happy girl.’
James leaned down and kissed Tamara on the cheek, and she reached up to touch his hair.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Mum.’
James pulled the screen door shut behind him and saw Catherine in the Range Rover eyeing him with anticipation. He offered her a noncommittal smile. As he climbed into the car she was immediately on him: ‘Well?’
‘What an amazing woman,’ said James.
‘Yes, she’s amazing. Did you get her to agree?’ asked Catherine impatiently.
‘Pretty much . . .’
‘Oh James!’ cried Catherine in exasperation. ‘This has to happen. I told you! It has to happen today.’
‘Well, Catherine, it’s not going to happen today. Okay? She told me that she felt pressured and that you in particular were trying to push her into making a decision. She doesn’t like being pushed. I know you think you’re doing the right thing, and you are. But you’re also asking a proud woman to walk out of her home and leave a lifetime of possessions and experiences and memories. She wants twenty-four hours to think about it. I don’t think that’s asking too much.’
‘I don’t care what you think, James,’ said Catherine, revealing a hitherto unseen ice-cold side. ‘You’re a hired gun and nothing more. She’s my mother, not yours.’
‘I hate to pull you up there, Catherine, but technically she is now our mother, and in the interests of achieving your objective, I’d say my opinion matters quite a fucking bit.’
Catherine punched the top of the steering wheel with both of her fists and groaned in frustration before turning to James and, in a conciliatory tone, saying, ‘I know, I know. You are right, and whatever you did in there obviously worked. I’m sorry, I’m just so frustrated. This whole thing is equally kind and cruel and it’s driving me out of my mind. I do appreciate what you are doing. Just call me tomorrow afternoon once she has agreed. And the ten thousand dollars is still there for you.’
James surprised himself by saying, ‘I’m not doing it for the money.’
Catherine looked at her watch suddenly. ‘Shit. I’m late! I have to take my daughter to the orthodontist. Can you get a taxi home? And one back here to see her tomorrow?’
‘Sure,’ said James. ‘No problem. I’ll get an Uber.’
‘Great,’ she replied. ‘Call me tomorrow afternoon, as soon as it’s done. I’ll come over and spend some time with you both. Some “family” time.’
‘That will be nice – and creepy,’ said James.
‘Okay, I’ll see you then. Good luck.’
Catherine pulled away and out on to the street, leaving James standing on the semicircular driveway, in the ornate and impressive front garden that belonged, at least for the next twenty-four hours, to Tamara Higginson.
James wanted out of there. Although his intentions were good he felt oddly dirty. Why had she offered him the money? Maybe it was just an incentive; maybe it didn’t mean anything. But it was making him uneasy. He wasn’t doing this for the money, but it isn’t easy to say no to $10 000.
He needed to call an Uber, but more importantly he needed to call Sophie. He needed to feel safe and at home, and, more than anyone he knew, Sophie could make him feel both of those things. He held his breath for a moment and then thought, ‘Just go for it!’
‘Soph, it’s me. Hi. The Tamara Higginson thing went okay. I have to come back tomorrow, but it’s fine. Now listen, there is something I have to tell you. I’m going to tell it to you and I don’t want you to interrupt, okay? Right. I’ve been thinking about us, about you and me. A lot. All the time in fact. But I haven’t known how to tell you what I feel, so . . . so I’m just going to go for it. I love you. I’m in love with you. I have been from the moment that we met and it is only getting stronger all the time. I want to hold you and sleep with you and melt into you . . . The idea of not telling you this has just become unbearable. I want to spend the rest of eternity with you, or at least the next few months. Is there any possible chance that you feel the same way about me?’
James paused for a moment. That was intense. He hadn’t actually been speaking to Sophie; he’d just been practising to see how it sounded. Those words quite accurately described how he felt about Sophie, but there was no way he was going to say them to her. Not yet, anyway. Saying those words to himself in the front yard of a stranger’s home was fine, but telling Sophie? No way.
But he did want to talk to her, to hear her voice. To tell her about his day and to ask her about her own. He reached for his phone. It wasn’t in his back pocket. He tried all his other pockets. It wasn’t there.
Then he remembered something. He’d taken his phone out of his pocket and put it next to him while he was talking to Tamara Higginson. He remembered putting it down but he didn’t remember picking it up. His phone was inside the house next to where he had been sitting, on Tamara’s couch.
He decided that he would let himself back into the house. If Tamara was where he had left her, he would pick up his phone, make his explanation and go. If she wasn’t where he had left her, and he couldn’t see her anywhere else, he would quickly and quietly move through the house, grab the phone, and split.
He opened the screen door and made his way down the corridor, past the Picasso, past the Warhols, to the den where the two of them had sat.
Suddenly he stopped in his tracks. He was staring at something that was definitely not as it should be. It was Tamara’s wheelchair.
And it was empty.
At first he thought something must have gone wrong. That she must have fallen out of the wheelchair and was no doubt lying somewhere nearby, badly hurt. But then he noticed something moving in his peripheral vision. He turned to face Tamara Higginson. Tall and regal, dark glasses off, standing at the kitchen bench making herself a vodka and tonic.
‘Mum!’ said James, in shock. ‘You’re . . . You’re not paralysed.’
She fixed him with her piercing blue eyes:
‘No. No, I’m not. And you are not my fucking son.’
You could have called the situation awkward without being accused of exaggerating.
‘What is your name?’ demanded Tamara. ‘Who are you?’
‘My name is James. James Rogers.’ He was thinking on his feet but the only thing he was thinking was, ‘Oh shit, this is not going the way it was meant to.’
Tamara poured a second vodka tonic, a very strong one, and handed it to him.
‘Sit down, James Rogers,’ she said. ‘You and I are going to have a little talk.’
James did as he was told.
‘You know, you look nothing like my son,’ said Tamara.
‘Right. So you can see?’ asked a sheepish James.
‘Of course I can see. And even if I couldn’t see, I would know you were not my son. My son died in a drug deal gone wrong somewhere outside of Birmingham twelve years ago. He was in many ways a lovely boy, but he was also a complete lunatic. No matter what anyone told him, Robert was going to keep poking the bear with a stick until one day the bear tore him to pieces. Catherine doesn’t know that I know this, of course. You might have noticed that we’re not the best at communication. Did my daughter hire you, James Rogers?’
‘No. Well, yes. But it’s not about the money.’
‘How much? How much did my terribly concerned daughter offer to pay you to get me out of my house?’
‘Ten thousand,’ said James, appalled at how honest he was being.
‘Ten thousand? I actually thought she would have gone higher.’
‘I’m pretty cheap,’ said James, before adding, ‘Look, I’m not some criminal for hire that she found on Gumtree. I actually work at the Peggy Day Home. I’m not the best person on earth but I’m not the worst either. I’m nowhere near as horrible as I seem right now.’
James then went on to tell Tamara about his mother and the Peggy Day Home, and about Sophie and what they had been doing with the clients. He told her about Malcolm and Johnny (she of course, like everyone, knew Johnny and had dined
at his restaurant numerous times). In closing he told her: ‘We honestly thought it was a good idea, even though it sounds kind of insane now . . . But please don’t go crazy at Catherine; she was only doing what she thought was right. You’re her mum and she loves you very much.’
‘Oh, James Rogers, don’t be fooled by Catherine. My daughter is not who she seems to be.’
‘Well, in her defence, none of us are really “who we seem to be” today, are we?’ said the artist formerly known as Robert. ‘For example, your health seems to have radically improved in the last ten minutes or so.’
‘Yes, I’ve noticed that too,’ said the increasingly robust Tamara. ‘I feel much better.’
‘Your memory?’
‘Also vastly improved.’
‘Your paraplegia?’ he inquired.
‘Seems to have eased right off. I probably just needed a bit of a sit down.’
‘And your blindness?’
‘Cleary temporary,’ she said, enjoying herself.
‘Why you are doing all of this?’ he asked.
‘Oh, James Rogers,’ smiled Tamara. ‘I thought you would never ask. Another vodka?’
She mixed two fresh drinks, sat down with him on the couch and told him some of her story. Her husband, Morgan Higginson, had died suddenly, over twenty years ago. Though it was painful she had adjusted to his absence and carried on. Then twelve years later Robert had disappeared and not long after she’d received evidence of his brutal death. The loss of her child, she explained, was something she had never really come to terms with. For a year or so she had been completely devastated, almost to the point of immobility, and she kept the news to herself, desperately hoping that perhaps if she didn’t share it wouldn’t be true. And then eventually, she had begun to regain something resembling her old life. Gently she began socialising, going to exhibitions, lunching with friends, seeing films and plays, doing all of the things that she used to do before fate decided to carve two huge chunks out of her life. It was around this time, just as she was starting to live again, that she noticed a change in her daughter. Catherine became obsessed by the idea that her mother could no longer control her own day-to-day existence – but more importantly, and more tellingly, Catherine became obsessed by the idea that her mother was no longer mentally fit to remain in control of the family’s substantial holdings. She had papers drawn up and then came to her mother one day insisting that she sign them, and that she, Catherine, take control of the family’s financial interests. Tamara politely refused to do anything of the sort.
