by Will Davis
So we're looking at him and it's like, No Pressure. Dad's sweating buckets of course. It's like he's on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? - get this answer wrong and you've blown it.
Finally he gulps and goes, I guess what I'm saying is that I've always put your happiness ahead of mine. But I'm not sure if I can do that for much longer.
I look at Higgs and suddenly notice that the computer screen is down. He's practically wetting himself. He obviously thinks this is like, a major breakthrough, because he's furiously scribbling on his pad without even actually looking at it, as though he can't bear to tear his gaze away from Mum and Dad. Of course you don't need to be a therapist to know this is rocking the foundations of something called a marriage. That this is the works like, Big Time. And I don't know if Dad's answer was what Mum needed to hear, or if he's just injected our family life with cancer, but you can tell that it came from the heart, which means she can't really get angry with him.
So instead she sort of simpers, and starts looking round the room as if searching for a portal that'll magically transport her to safety or something. At this point Higgs can't contain himself any longer. He's like, This is good, this is very good, like he's talking about sex or something. He goes to Mum, Tell us - how do you feel?
I'm kind of annoyed at him for asking her that, since it's pretty obvious from where I'm sitting. She's got those same scared eyes that Dad usually has, and they look particularly pathetic on her, like she's wearing goggles or something.
Mum's like, I don't know, in this tiny, tiny pipsqueak voice. Higgs nods like this is just the answer he was hoping for.
OK, now comes the cheesiest part of this ride through soap-opera hell. Because before I even know what I'm doing I've stood up and gone and wedged myself in between my parents like a sandwich filling, and I've taken both their arms and I'm holding them like a three-year-old on a merry-go-round. I know. It's like I'm a traitor to something.
Mum looks at me and her face like, melts. She bursts into the Niagara of tears, and I look to Dad's face and see that he's having difficulty keeping the waterworks under control too. Pretty soon he gives in, and I may as well confess that I'm kind of leaking a bit here too. In fact it gets worse than that, because I then go, Please don't split up! in this terrified babyish voice. It's the sort of voice you can't fake but have to like, actually feel to be able to speak in (so there's like, no excuse).
So we all have this like, massive long bath and then finally we stop and Mum and Dad look at each other and smile all sappy like they've just survived Armageddon together or something. It's really gross, and has me trying to unwedge myself pronto. Unfortunately they've both taken this death grip on my arms, so I have to sit there and endure the gush that follows. It's like:
Her: Oh, Lawrence, I'm so sorry I wish I'd known you have to understand that I'm not perfect but that doesn't mean that I don't need you.
Him: I don't know what's happened to us but I know we'll work it out. I'm going to try harder from now on—
Her: I just hope you can forgive me if I've been too much—
Him: No, I hope you can forgive me—
Her: But there's nothing to forgive—
And so forth. Like, total barferia. It continued for a good ten minutes at least, but just remembering it is making me feel like, terminally nauseous. It's enough to make you believe in euthanasia for the emotionally challenged.
Anyway, Higgs is like, You've taken a really important step forward. I want you all to feel proud of yourselves, which is just about the dappiest thing I've ever heard. And since Mum and Dad are too busy admitting how wrong about everything they are to notice anything, I stick my tongue out at him. Higgs doesn't look too pleased. Thankfully at this point the session grinds to an end, concluding with Mum and Dad's decision to get marriage counselling (to which I'm not invited, thankfully).
And that's it for Mum and Dad. In fact, there's only one more scene, and it's not much of one. More like just something I go and do. But I'm going to give it to you anyway, since you've had everything else.
It's like, Sunday three weeks later. It's a pretty weird day, 'cos Al's just ridden off in this truck with her parents, Destination: Leeds, and I'm at this total loose end wondering who I'm gonna go out with now. I don't know, maybe I got infected by all the goodbye fever or something, since Al cried buckets and we both swore we'd text each other every day and it was all pretty emotional, but after she'd gone I got to thinking about Fabian. What I do is I decide to go back and visit Mrs Wrens. For some reason it seems like this thing I have to do, even if you can tell it's going to be all mushy, and I hate mushiness. But actually it isn't. It's surprisingly unmushy.
Mrs Wrens answers the door right away, like she's been standing right behind it waiting there for me since my last visit. She looks a bit better though, I'm glad to say. But you can tell she's been through hell, 'cos there's this look in her eyes which is different, like they've changed colour or something.
She's like, Hello, I'm glad you came by. I wasn't sure that you would be coming back.
She opens the door and we go inside and into the kitchen. There's newspaper all over the floor and bits of mud, and there's this lump of clay in the middle which looks even more like a turd than her other sculptures, the only real difference being that it's exceptionally large. Mrs Wrens says she just started doing sculpting again yesterday. She tells me that it's a cathartic thing to do.
We sit down and she makes some tea, and she starts off on one, telling me all this stuff about Fabian, stuff I had no idea about. Like she goes on about how his favourite thing to do when he was a tot was to try and stand on his head so he could see the world upside down, and how he kept falling over and hurting himself, but he never stopped trying to do it.
Right up until he died he was able to do a perfect headstand, she goes. Sometimes he would watch the TV doing it. Not many people knew that about him.
I certainly didn't. I sit there and endure some more parables about Fabian, and I'm almost tempted to contribute. But I don't, because the truth is even if he was nicest Nazi ever born, there's no sense in telling it to his mother, and if she doesn't already know about all that freaky stuff she probably doesn't want to. I guess when you remember people you don't think about them as freaks anyway. You think about them as individuals. At one point I tell her I'm surprised she can still like, live here and all, but she finds that kind of funny and laughs. She's like, It's just a house, not my boy!
She doesn't go on for long anyway. It's not like we're sat there for more than about twenty minutes or anything. And she doesn't ask me to do anything gross, like take a tour of his room or view the bathtub. She just seems content to chat a bit and seems really glad that I've come. I'm glad that I did it too, because it's like a kind of goodbye. I really mean that. When I get up to go she says, Don't you ever do anything as stupid as what my son did, Jarold. Because he was stupid. Terribly, terribly stupid, in this voice that's like regretful but all wise and old-sounding. It kind of annoys me that she keeps calling me Jarold, but I agree not to and then she shows me out and tells me if I ever want to stop by again I'll always be welcome. But I don't suppose I ever will, or that she really expects me to. But it's nice of her to say it. She's a pretty cool woman, so I hope she makes out OK, I really do.
And that's it. That's the last scene.
25
So like, epilogue:
Al's having a ball in Leeds. She thinks it's like, the definition of where it's at. She says it has tons of Character, whatever the hell that's supposed to mean. I kind of still miss her a bit, but I'm getting better at going out on my own, and I don't even mind that I don't always meet someone I like or anything. There's this new place I go to called the NY Plaza, which is so nothing as cool as it sounds but at least you can get in without having to pass an iris scan, and I've yet to run into old Fellows in there. It's like a nightmare or something of mine that I'm gonna run into him and Higgs one of these days.
Even though I'm
no longer being psycho-probed by him I see Higgs all the time, because he's always sitting outside the school in his Volvo waiting for Fellows at the end of the day. He always waves to me, which is totally embarrassing. I still haven't won that bet with Al about them yet.
Mum and Dad have switched to marriage counselling and Mum doesn't yell quite so much these days, which is kind of a good thing - at least for your eardrums. Only instead of yelling she goes on and on about how much better things are now, and she's always touching Dad and stuff as if she's afraid he's gonna disappear on her or something. They both make a total effort with each other, and it's pretty false. Sometimes I'll come in the room and find them, like, bonding over books of carpet samples, and I'll be so grossed out I'll want to cut my wrists just to royally fuck up the whole operation. Even The Nun seems weirded out by it, though most of the time these days she's too busy fawning over her stupid pony down at the stable, which she and her friend have called Horsey, wouldn't you know it? Hey, maybe it's the only way for dysfunctional people to like, be together, so if Mum and Dad are really content this way then I guess it's OK by me.
We go to visit Grandma once every two weeks, on Sunday after Mum and Dad have had their therapy. We spend most of the time admiring the field of potted plants she's collecting in her room. On our last visit, while everyone else was off harassing the staff for cups of tea, she confided in me that she's still just waiting for another stroke to reunite her with Grandpa. She was all sly about it and she even gave me a wink, which is like, a totally weird thing to get from an old person. But I guess maybe it's kind of romantic that she's got a reason to look forward to dying though. Maybe.
Oh, I almost forgot, there's like, a follow-up to the whole Me and Jon saga. I saw him again in Starlight last time I went there. He came up to me, which I'm glad about because I wouldn't have had the guts to go up to him after what happened. He was all like, So how did it go? and I was like, Fine, blah-blah-blah. I was kind of surprised he came up actually, after everything, you know. Apparently he's got a boyfriend now and they're looking for a place of their own, which is nice I suppose. He was like, So if you guys are ever down in Brighton again and you need a place to stay . . . I was like, Cool, me and Al are thinking of taking a trip down there in the summer, at which point he kind of laughed nervously and went, Oh right, cool, in this totally unconvincing way, so I'm not holding my breath about that.
We do have plans to meet up again in the summer, though I'm really not sure if it's going to happen, 'cos apparently Al's having such a great time it's like the world outside of Leeds is just this pale imitation or something. In fact I haven't actually heard from her for over two weeks. We started off texting every night, but it kind of died out. Her last text was like, OMIGOD I'VE GOT A BOYFRND!!! if you can believe it, so I guess her time's all taken up with him. I bet he's one of those totally cheerless politics nerds who dreams of being an MP or something and has, like, legion issues in the bedroom department. She sent a picture of him with the message, and he's like, a total roly-poly.
So like, End of story. I told you not to big it up or anything. I'm not changed or some kind of a saint because of anything that's happened, I'm still just me and probably always will be, whatever me is. Maybe me is heartless, like that stuff Al said in Brighton, about just wanting to suck dick and not giving a shit about anyone else for my whole life. Then again maybe I'll turn out to be like Fellows and Higgs in the end and be all responsible and uppity and stuff. I bet Jon's gonna be just like that when he reaches their age. Or maybe I'll just become plain old dysfunctional like Mum and Dad (though the thought of that happening is like, the most depressing thing ever). Maybe I'll make like Fabian and just say, To hell with it all. In spite of what his mum said, it sometimes seems like he made a pretty smart move, though I know I probably shouldn't say so. But then you can't always go around saying stuff just because it's what you're supposed to say. That would just be stupid.
So here's the deal: I'm not going to give you some barfable moral or anything now, so just relax if that's what you were expecting. You can just take whatever you like from all this. Or else don't take anything. Or else LIC GAS.
A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR
Will Davis was born in London in 1980.
This is his first novel.
Copyright © 2007 by Will Davis
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Bloomsbury USA, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
Published by Bloomsbury USA, New York
Distributed to the trade by Holtzbrinck Publishers
All papers used by Bloomsbury USA are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in well-managed forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA HAS BEEN APPLIED FOR.
eISBN: 978-1-59691-975-4
First U.S. Edition 2007
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Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh
Printed in the United States of America by Quebecor World Fairfield
