A Mother Never Lies

by Sarah Clarke

  ‘Thanks, darling,’ Lucy whispers to Charlie with an intimacy that ratchets my annoyance up further.

  I watch her touch his arm protectively as he shuffles past her. I hope to see him flinch, but he doesn’t react at all. Then he slouches on the sofa and stares first at her, then at me, like he’s at a slow-motion tennis match. I want to connect with him, through our shared eyes, but his are glazed over. Then she turns to me. The look of horror has disappeared but there’s a new tautness to her face. I feel like a trapped animal, my fate in someone else’s hands.

  ‘So you’re the mysterious Fiona. Ben hasn’t told us a thing about you. I’ll warn you I’m a very nosy person – I want to know everything.’ She’s challenging me to a fight, but I’m no match for her. I just smile weakly in response.

  ‘Well, while you ladies get to know each other, we’ll put the finishing touches to the dinner. I hope you’re hungry, Fiona; I might have overdone it on the roasties a little.’

  ‘And the turkey, the stuffing, the pigs in blankets …’ Rosie adds, counting them off on her fingers with a giggle. ‘We’re having a break from vegetarianism today,’ she adds with an embarrassed grin.

  I watch them look at each other, the mutual adoration clear to see. Even as an outsider it makes me feel uncomfortable; I can’t imagine how isolating it must be for Charlie.

  ‘Guilty as charged,’ Greg says, lifting his hands up in mock surrender. I look down at mine, can’t risk making eye contact with Lucy. ‘Now come on, kids, kitchen. And that includes you Ben.’

  I watch Greg march, Rosie skip and Charlie saunter reluctantly out of the room. I try to catch his eye again, but he’s looking down at his feet now. So that leaves just us. The mothers. I push my palms against the sofa and steel myself for the onslaught. I don’t have to wait long.

  ‘What the hell are you doing in my house?’ she hisses. That stiff upper lip has curled into a sneer. The social worker, Flora, now Lucy. Why does everyone think they have the right to keep me from my own son? He’s half me. No one else can claim that. But I have to play this right, for his sake.

  ‘He doesn’t know. I haven’t told him.’

  ‘And you think that makes it better?’ The incredulity in her voice is brutal.

  ‘I just wanted to see him.’

  ‘Seeing him is buying a coffee from Bittersweet, not getting a job there. Seeing him isn’t taking advantage of his vulnerability, wheedling your way into his home, lying to him with your false name and fake sympathy.’

  She’s twisting things, but I can’t let her ruin what I’ve worked so hard to build. ‘You can’t tell him; he’s too fragile.’

  ‘Don’t you dare tell me how to bring up my son!’ Then she stands up, walks over to the window. She’s not looking at me when she continues. ‘But I don’t want him to know about you either, so I won’t tell him, as long as you do exactly what I say.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We will all sit down for Christmas lunch.’ It’s like she’s relaying instructions to her subordinates; the lack of emotion is chilling. ‘You’ll laugh at Greg’s jokes and listen politely to Rosie’s concerns on climate change. You’ll ask me about my job and compliment the meal. Then before the brandy sauce is cold, you’ll wish us all a merry Christmas and walk out of my house. And keep walking. Away from the café, from the area, and most importantly, away from Ben.’

  ‘And what if I don’t?’ I want to fight her now. ‘What if I take the risk that he’ll forgive me?’

  She laughs then, a small smug titter that sets my teeth on edge.

  ‘It’s not Ben that I’ll tell, Phoebe.’ I shudder as she drags out my name. ‘It’s the courts.’

  *

  I’m still reeling from Lucy’s words when Rosie’s head appears around the door to tell us lunch is served. My nemesis is all smiles again, and I try to follow suit, but I can’t stop my hands from shaking as I reach across the table to share a cracker with her. She claims victory of course and I’m left with just a scrunched-up piece of glittery paper and the smell of smouldering chemicals in the air.

  ‘Here, have this one. I won both of mine.’ Of course you did, Rosie; a broken arm wasn’t going to affect your performance. I take the body of the identical silver cracker, while remembering the garish red and green one that Flora dropped on the floor this morning. Bright colours must be banned in this house.

  ‘Go on then, Ben, you always have the best joke.’

  I can’t tell whether Greg is encouraging Charlie or challenging him, but I’m glad to see it causes a reaction. He’s been almost motionless since we sat down, just staring at Lucy’s face, like he’s waiting for something to happen. Has he sensed her unease? Worked out that her hospitality is just a performance? Perhaps he’s expecting her snobbery to leak out, I hope it’s nothing more than that. I watch him unravel the small piece of paper, read the joke to himself, then look up. I smile at him, try to convey my support. He doesn’t react at first, but then suddenly his expression changes and his whole face lights up. And for a tiny moment, the shitstorm around me just disappears.

  ‘Here goes then,’ he says. ‘Who hides in a bakery at Christmas?’

  ‘Interesting theme.’ Lucy looks at me pointedly, but luckily no one seems to notice.

  ‘Oh, that’s so easy,’ Rosie says, rolling her eyes. ‘A mince spy.’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Course it is, everyone knows that, Ben.’ Greg’s irritation bubbles up to the surface. ‘You’re just being difficult.’

  Why is he so impatient with Charlie? I feel another wave of sympathy for my son and try to regain his attention, but his focus is elsewhere now. I watch him weigh up his options.

  ‘A sensible turkey actually,’ he says bitterly and throws the piece of paper down on the table. He picks up his knife and fork, starts pushing the food around his plate.

  ‘I think you owe Ben an apology, Greg.’ She says it quietly but there’s steeliness in Lucy’s voice. I have no doubt she would have the courts remove me from Charlie’s life without a second thought.

  ‘Yeah sorry, mate. Joke must have had a refresh this year.’

  ‘Whatever.’ Charlie shrugs his shoulders, continues toying with his food.

  I can hardly swallow myself but I’m mindful of Lucy’s demands, and I need to buy myself some time, so I force down a few mouthfuls and try to pretend nothing’s wrong. ‘Delicious food, Greg. Are you a keen cook?’ I add a fake smile that Flora would be proud of.

  ‘I am now, I guess. I learned the hard way though.’

  ‘Oh?’ I’m not really interested, but it’s a relief to have the spotlight taken away from me.

  ‘Lucy used to do it all. But Rosie’s birth was, ah, complicated. She was in hospital for quite a while, so it was a case of learn quick or starve.’

  ‘That must have been traumatic.’ I’m on autopilot, saying the right thing; Charlie has already told me the details of Rosie’s birth, how Lucy lost so much blood that the only way to save her life was to remove her womb.

  ‘Fiona has had her fair share of trauma too, haven’t you?’ Ben suddenly announces, turning to face me.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You told me, remember? How something terrible happened. And now you can’t trust people. That must have been traumatic.’

  My heartbeat slows and my skin feels clammy. Why is he saying this now?

  ‘And it made me think about how you walk everywhere, how much you hate taking the bus.’

  Oh God. I’ve told him too much. He’s figuring out my story, and just at the wrong time. I need to stop him saying something that might alert Greg to who I am, connect the dots for him, but I can’t speak; my mouth is too dry. I take a swig of wine.

  ‘And I wondered if something had happened to you on a bus, something terrible.’

  ‘Oh my goodness, were you attacked?’ Rosie asks, with the ease of someone certain that such dangers will never befall them.

  ‘No, not attacked,’ I mumble, pushing
the painful memories away, the losses that came after. I can’t let myself be dragged down now, there’s too much at stake. I watch Greg’s eyes dart from me to Charlie and back again, and I feel the pierce of Lucy’s stare on him, ordering her husband to keep quiet. Has he worked out who I am? Does it even matter now his cold-hearted wife has recognised me?

  The room starts to spin. I can’t keep this up; the deception, the fear of losing everything I’ve fought so hard to get back. I hold my breath. Oh God, I can’t exhale; my fingers splay out, then lock. Oh please, not here. Not now. My chest keeps expanding. My breathing is only going one way. I need to get out of here.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I inhale, and rush out of the room.

  Luckily I find the downstairs toilet in seconds. I lock the door and let my body take over. My arms climb the walls in some futile hunt for more oxygen. The tears fall as I suck more air into my already expanded lungs. Finally, I find the strength to cup my hands in front of my face, to trick my body into accepting carbon dioxide instead of the oxygen it craves.

  Gradually my breathing settles but, as always, the tears take longer. And putting myself back together in this cold, unwelcoming house takes longer still. By the time I finally unlock the door, the table has been cleared away and only Lucy is left sitting at the table.

  ‘Where’s Ben?’ I ask. I hate that he’s seen me like that. I don’t want him blaming himself because he brought up the subject of my trauma.

  ‘He’s tired. I sent him for a lie-down. Greg and Rosie have gone for a walk.’

  ‘I’m sorry. For the panic attack.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s a sign,’ she says. ‘That you shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘He’s my son. Like Rosie is your daughter.’ This woman nearly lost her child too; if I can make her understand perhaps there’s a chance for Charlie and me.

  ‘NO!’ She pauses, checks herself. ‘No,’ she repeats in a more measured tone. ‘Ben is my son. Legally, functionally and emotionally. You broke him, and I fixed him.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘You beat his father to death in front of him. You think that didn’t break him?’

  ‘You haven’t fixed him.’

  ‘I’ve done everything possible.’ She believes it too, despite all the evidence.

  The urge to make her see the truth is suddenly more important than protecting Charlie’s privacy. ‘Did you know that he hates himself so much that he goes to parks looking for a beating?

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ she says.

  But I can hear a flicker of doubt in her voice, so I keep going. ‘Has he ever seen a therapist? Had professional help?’

  ‘He saw someone,’ she says, flicking the comment away with her rose-painted fingertips, ‘in the early days.’

  ‘But not once he came to live with you.’ It’s not a question. Charlie told me how unwilling his parents were to send him to a therapist.

  ‘It upset him; she upset him. It was better to move on.’ It’s her turn to go on the defensive now.

  ‘Change his name? Pretend it didn’t happen?’

  ‘What good would remembering it do? Replaying Mummy Murders Daddy? Not exactly a happy memory.’

  I flinch, but I can’t let her words knock me off track. ‘Have you researched PTSD?’ I ask.

  ‘A little. Enough.’

  ‘So you know that the most successful form of treatment is trauma-focused. That it’s only by facing the trauma that sufferers can start to move on.’ I don’t tell her that these words aren’t mine; that they’ve come from the series of therapists who have treated me over the years. I also don’t tell her that I’ve faced my trauma on countless occasions without any sign of success; that the nightmares still come, and panic attacks are part of my life.

  ‘You have no idea how damaged he was, how much you damaged him. He hardly spoke a word when he came to live with us. Just screamed at night and spent all day in front of that red plastic easel we bought him as a welcome present. Terrible, chaotic pictures that he’d paint and then rip to shreds. When I held him, it was like cuddling a robot. The first time he spoke to me – properly, more than a yes or no – was when I suggested we see the therapist again. He used his newfound voice to beg me not to send him there, promised he’d do anything if I told him he didn’t need to go. It was the first conversation we’d had in six weeks. How could I refuse him?’

  I stare at her. I remember his beautiful face. His innocent eyes and sweet singsong voice. I can imagine how hard it would have been. But that doesn’t excuse her.

  ‘Because you were the adult. And he was five.’

  She’s silent then and I almost feel sorry for her. Regret is etched across her face, along with a realisation of what she’s done.

  And how it’s not just me who’s failed him.

  Chapter 37

  SEPTEMBER 2005

  Charlie

  ‘Hello, Charlie.’

  Charlie digs his fingers into the rug. Its bright dots make him feel a bit dizzy, but he likes delving his fingers into it. They’re really deep now. He can’t even see his nails anymore.

  ‘I’m Celina.’

  Charlie knows he should look at the lady, but he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to look at the rug anymore either, so he looks at the table in front of him instead. It’s the colour of wood like his table at home. Home. He turns his face towards the window.

  ‘Would you like me to open it? It is a bit stuffy in here.’

  As the lady starts pushing at the window, Charlie decides to look at the wall instead. There’s a picture in the middle of it. It has lots of blue sky and birds flying around. Charlie has always wondered what it would be like to fly. Always thought he might enjoy it. He especially thinks that now.

  ‘Do you like colouring, Charlie?’

  He’s surprised by such an easy question. The big woman who lives in the house he’s staying at had said ‘Good luck’ when she left him in the room. He hadn’t been sure why she said it but it had worried him a bit. It’s what Mummy said to him when she left him with that muscly lady at the swimming pool. Except she didn’t really leave him because she sat outside the big window and blew him kisses when he got in the water. Charlie’s bottom lip starts to tremble so he bites it.

  ‘Well, your grandma told me that you like colouring, so I thought I’d bring some crayons and some paper. Maybe we can draw together?’

  Charlie looks back at the table. There are loads of crayons. Some are in a pot but they look dirty, all different sizes too and the paper around them is ripped. But there are also four new packs with crayons all neatly lined up inside. They look perfect. Charlie picks one of the packs up. The lady asks whether he needs help opening it, but he doesn’t answer because he’s nearly three and a half so of course he doesn’t.

  The lady slides a piece of white paper across the table until it’s sitting in front of him. Out of the corner of his eye he watches her pick a crayon out of the pot. A grey one. It’s a bit dirty, but not too bad. Then she starts drawing on her own piece of paper. The lady is concentrating really hard, so Charlie risks turning his head towards her. She’s got light hair like Jude’s mum and is wearing a white T-shirt and a really long skirt that hides her legs. Her necklace is pretty. It reminds Charlie of the sea in Greece. Shiny blue balls on a metal chain, bobbing against the bony bit underneath her chin.

  He looks back towards the table. His grandma is right: he does like drawing. He picks a crayon out of his pack and carefully folds the flap back inside. The other crayons will be safe now.

  What should he draw? He usually draws his family but he doesn’t think he wants to today. They’ve disappeared and left him all by himself so why should he? And he doesn’t want to draw the fat lady. He’s not sure whether it’s her fault, him living in her house now, but he doesn’t think he likes her. Just because she gives him ice cream and lets him watch Ben and Holly on TV doesn’t mean she’s nice.

  Without thinking, he draws Rabbit, starting with his beady eyes.
He misses Rabbit. When the man in the green uniform took him outside he dropped him on the pavement and he hasn’t been back to his house since. A lady got him another rabbit. Not the fat lady or the drawing lady but another one with big brown eyes. She was really nice but he didn’t like the rabbit.

  He keeps drawing. It’s easy once you start. It feels good to draw big lines; zigzag them across the page. He takes another crayon. And another. Now he thinks about it, there are lots of things he wants to draw. He forgets the wooden table and the bobbing necklace and the street noise and concentrates on his picture.

  ‘I’ve finished mine, Charlie. Would you like to see?’

  He doesn’t really care about her picture anymore but he looks anyway. It’s quite funny actually. She’s drawn an elephant from behind with a gigantic bottom and a tiny tail. And a monkey sat on the elephant’s head with a silly smile and a banana in his hand.

  ‘Have you finished yours?’

  Charlie looks down at his picture. He’s not sure he wants her to see it after all. It was supposed to be a drawing of Rabbit but he can’t work out where he is now. He’s made too much of a mess. How stupid he is; just scrawling all over the paper like that.

  The crayons! He realises in a panic that he forgot to put them back. The pack is empty and the flap is undone and the crayons are just strewn about all over the table. He picks up the red one and realises it’s snapped. Broken. The black one too. He wanted to look after them and look what’s he done.

  ‘Perhaps I could see your picture, Charlie?’

  No. Charlie quickly picks up his picture. She mustn’t see it. He backs away from the table. One step. Two steps. Finally his back touches a wall. It’s the one with the picture of flying birds, only he can’t see it now. He sinks down onto the floor.