by Lucy Vine
‘It’s my fault,’ I say simply. ‘I had this idea that you should be able to tell I needed you. And I didn’t think you would come anyway, I didn’t trust you to come, so I didn’t tell you. And then I think I built it up in my head over the years to protect myself. To stop myself from ever having to be the one at fault.’
I look again around the room, at all the mementos of our lives before all this. Photos, keepsakes, souvenirs. Evidence of my mum’s love.
‘I’m really sorry,’ I say, shaking hard, as the tears start rolling down my face again. She reaches up to wipe them away with her thumb and the gesture is too much. I cry hard and she pulls me in.
‘You’re really here,’ she murmurs into my ear. ‘You’re really here. This makes everything better, Alice. There is nothing I can’t do with you back here by my side, back as a part of my life. My Alice, my wonderful Alice.’ Her voice is thick. ‘I don’t know if this is real, is this real? I don’t know if you are.’ She touches my face and a tear makes its way down her creased cheek.
‘You are,’ she whispers. ‘You are real, and you’re really here. I’ve missed you so much, my darling child.’
We sit there for a long time then, crying and holding hands.
30
AWOL.COM/Alice Edwards’ Travel Blog
6 July – 9.45 a.m.
Someone is going to need to explain to me how this is ‘winter’ in Australia. I’m sweating my balls off.
Axx
5 Comments · 76 AWOLs · 135 Super Likes
COMMENTS:
Kirpa Saul
| Nothing like a Brit abroad for moaning about lovely weather.
Hollie Baker
| Lol, lol! You don’t have balls!! Do you??
Karen Gill
| Meanwhile, it’s July in the UK and three degrees Celsius.
Alice Edwards
Replying to Karen Gill
| I miss three degrees. I miss wearing socks.
Hannah Edwards
| haha u will get used 2 it! sooo happy ur here.
I have barely slept.
And I feel better than I have in years.
Mum and I stayed up all night, talking. Not about The Bad Stuff, but about our lives, about who we are now, and the things we have missed. I wanted so much for her to know me, to know everything about me. I told her all the stupid inane stuff about my life without her: what time I get up in the morning; what I have for breakfast; how my favourite shoes are too small for me but how I still wear them because they have a pineapple embroidered on the front. I told her about the work I’d been doing for the dodgy politician – and how I’d ruined it all with my drunken thirtieth life-crisis text. I left nothing out. I even told her how my last dentist appointment went (only one filling but I made a huge fuss).
It was like I’d been storing everything up for her, holding it ready for this reunion. She listened, enraptured for hours, firing questions when I left out any detail, asking what the weather was like on any one day I was describing so she could better picture it. She didn’t let go of my hand the whole time.
And we talked about her, too. I’m finally able to talk about Steven without wincing and we did talk about him. A lot. Mum told me about the move over here. How things have still been difficult these last few years, but that he has been slowly getting better. He had managed to cut down on the drinking; he was not disappearing on benders so much. He was more loving, he was shouting less, he was going to meetings. He was more grateful for Mum’s love. Maybe he was softening with old age, or maybe the fresh start in a new country had finally shaken him free of something. Not altogether of course – he was still drinking every day – but what they had between them was on its way to being something almost like a life. But then of course, just as hope was beginning to flower, the stroke happened. For Mum, that has been the hardest part of all this. Just when she thought she might get her Steven back – after twenty years of slow-burn devastation – this new kind of devastation happened.
But she is hopeful. And she is also very used to being a carer. So she will be OK if and when he comes home. And I get it. I understand. Life is not black and white.
We finally crashed out together on the sofa at about 5 a.m., and I woke up with a dry mouth, feeling like I had the worst hangover ever. But also feeling great.
I didn’t want to leave Mum this morning, and she was on the verge of calling in sick to her work as a receptionist at a local school, but I said no.
I had to go see Mark.
He’s here, staying at a nearby hotel. I don’t know if Hannah’s told him I’m here, too, but I have to go see him. I need to make up with him and make sure we’re OK. Our fight has been hanging over me for weeks, following me around Thailand like a bad smell. We’ve never gone this long without talking and it all seems so silly and pointless now. Of course he was right, I needed to forgive Mum, but I also had to get there – here – on my own. We both knew I was coming here eventually, but I had to do it slowly. I had to figure it out for myself.
Hannah gave me the hotel address with Mark’s room number, and – standing outside yet another door, feeling the same nerves in my belly as I knock – I almost burst out laughing.
Mark opens up immediately, and doesn’t look surprised to see me.
He doesn’t dramatically spill tea on the floor, or anything.
‘Hi,’ I say, feeling weird because I never say hi to my brother. He’s my brother. Usually we enter a room immediately halfway through a sentence. We don’t need formalities or small talk, we have history.
He smiles tightly and nods for me to follow him in.
I clear my throat and begin as I take in his room. ‘So I think maybe I’m the favourite child now,’ I say, aiming for a light, teasing tone but my voice comes out a bit strained. ‘Mum’s insisting I stay at the house while I’m in Oz. Meanwhile you’re stuck here, in this lame-ass hotel.’
He laughs, and flops down on a sofa at the foot of his bed. ‘True enough, but your beloved status is only temporary,’ he says casually as I take a seat next to him. ‘Once the novelty of your reappearance wears off, she’ll be back to worshipping at the feet of her darling only son and heir.’
I snort and then we smile nicely at each other.
Phew. Things are going to be OK.
‘I really . . .’ I start and then my phone loudly beeps from my coat pocket.
We laugh at the interruption.
‘Get it,’ he says, and I reach in my pocket.
It’s a text.
From LA Noah. The producer.
‘Woah!’ I exclaim and Mark leans in, excited. I show him the name. ‘It’s that guy. LA Noah! The one who seemed so keen when I was there – texting me every day – but then just never asked me out.’
Mark is nodding, he remembers.
‘I haven’t heard from him in ages,’ I muse.
‘For the love of fuck, just open it already,’ he says, exasperated. I click on the message and start reading it silently. It’s long.
‘Out loud,’ he snaps and I clear my throat.
‘So, hi,’ I read. ‘It’s me, Noah, that guy you’ve already forgotten about from your first night in LA. I hope this isn’t too unwelcome a message. I don’t know if you want to hear from me, but – forgive me this cliché – I felt like there was some unfinished business between us.’
Mark interrupts me with a whoop, which I ignore. This is a lengthy message and we’re just getting started.
‘I know my behaviour was kind of weird when you were in LA,’ I continue reading. ‘But I’ll be honest and hope this doesn’t sound like some stupid line; I was in a bad place after my divorce. The fact is, I really liked you, I wanted to talk to you all night and I haven’t felt a connection like that in years. And believe me, I kept wanting to ask you out during those next few weeks. I loved our text
conversations, they made me laugh so much. But I kept chickening out. I knew my head was in too much of a mess. And you were only there a few weeks. It sounds heavy, but I didn’t want to risk falling for you. It was too much to chance when I was still so fragile.’
Mark lets out a low whistle and I stop to stare at him, open-mouthed. This is so out of the blue. I can’t believe it.
There’s more.
‘Listen Alice, I know this seems ridiculous, and out of nowhere, but things are a lot better with my head these days. I’ve been having therapy (I live in LA so of course I’ve been having therapy). It’s helped a lot. I feel much more sorted, and I at least wanted to explain myself to you. The cliché applies: It wasn’t you, it was me. And I’m sorry for that. There is one more thing . . . I’m coming to the UK for work in September and I wondered if I could finally take you out on a date?’ He’s finished with a sweet single x.
Mark shrieks. ‘Is that the end of it? Essay much, Noah?’ I nod, completely flummoxed. He takes the phone off me and silently re-reads the text. His eyebrows shoot up as he reaches the end.
‘Phew,’ he says, putting the phone down at last, his perfectly arched brows on the ceiling.
‘So, what do you think?’ he says, before adding, ‘This guy actually sounds pretty on the level to me. The message is a bit OTT, but feels heartfelt and honest, don’t you think? How do you feel?’ He looks at me expectantly and I giggle.
‘Um,’ my head is spinning. ‘I don’t really know. He’s so good-looking, and we had some great chats on WhatsApp. He makes me laugh, but . . .’ I pause. ‘I think he might bore me, to be honest.’
Mark cocks his head at me. ‘Why?’ he says, looking puzzled.
Why? That’s an interesting question. Why do I think Noah might bore me?
Mark continues, not waiting for me to get to the answer myself.
‘Do you think it might be because you’re used to dickheads?’ he says, and his tone is a little cold. ‘Do you think it might be because you have decided somewhere inside you that “nice” – someone who doesn’t treat you like pond scum – must be boring? You’ve decided that a relationship without drama isn’t a real relationship. That “love” has to be traumatic and awful? You’ve been so trained by that prick TD and Kit before him – so brainwashed into thinking that is love – you think that someone who is simply kind and sweet to you can’t be serious or real?’
Oof. I guess there is some residual resentment here between us, after all.
‘Like, that shitty Bumble date you told me about in LA,’ he says, and he’s suddenly very angry. ‘Why the fucking fuck did you not leave the moment he called you fat? I know you don’t care about that word, but that’s not the point, is it? He was trying to be cruel and you took it, happily. It’s like you want to be punished, like you wanted to stay and be flagellated some more. You even told me beforehand that he was a dirtbag – you actually said that’s what you wanted – and then you complained when that’s exactly what he was. It’s absolute bullshit, Alice.’
‘All right, Jesus!’ I say, my voice raised. ‘Don’t hold back, will you? Do you want to dissect my faults any more? I left the date eventually.’
He grabs me by the shoulders and looks at me sternly. ‘Alice, I’m serious. You specifically choose men who fuck you over. You stick around and let them treat you like shit. You even did it with the trolls on your dumb pretentious blog. How long did it take you to block all those losers calling you names and threatening to rape you? Months! Why? Because somewhere early on – naming no names, er, MUM – you watched a relationship where a woman was treated badly and used up by her partner, and you learnt that was love. You learnt that you didn’t deserve something decent and good.’ He is almost shouting.
Everything in me is fighting back against his words. My chest is tight and my hands are shaking. I don’t want to listen; I don’t want to hear it. Tears start rolling down my cheeks, but he doesn’t stop.
‘I’ve had enough of watching you push people away – I’m sick of it,’ he says and he does sound sick of it. His whole voice is weary and sick. ‘You have the patience of a saint when it comes to shitty people like TD, but you walk away from the people who actually care about you. Or you’re mean to them, like you are with Eva.’
‘What?’ I am shocked. ‘I’m not mean to Eva!’
‘You can be, Alice,’ he insists, but he says it a little more kindly. ‘You say things harshly and laugh at her when she mentions her horoscopes or memes. She would never tell you this herself, but it hurts her when you’re critical of her. When you mock her family. I’ve seen that look on her face when you laugh at her. You have a tendency to be overly critical. You don’t seem to realise that things can really cut. You push people away because something in you thinks they’re going to leave you, and you figure you might as well shove them off the cliff before they jump.’
I am reeling. That’s not true. I tease Eva, but it’s how we’ve always been. We joke around. I don’t push her off cliffs for God’s sake! Except I did push her away, didn’t I? I know I did, I admitted to it. The moment it seemed like she might be leaving me, I left her. OK, so yes, I am afraid of people leaving me. But isn’t everyone?
‘What about you then, Mark?’ I say and I am fighting back tears. I thought I was all cried out last night, but apparently not. ‘Because yes, I might push people away or date idiots occasionally, but you avoid love altogether. Is that any better? Pretending that part of life doesn’t exist at all – is that healthy? You haven’t dated anyone in twenty years, Mark. Is that normal?’
‘Better than going out with morons, like you do,’ he spits.
‘Maybe, maybe not, Mark,’ I say, but some of the fight has drained out of me. All of a sudden I just feel tired and sad. ‘It isn’t even the lack of dating, Mark,’ I say quietly. ‘If you were happy on your own, I wouldn’t care about it, but you never even talk to me about it. It makes me feel so awful that you don’t want to share that part of your life with me. We are so close and I’ve never wanted to push you into talking about things if you didn’t want to, but I feel really crap about it.’
There is silence between us, and at last he reaches over and takes my hand.
‘Stop making this all about you,’ he says at last, and he sniggers.
‘Stop making it not all about me,’ I laugh at the callback to our last fight in Thailand. The tension between us eases. I sniff loudly. ‘I know you’re right about me pushing the good people in my life away,’ I admit, slowly. ‘But I’m working on it. And I’m done with the shitheads, I promise. I blocked the online trolls, didn’t I? I haven’t even thought about TD in weeks. I think I’m genuinely over him, at last. And I’ll go on a date with Noah back in London I promise. You’re right, I have this shitty brainwashing thing that tells me love can only be fucked up. He isn’t actually boring, he’s nice.’
I pause. ‘And I’ll stop being mean to Eva. I feel awful, I didn’t realise it bothered her.’
He nods. ‘I don’t think it does, not really,’ he concedes. ‘She adores you, and you are a good friend. She’s just so sweet and innocent, I sometimes worry that you will hurt her without realising. You’re so smart, Alice, and I don’t think you notice how your words can be hurtful.’ There is a heavy silence, while we both consider things.
‘And I’m sorry I haven’t talked to you about my love life,’ he says at last, staring at the floor. ‘I don’t know how or why I’ve ended up here. As this person. I guess . . . well, I was shy – a late starter – when it came to accepting myself. I was afraid of what being gay meant. Steven’s Neanderthal tendencies didn’t help. When he got drunk he would use nasty words, call me a “fag” and stuff, so I was scared to actually come out to him and Mum for a long time. And then I think not talking became a habit. I have been afraid of sharing things. Plus, Mum and Steven’s dysfunctional relationship affected me, too, of course it did. You on
ly went out with awful men – that was your take home from them. Me, I assumed all men were awful and avoided them altogether. Neither of us have been very healthy when it comes to our relationships, have we?’
He smiles at me now, my cocky, silly, funny brother.
I shake my head slowly and lean my head on his shoulder.
‘Right,’ he takes a deep breath. ‘Enough of this shouting at each other. We’re both fucked up, but who isn’t, right? And let’s make a pact to make more of an effort to be ever so slightly less messed up in future. You’re going to stop pushing people away and be kinder. I’m going to start dating, and actually talk to you about my romantic endeavours. And if we can’t manage not to be dicks, we’ll at least always talk to each other about it, OK?’
‘OK, agreed,’ I say, feeling emotional but happy.
‘So then, what are you going to reply to Noah?’ he says decisively, taking my phone off me. ‘Let’s compose a text, and then . . .’ he takes another big, deep breath. ‘Then, I think you should help me write a text.’
I look up at him, my smile getting bigger.
‘To Joe?’ I say hopefully and he nods shyly.
‘To Joe,’ he confirms.
31
Update from AWOL’s CEO, Kyle: Hey guys! Just a quick message as many of you have contacted our moderators to say you’re worried about AWOL’s Troll Police Chief, Luke. Not to worry, he has been temporarily taken off duty for R&R and further training, but he will soon be back online to handle any of your probs!!!! Cheers for listening, all you AWOLers out there!!!! Take it easy guys, and I’m here if you want to chat, chill or blue sky. Kyle x
AWOL.COM/Alice Edwards’ Travel Blog
12 July – 1.22 p.m.
HULLO.
