by Parks, Adele
July 1985 was the month when Live Aid made a fortune for starving African kids and Back to the Future made a fortune for Hollywood executives. It was the month his mother had swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills, swilled down by a couple of bottles of vodka. Making it very hard for Dean to believe in angels.
51
Clara
Clara went upstairs and repacked her case. She’d packed to leave Tim, unpacked at the spa, repacked and then unpacked once again at Lisa’s. This time she knew she was packing for the final time. She was going home. Her marriage to Tim was not conventional, it was not what she’d imagined a marriage to be when she was a child, but it was enduring, worthwhile and loving. They had three children and three grandchildren together (she hoped there would be many more if Mark and Katie and Jo and – dare she say it, even to herself – Dean got busy). She and Tim had a history together. She wanted to go home to him. She could not dash there immediately; Jo and Dean needed some time to sort things out. She’d stay at Lisa’s, make something nice for tea for her, Henry and the children. They could eat together, and then Clara would announce that her little break was over, that she’d thought it through and was returning to Tim. She’d go home at about nine o’clock. There would be champagne in the fridge – there always was – and she and Tim could at last celebrate their anniversary, while Dean and Jo would celebrate their fresh start.
It took all of Clara’s self-control not to telephone Jo. She so wanted to put an end to her daughter’s trauma and uncertainty, but she knew that a forewarning call would spoil the impact of Dean arriving on the step in person. Instead she spent the afternoon imagining her daughter’s romantic reconciliation and making an organic beef lasagne. She did call Tim to tell him that she planned on coming home.
‘Well, that’s wonderful news. I am glad.’ She appreciated Tim’s steely goodwill. Goodwill and manners helped in a marriage.
The dinner was cheerful. Lisa and Henry were able to be generous in their hospitality, knowing that their guest was about to leave. They were also delighted that Jo had finally found her happy ending, and grilled Clara for details about Dean. She told them that he was honourable, sincere and ‘wonderful to look at’. She didn’t tell them that he was the son of the man she had once had an affair with; she would eventually, but there was a time and a place for everything, and tonight around the family’s large wooden dining table was neither that time nor place.
When the taxi pulled up outside her home in Wimbledon, Clara took a deep breath and inhaled the scent of the garden buds and grass; how could she ever have thought of leaving this place? She was not surprised that there weren’t any downstairs lights on at home. Tim’s home office was at the back of the house, and it was very possible he was there, working, while he waited for her. She guessed that perhaps Jo and Dean had gone out for a bite to eat.
She pushed open the front door and allowed the space to settle around her. Home. She let out a contented sigh, slipped off her shoes and turned on the hall light.
‘Good lord, Joanna, you gave me a start.’ Jo was sitting on the bottom stair, surrounded by darkness.
‘Sorry, Mum. I’ve been here for hours. I suppose it got dark around me. I didn’t really notice.’
Clara was puzzled by the gloom in the hall and the desolation on Jo’s face. ‘Where’s Dean?’ she asked.
‘Dean?’ Jo was bewildered. ‘Dean’s in America, Mum.’
‘No, he was here. Well, at Lisa’s.’
‘When?’
‘This afternoon. He’s here in England. He’s come for you.’ Clara beamed, thrilled to be the bearer of such wonderful news.
‘You met him?’ Jo’s tone did not match her mother’s cheery one.
‘Yes. He’s lovely.’
‘You know who he is then, I suppose,’ her daughter said glumly.
‘Yes.’ Clara felt mildly uncomfortable; it would take some getting used to, but she rallied. ‘And he knows who I am, but it’s OK.’ She sat down next to her daughter on the stairs. She considered putting her arm around her and giving her a congratulatory, celebratory squeeze, but she didn’t. ‘He loves you.’
‘Did he say that?’
‘Well, not in so many words, but he was coming here to tell you. He did say that.’
‘He never came, Mum.’ Bemused, Clara looked around the hall as though she was expecting him to suddenly materialise. ‘He would never be able to be happy with me, knowing about you and his father.’
‘But we talked about everything. He was reconciled to it.’
Jo too looked around the empty hallway. ‘Clearly not.’
2013
Epilogue
Jo thought she was imagining it at first, but Dean was not a particularly common name, and it was all the more distinct for that. The woman sitting next to her on the park bench was repeatedly calling to her son.
‘Dean, be careful. You’re going far too high on that swing.’ Jo followed the direction of the woman’s gaze and saw a boy, aged about six, swinging dangerously high but squealing with the joy of it.
Smiling at the coincidence, she turned to the anxious mother beside her. ‘My son is called Dean too.’
‘Really?’ The woman’s anxious face instantly transformed, and she beamed back. ‘Which is yours?’ she asked. Jo pointed to her blond, curly-haired two-year-old son playing contentedly in the sandbox. She was aware that the box was probably used by all the neighbourhood’s stray cats as a litter tray, but she didn’t have the energy to deal with the issue at that moment. She rubbed her taut belly. ‘He looks significantly less of a handful than my Dean,’ commented the other mum with a wry smile.
‘He has his moments,’ laughed Jo. ‘But on the whole, yes, he is very good.’
‘And when are you due?’ The woman nodded towards Jo’s enormous belly.
‘Any minute.’ Jo was amused by the return of the slightly anxious expression that this comment provoked. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not having contractions or anything. When I say any minute, I mean in the next week or so.’
‘Have you thought of names for this one?’
‘It’s a girl, and we’re still deciding between Eva and Frances.’
‘Both are pretty.’
‘Thank you. I think we’ll wait to see which she suits.’ Jo thought that the conversation would probably come to a close now; it was a pleasant but unremarkable exchange, similar to dozens of conversations she’d had in various parks, cafés and soft play areas since she was first obviously pregnant. Women liked to chat about due dates and baby names. They both sat quietly and listened to children laughing and rowing, teasing and bossing one another as they climbed, swung and ran around the park. The sound of trainers and sandals scurrying across the tarmac and rubber created a pleasant rhythm.
‘How did you pick the name Dean? Did you have a choice of two then as well?’ asked the mother of the older Dean.
‘No. He was always going to be Dean. He’s named after an old friend of mine,’ replied Jo.
‘My son is named after my brother.’
‘That’s nice.’ Jo paused. She wasn’t sure what propelled her on. Maybe it was simply the lure of a coincidence – she was interested in the woman who had a child with the same name as hers – or maybe it was because the woman had a gentle, somehow familiar, open face that invited confidences; maybe it was simply Jo’s hormones playing havoc with her common sense. Whatever the reason, she suddenly gushed, ‘Actually, Dean is named after the love of my life.’ She allowed the huge phrase to slip out accompanied by a grin, which she hoped might mitigate some of the gravity of the confession. ‘Obviously, I haven’t ever told my husband as much,’ she laughed.
The woman smiled sympathetically. Most women had an understanding of that sort of thing. ‘So what happened to the love of your life?’
‘The usual, he dumped me. It was complicated. There was lots of baggage and it wasn’t meant to be. It was the briefest of flings, really.’ Jo felt she had to pull back from her large sta
tement that Dean was the love of her life. It seemed disloyal to Andy to talk of Dean in that way; after all she’d only known Dean for four days, and she’d been married to Andy for four years now. Still, that was how she thought of him. Even now. The love of her life. ‘I’ve been with my husband for four years, and don’t get me wrong, we are very much in love. We’re very happy, but sometimes I do think back to Dean. Fondly. He was good for me.’ She had not been able to resist calling her son after the man who had taught her to love, for real. The man who had helped her through the most brutal and embarrassing weekend of her life. The man who she had cried over for months and months. The one she had longed for for years.
The woman on the bench shifted; she rummaged in her handbag and pulled out some imperial mints. She offered one to Jo, who took it. At eight and a half months pregnant, Jo would eat anything anyone offered, even a dusty mint dredged up from a stranger’s handbag. ‘Besides, if I hadn’t met Dean, I’d never have met Andy. It’s strange how things turn out.’
‘Were they friends?’
‘No, nothing like that. Dean was this very adventurous type. You know, always skiing, snorkelling or surfing. He thought I lacked interests, so he made me draw up a list of things I’d like to achieve in life. I met Andy on set.’
‘On set?’
‘Andy is an actor. I was an extra. So indirectly Dean is responsible for us meeting. He gave me a lot of confidence and direction. I’ve carried the list with me ever since. I’ve pretty much worked through the lot we drew up together and I’ve since added more.’
‘Mummeeee, look at me.’ Both women looked up just in time to see the older Dean let go of the swing chain and fly through the air. Remarkably, he landed on his feet. He laughed hysterically with adrenalin and pride.
‘He is just like his uncle.’
‘I’m Jo, by the way.’
‘Zoe.’ The woman did a little wave, even though Jo was sat right next to her. It would have been odd to shake hands in the park. Jo’s brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders, tired from the pregnancy, and it took her a moment to make the connection. When she did, she didn’t think it could possibly be true.
‘Your brother didn’t used to live in Chicago by any chance, did he?’
Zoe looked startled. ‘Actually, yes, yes he did.’
‘Oh my goodness. I don’t believe it. Dean Taylor?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Your brother Dean is the love of my life Dean.’ Jo’s delight at the coincidence almost cancelled out the embarrassment she felt saying such an exposing thing so many years after the event. She beamed, thrilled to have found him again, albeit indirectly. ‘Well how the hell is he? Is he married? Sorry, that’s really cheeky of me,’ Jo gushed. ‘But I can’t tell you how much I loved that man. I thought I’d never get over him. Don’t tell him that, will you?’ She paused. She’d rushed on because part of her still wasn’t ready to hear the inevitable. No doubt he’d married an American model, they’d have four beautiful children by now and he wouldn’t even remember her name. Jo? Jo who? he’d say when Zoe relayed this story to him next time they caught up. Or worse still, Zoe might tell her that he hadn’t ever married; he was still stewing, consumed with fury at her mother and his father, unable to move on with his own life. That would be worse than anything.
When her mother had come home to Wimbledon all those years ago with the news that she’d met Dean and that he had flown to England to find Jo, Jo had allowed herself to hope. For a week or so she’d imagined that at any minute he might walk up their drive, explain that he’d needed time but was ready now to declare that they could begin again.
He didn’t come.
She’d phoned his mobile, dozens and dozens of times, but he’d always allowed her call to go straight through to voicemail. Initially her messages were calm and cheerful; eventually they deteriorated into undignified pleas. It didn’t matter, as he never returned any of her calls. It took months for her to accept that he never would. Years for her to stop wishing that wasn’t the case.
She had surprised everyone by not falling to bits. She had been determined that she would dignify her encounter with Dean by turning her life around, so she’d applied for countless journalist jobs. After some months, she’d finally secured a position on a trade magazine as a travel journalist. She’d travelled extensively since. She’d visited South Africa, Australia, Canada, India, Bali, Cuba and most European countries. On her trips she’d nursed baby cheetahs, played the didgeridoo, gone ice skating on a frozen lake; she’d had her face painted with henna, slept on a beach in a hammock and visited most of Europe’s impressive galleries and major museums. She’d learnt to accept challenges and welcome opportunities. At first she did so imagining that one day she’d tell Dean all about her adventures and prove some point or other to him, but as the years passed, she simply got into the habit of relishing opportunities and new experiences in their own right. She allowed the longing for Dean to fade, but she retained the lessons he’d taught her.
Falling in love with Andy, a non-identical twin with an unreliable income but a great sense of humour, was one such opportunity, and becoming a mother was her most profound and significant experience. Jo loved being a mother and a wife as much as she’d always hoped she would, and she loved the fact that her work was flexible enough to allow her to maintain a career too. Last year she’d planted a cherry tree in her small but well-kept garden, she regularly peeled apples and maintained one continuous strip of peel, she’d visited the Ice Hotel and she’d eaten macaroons at Ladurée in Paris, even though Dean had never allowed that to go on her official list.
Jo owed Dean a great deal. They had not managed to be together for ever, but he was always with her. As she made this mental tally, she prepared herself to hear about his no doubt glittering life. She wondered whether his wife would be a blonde or a brunette.
‘So how is he?’
‘He’s dead, Jo.’ Zoe reached out and squeezed her new friend’s arm. ‘Are you …’ She paused. ‘Do you happen to be Jo Russell?’
Jo could not speak. The world had ground to a slow, painful halt, no longer able to orbit without him. She had stopped breathing, unable to find oxygen in the air now she knew he was no longer doing so. Her heart pounded against her ribs and the beat ricocheted through her entire body. She could feel it thumping behind her eyes, in her ears, in her nostrils. Deep, deep low between her legs, where she’d always felt him and always would. She could taste metal in her mouth. She could not focus.
She’d heard Zoe’s words, she’d understood them, but they could not be. They were so very, very wrong. Dean was the most alive person she had ever known. He’d taught her to live. It was impossible that he was dead. He was immortal. Zoe’s words just didn’t make sense. They circled Jo like flies but she couldn’t bat them away, nor could she catch them to try to order them and understand them. They ducked and dodged the part of her brain that should be able to process them, yet at the same moment she knew they were permanently tattooed on to her heart.
‘Do you happen to be Jo Russell?’ Zoe asked again.
Jo nodded. ‘Yes. Well, I was. Jo Doyle now. Married name. I changed, not for work but for everything …’ She trailed off. She didn’t know how her mouth was managing to relay these ordinary facts. How could ordinary facts be, when he no longer was?
‘Oh Jo, he was coming to you. He crashed his car. He swerved to miss a kid who was chasing a football into the road …’
Zoe broke off. Although she had told this story hundreds of times, she still found it unbearable. Jo wished she’d stop altogether. She didn’t want to hear it. Why was she in this park today of all days? Why were they both on this bench? If Zoe had picked a different park, then Jo would not know this awfulness. If Zoe had even sat further away, or if little Dean had not swung so high and she hadn’t had to call out his name, then they’d never have started to chat. Jo didn’t want to hear; hard as it was for Zoe to say, she had the feeling that it would be much
more bloody to listen to. Jo wanted to shush Zoe, put her finger over her ears or, more desperately, gag Zoe. Jo swayed. She was sitting down, so she had nowhere to fall, and yet she felt she was slipping. Down, down, down.
Zoe’s lips moved. Jo studied them, but she didn’t know that Zoe was asking her if she was all right. Whether she’d like some water. Zoe scrabbled around in her bag for a second time that afternoon and produced a plastic bottle of mineral water. Jo took it from her but couldn’t remember how to open bottles. How to drink. The bottle rolled off her lap and on to the dusty ground. Zoe’s eyes oozed concern.
‘He ended up with the car wrapped around a lamp post. He’d sat in traffic for ages, apparently. Taken some back streets. He was going a little fast; wasn’t he always? They told me it was instantaneous.’ Zoe sighed and looked doubtful. Jo wondered how many nights this sister must have agonised over that detail. Was it fast, or did he suffer? Please God, not that.
Jo’s head imploded. She felt it deflate and then fall down her neck, causing a severe pain in her spine. It was right that she should implode, dissolve, disappear altogether, because he had. Even though she and Dean had not spoken for years, she had always lived bigger because she’d thought he was somewhere on the planet, sharing the sky and the sun and the moon with her. Now she was in danger of splintering, cracking, vanishing.
‘I’m so sorry, Jo. We didn’t know where to find you.’ Zoe’s voice was gentle and even. Jo hated her voice because of the things it was revealing, but she also loved it because Dean had listened to it over and over again. By being next to Zoe, she felt somehow closer to Dean, even though this was their final goodbye. ‘We called all the contacts in his phone, but it took a few days, and by the time we called you, your number was out of use.’
