by David Jester
“Trust me,” she said. “It will be okay.”
I stared at her for a moment. I saw through the eternal optimism that all mothers are blessed with, and I saw something else. She was assured, almost cocky. “Why do you say that?” I asked suspiciously.
She tapped her nose. “Let’s just say that a mother knows best and leave it at that, shall we?”
I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at that one. She saw me and didn’t look very impressed.
“I’m sorry for not having much faith in you—”
“And so you should be,” she cut in.
“But,” I said firmly, continuing, “this seems like a lost cause and I’m not sure there’s anything you can do to help. I’m sure you would if you could but …” I trailed off and finished with a hopeless shrug. There was something comforting about opening up in front of my mother, because I knew that the more hopeless and pathetic I looked and sounded, the more she would try to convince me that that wasn’t the case. And I needed all of the cheering up I could get.
“Don’t be so down on yourself,” she said, taking me by surprise with her lack of sympathy and pity cuddles.
“You seem very upbeat about this.”
She grinned and shrugged. She looked like she had something that she was itching to tell me and yet was refusing to talk about at the same time.
“What is it?” I asked, feeling very curious. “What’s going on?”
“As I said.” She tapped her nose again. “Mother knows best, let’s leave it at that.”
I turned to my father, allowing him to see the bemused look on my face. He averted his eyes from the television. “What she means is that this is all part of her game,” he said, before turning back to the game and leaving my mother’s eyes to burn holes in the back of his head.
“What’s he talking about?” I asked her.
“It was a setup,” he said, this time not looking away. “The psychiatrist—your mother planned it all.”
“I don’t understand. What’s going on?”
She sighed, slapped her hands on her thighs, and then began with a long and drawn out, “Welllll,” which usually indicated that she had been up to no good. “You know that Lizzie works in the hospital, the one where you … you know.”
“Yes, mother, I remember.”
“Well, I happen to know that she happens to know a few psychiatrists that work at the clinic where I took you today.” She had been staring into her lap, but now she raised her eyes to mine. “Including the one you saw.”
It took a moment to sink in, but when it did, and when I saw through my mother’s mischievous smile, I asked, “You got me an appointment with one of Lizzie’s friends?”
She nodded. “Genius, eh?”
“What?” I said, struggling to believe what I was hearing. “No, no it’s not. Don’t you think Lizzie will get suspicious? She’ll think I’m up to something, she’ll—”
She held up a hand to silence me. “All sorted, dear.”
“Excuse me?”
“You see, I phoned up in advance, several times actually, to book fake appointments under fake names.”
“She even did the voices,” Dad chimed in.
I turned to look at my father who was still engrossed in the soccer game, and then turned back to my mother, unable to suppress a smile when I saw that she was nodding happily, incredibly proud of herself.
“I found out what days her friend would be working by herself, and what time slots she had free. Then I phoned up for you on one of those days, pretending that it was an emergency appointment and saying we would take anyone who was available. You see, there are ten other doctors there, and as far as I know, Lizzie doesn’t know any of them. They’ll think of it as nothing more than coincidence.”
My mouth was open by the time she finished. I struggled to come to terms with my mother being so devious and so smart.
“And thanks to my actions at the clinic, and no doubt what you told the doctor, they’ll think it was all my idea. Just some crazy, overprotective mother who went too far.” She finished with a smile. The last time I had seen her looking so pleased for herself was when they announced that she had won the pub quiz, which was right before they announced that they were reading the list from back to front.
“But … I never knew, I mean, I’ve never even heard of her. How did you know?”
“I listen,” she said. “And as she’s your wife, it would pay you to listen to her as well once in a while.”
I nodded. “Fair enough.”
“So,” she said, shifting in her seat and looking like she was ready to be hoisted on my shoulders as I sang her praises. “What do you think?”
I didn’t reply. I stood up, planted my hands on her cheeks, and then landed a big kiss on her forehead. “I think you’re a fucking genius.”
“Language!” she said, her face instantly changing one way and then the other. “But I’m glad you think so.”
The next few days were hard, because with each passing hour I began to believe that my mother’s plan, and my only chance at redemption, was slipping further and further away. I had all but given up when my chance finally came.
I was upstairs at the time, wallowing in my own misery. I heard the doorbell ring and thought nothing of it until my mother raced up to my room, threw open the door, and then whispered, “It’s for you.” She’d made an obscene amount of noise to get there, and as she stood in front of be, smiling proudly, I wondered why she hadn’t just shouted in the first place.
“Who is it?”
“It’s—”
“Stop whispering.”
“Sorry, it’s Lizzie.”
That was enough to get my attention, and I nearly tripped over myself as I raced out of my bedroom and down the stairs, slowing my pace and keeping my cool as I hit the bottom. I tried my best to look as nonchalant as was possible for a breathless man who had seemingly been sleeping on a pile of Lego bricks to look.
Lizzie and Ben were in the living room talking to my dad, or doing my father’s version of a conversation, which was to say hello, make a joke, squeeze his grandchild’s face, and then sit down and read the newspaper.
I spoke to Lizzie first, but in my excitement I wanted to pick up both of them, to squeeze them, to apologize.
“We need to talk,” Lizzie said.
“It’s okay, you can leave the baby with me,” my father offered politely. “Why are you staring at me like that? I’m being serious.” He glared at us for a moment longer. “Seriously,” he pushed, “stop it. I’m beginning to take offense.”
I took Lizzie gently by the arm and felt like doing a little jig when she didn’t push me away. “Come on, he’s fine, my mother will be down in a minute.”
“Charming!” I heard my dad say as I took Lizzie into the dining room.
My heart was beating like crazy as I tried to read every half-smile, every movement, every time she played with her hair, looked at me, or looked away. “Listen, Kieran, I know what really happened,” she said eventually.
“And by that you mean what really really happened, or what you think really happened?”
“What really really happened,” she said, before adding, “at least I think that’s what I mean.”
I nodded and then changed my mind. “I’m lost.”
She laughed softly, “Okay, maybe this will help.” She leaned forward and kissed me. I probably tasted like dirt, a cross between stale Cheetos, ice cream, and armpits, but she didn’t mind. She kissed me like she had kissed me the first time we fell in love, when life was easier, simpler, much more exciting, and much less scary. She kissed me like she did on our wedding day, when we had our whole lives ahead of us and I had yet to risk everything by sleeping with her promiscuous cousin while Gary Barlow watched from all angles. It felt like our first kiss, and once it was over I was no longer worried that it would be our last.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
“But why the sudden change of heart?”
>
She shrugged. “It’s a long story.”
I nodded. Not only was it a long story but it involved breaking patient-doctor confidentiality. She didn’t want to admit the truth because she didn’t want to expose her friend as being unprofessional. I didn’t want to admit the truth to expose my mother as being right. Neither of us would live it down, so instead there was a general air of vague acceptance.
“So, you’ll take me back?”
She nodded. “I was never happy about leaving you in the first place. The house seemed empty without you. No one there to make a mess and not clean up.”
“Well, there’s Ben.”
She nodded. “Good point … He’s lost without you. Refusing to eat, pouring perfume into the fish tank, peeing on the floor.”
“I promise to never do any of that ever again.”
She grinned and shoved me lightly. “I was talking about Ben, but you’re right, like father like son, I guess. I really am sorry. For everything. For not believing you and taking the word of my bitch cousin, for humiliating you like that, for—”
“It’s okay,” I jumped in. “You caught me in bed with a family member, inches and seconds away from—” I paused when I saw the flame reigniting in her eyes. “But like I said, I forgive you.”
She laughed and shook her head. As she did so, Ben crawled into the dining room and sat in between us both. We both looked down at him and he giggled up at us.
“Dad,” I called into the next room, keeping an eye on Ben. “Is Ben okay?”
He replied without hesitation. “Yep, he’s—” I heard him shuffle his newspaper, lowering it to peek over the top. I then heard him clear his throat, panic setting in. “He’s … ermm.”
“It’s okay, he’s here,” Lizzie said, sparing his blushes.
“Well …” The paper ruffled again as he sat back down and righted himself. “That’s okay then.”
I picked up Ben. He hadn’t seen me for a few weeks, but he wasn’t in the mood for reconciliation and tried to wriggle free as soon as he was in my arms, seemingly more interested in a collection of ornaments on the table beside me. “And what about your parents?”
Lizzie shrugged. “None of their business.”
I put Ben down and he soon forgot about the ornaments, choosing to aim his curiosity elsewhere. “What did your mother say about the phone call?”
“What do you expect? She said you were a horrible, disgusting little man and she was glad I had finally seen sense and gotten rid of you.”
I giggled, sounding a little more sinister than I had hoped. Lizzie raised an eyebrow and I immediately apologized.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I’m actually looking forward to bumping into her again. All throughout this, she has staunchly defended Laura. She has spent the better part of a decade calling her a slut, and now she hasn’t got a bad word to say about her. She’s practically a nun.”
“She’s definitely not a nun,” I said. “I can tell you that much.”
Lizzie put her hands on her hips. “This is not going to work if you keep reminding me how close you were to sleeping with my cousin.”
“You’re right.” I nodded. “I’ll stop.”
I picked up Ben again, held him tighter than I had ever held him. “I missed you so much, little dude.”
Lizzie smiled at us, content that we were back together, clearly missing the image of father and son in her household. “You missed him more than you know,” she said. “He spoke his first word while you were away.”
The delight that had gripped my face burst like an overinflated balloon. “Oh,” I said, physically sinking as I stared at my son. A smile curled the corner of my lips when I noticed that he was grinning at me and trying to lick my forehead like an affectionate cat. “And what was it?”
Lizzie looked momentarily embarrassed, so much so that she turned away, unable to look me in the eye. “Well, about that,” she said slowly. “It was a little more than just one word and, well, I can only apologize.”
I lowered Ben, resting him on the floor as he tried, and failed, to stand upright. He fell on his backside, giggled, and then began playing with my shoe, finding contentment in whatever was right in front of him as always.
“Well, that’s the thing,” she said. “It wasn’t a one-time thing, he’s said it again. In fact—” She bent down and tried to get his attention. When he finally looked up at her, he had my shoelaces in his mouth and an expression on his face that said, find your own food, this is mine.
“Ben, sweetie, are you going to speak for mummy?”
She grinned. Ben spat out the laces and returned her grin. When he opened his mouth, I held my breath, only to breathe again when he vomited on my shoes.
“If that’s it, then I’ve heard it before.”
She frowned at me before using a baby wipe to clean my shoes.
Baby wipes are amazing things. They clean things up quickly and without a trace, barring the eternal smell of stale vomit that never goes away but is generally accepted as a fact of life by everyone who has kids.
She picked up Ben and then gave him to me, pointing his face, and the deadly weapon that was his mouth, directly at me. He grinned and I tilted my head back, doing my best to stay out of projectile range.
“Speak for mummy,” she said again.
Still he said nothing; he didn’t even look at her. She sighed and seemed to prepare for the inevitable. “Okay then, Ben, but you’ll speak for Daddy, won’t you?”
That seemed to hit a nerve, and I could sense that something was happening inside his little head. His smile vanished and a look of concentration spread over his face, the same look he has when he’s filling his diaper.
“Daddy,” he said.
I gasped. I was so taken aback that I nearly dropped him to raise my hands in celebration. Beside me, Lizzie’s face changed. She didn’t look as happy, and as soon as he said my name, she lowered her head into her hands and groaned. I ignored her, though, because whatever her issue was, I didn’t—
That’s when I realized that he wasn’t finished, that he had more gurgled words to utter. It wasn’t a word, it was a sentence, something he had heard time and time again and was repeating like an obedient parrot. He was grinning from ear to ear when he finished, but by that time, my own grin had vanished, replaced by a look of vacant bewilderment.
What did he just say?
What he said wasn’t worth repeating, but it came suddenly and took me by surprise. So much so that I turned to Lizzie, my mouth open and a question on my lips that the expression on her face answered immediately.
“Did he just—”
“Yes,” she cut in.
“But—”
“I know, I’m sorry.”
I was shell-shocked, but I was dragged out of my trance by my father, who began laughing hysterically in the next room. He had been reading the paper, dead to the world as he usually was, but he had also been eavesdropping and Ben had just made his day. I heard my mother rush out of the kitchen to question him in a panic.
“It’s Ben,” he hissed, doing his best to whisper and failing miserably. “He just called Kieran a fucking idiot.”
I rolled my eyes and turned back to Lizzie, who gave me an apologetic shrug. “That’s my fault.”
“No shit.”
She looked like she was about to correct me for my language but quickly decided against it. “Sorry,” she said.
I turned to Ben, who seemed proud of himself. After a while, with my father still stifling a laugh in the next room, I began to enjoy the funny side of it. To be fair to him, he didn’t know what he was saying, or so I hoped, and at least I was his first word.
Ben laughed with me for a bit and then Lizzie joined in. After a few moments, Ben opened his mouth again, a string of drool hanging from his lips like crystal spaghetti.
“Daddy,” he said.
I nodded, and when he opened his mouth again, preparing to follow it with the words he had heard his mother speak
time and time again, I pressed my finger to his lips.
“Yes,” I told him. “I’m your daddy, and let’s leave it at that.”
Acknowledgments
I wouldn’t be where I am today if not for this series. An Idiot in Love was the first book I published, and because of its success, I was given a chance with a sequel and with several other books. So, thanks to everyone who purchased it the first time around, and indeed everyone reading this book now. I am eternally grateful, because without those sales and that support, An Idiot in Marriage would not have been published.
I would like to thank my partner, Yiota, to whom this book is dedicated. Eleven years ago, she left a life in the Greek sunshine to live with me in miserable, gloomy England. She has been my editor, my designer, my biggest fan, and my sternest critic. She helped me mature both as a person and as a writer, and I can’t thank her enough for that.
I would also like to express my gratitude for everyone involved with the publication and sale of this book, including my editor, Nicole Frail, my agent Peter Beren, my cover designer Lilith_C, my publicist Brianna Scharfenberg, and everyone else at Skyhorse Publishing. They have done a lot of work over the last few years to make all of this happen, and my appreciation grows with each publication.
When you write a book in an autobiographical style, many readers assume you’re writing about yourself. It didn’t help that An Idiot in Love was my first book and that everything in it was apparently very believable, even for the people who knew me (“a feckless idiot who’s hopeless in love? Yeah, it’s probably an autobiography”). The truth is that nothing in that book was taken from my own experiences. But there was one story in An Idiot in Marriage that was—as bizarre as it might seem.
So, to Mickey the Duck, who came into my life by way of my backyard, ate all of my partner’s bread, cost me a fortune in organic seeds, and then flew away never to be seen again, thank you. I hope you and your feathered friend are very happy together.
Staying on the animal theme, I owe a mention to PARRT, an animal charity that does incredible work in my local area. They help countless cats find homes and gave us two adorable kittens—that have now grown into even more adorable cats—named Sheldon and Hugo. Every time I write, I do so with at least one cat on my knee and at least one tail in my face. But no matter how many cat hairs I inadvertently consume, and no matter how many times I wake up to a cat pawing my face, it’s all worth it.
