by Sara Barnard
‘Are you back with me?’ Mum asks, and I start in surprise.
‘Am I what?’
‘Do I have your full attention?’ She’s smiling, so I know she’s not actually having a go at me, but I still feel a flicker of irritation. It’s not like she’s earned the right to be teasing me about being on my phone, is it?
And, excuse me, when have I ever really had her full attention?
I nod, though. I even apologize. It’s like I don’t even know myself when I’m around her; like she turns me into someone else.
‘How are Caddy and Kel handling being long-distance?’ she asks. It’s strange hearing their names from her mouth.
‘Pretty good,’ I say. ‘Or, as good as anyone can, I guess?’
She nods. ‘That’s good. And how about you?’ She says this cautiously, like she’s not sure she’s allowed. ‘Are you seeing anyone?’
I can’t help smiling. The question is so ridiculous and she doesn’t know me at all. ‘Nope.’
‘Oh.’ She’s disappointed. ‘You know, I was about your age when I met your dad.’
Which one? I almost say. Almost. ‘Yeah, I know.’
‘I want happiness for you.’ She says it so simply, half her attention on the finger sandwich she’s biting into.
I don’t say, Do you? I don’t say, Maybe you should have thought of that earlier. ‘I’m doing OK.’
‘Good,’ she says. ‘I’m glad.’
‘I’ve started seeing a counsellor,’ I say. ‘And that will help a lot, I think.’
I mean this to be a positive thing, but her face falls. ‘Oh, Suzie,’ she says. ‘Do you need a counsellor? Why?’
‘Just to …’ I try to find the right words. ‘To help keep me steady.’
‘I see,’ she says. She finishes the sandwich and brushes her fingers lightly against her skirt. ‘So more looking back, not forward?’
I cram a sandwich into my mouth without even looking at what it is, just so I don’t have to say anything.
‘Suzie,’ she says, and she sighs. ‘I worry sometimes about how much you’ve let this affect you.’ Her fingers curl around her teacup. ‘All of this … therapy, and needing counselling and things. It’s quite a lot, isn’t it?’
My heart stills, like it’s bracing itself. ‘What do you mean? I’ve got …’ I mean to say ‘complex-PTSD’, but I can’t quite form the words, not to her, not out loud. ‘Well, I need it. To help me.’
‘It’s good that it’s helping,’ she says. ‘I didn’t mean any of the help is bad. I’m glad for all of it, of course. What I mean is, I wonder if maybe you’ve … built it up a bit, in your head. It all seems quite dramatic, really. I know you had a bit of a hard time with us, sometimes. But it wasn’t some great trauma, was it?’
I have no idea what to say. The words are crawling into my head, I can feel them. Nestling in, making themselves comfortable.
I think about all the things I’ve read about abuse since I left home and felt safe enough to do it. The study that showed how the brains of children who grow up in violent homes actually change. They physically change. The article that used the phrase ‘growing up scared’. How the first time I read those three words, I felt like I’d unlocked a shutter over a window I hadn’t even known was there.
I want to tell her about these things. I want to tell her so badly, but the words won’t come.
‘Darling, I’m sorry,’ she says, and her hand reaches across the small table to close gently around mine. ‘I’ve upset you. I didn’t mean to do that.’
I take my hand back. ‘I’m fine.’ I shouldn’t need to tell her any of these things, should I? She should already know. She should want to know.
When I lived with Christie and Don in Southampton, I’d wandered into Don’s study once and browsed his bookshelves. He had a whole wall of them; literally an entire wall. I’d been trying to count the books when I saw them. A shelf full of books about kids like me and how to help them. Building self-esteem in young people, understanding complex-PTSD, supporting children in care, attachment theories and adolescence … There were so many books. I asked him if he’d read them all and he’d smiled in surprise. ‘Of course I have, Suze.’ It wasn’t just a yes for him; it was an of course.
‘I just want you to be happy,’ Mum says. ‘And I worry that you’re not.’
What am I supposed to say to that? OK, you’re right. I’ll just suddenly be happy. ‘You could be a bit more understanding,’ I say. ‘Just a little bit.’
Her face tightens. She’s offended. Great. ‘This may come as a surprise to you,’ she says quietly. ‘But I’m doing the best I can.’
I look at her across the table. My distant, tired mother. I try to summon anger, but I can’t feel anything but sad for her.
Time to change the subject. ‘How’s Reading?’ I ask, reaching for a scone and a knife.
‘Oh, much the same,’ she says, visibly relaxing. ‘I’ve joined a knitting club, did you know?’
‘That’s cool,’ I say. She must be in a social phase; that explains her coming all the way down here to see me, birthday or otherwise. She gets like this every few years, wanting to be more active, seeing more people. Maybe it’ll last this time.
‘They’re a lovely group of people,’ she says. ‘Mostly women, and I’m not even the youngest one there! I could make you something, Suzie. A blanket, maybe?’
I’m touched, even as I don’t want to be so easily softened by her. ‘You don’t have to do that.’
‘Do you remember your Bubba?’ she asks.
‘My what?’ I say, thrown.
‘The little elephant toy you used to take everywhere with you. You called him Bubba. You don’t remember?’ When I shake my head, she says, ‘Well, I suppose you were awfully young. Anyway, I knitted him for you while I was pregnant.’ She sighs. ‘That was such a long time ago.’ This story is so at odds with every memory I have of my childhood that I want to ask more about it, but she’s already moving on. ‘It’s nice to be knitting again, and to be getting out of the house more. Actually, speaking of the house, your father and I are thinking of moving.’
I almost drop my knife.
‘It’s a big old house for just two people. So much space to fill. It seems like a good time to downsize.’
‘Are you going to leave Reading?’
‘Possibly. It’s very early days.’ She smiles at me. ‘I’ll keep you updated, don’t worry.’
A thought comes into my mind that it would be pretty cool if they didn’t keep me updated. If they moved and never told me the new address, and I just didn’t know where they lived. How freeing that would be. Wait, that’s a weird thought that doesn’t even make sense. I shake it off.
We avoid any more sensitive topics as we make our way through the tiers, instead making pointless small talk about Brighton, the weather, the furnishings in the hotel. It makes me wonder what she expected from this outing; what she expected from me. Does she wish I was someone else, as much as I wish she was someone else? Do I disappoint her as much as she disappoints me? The thought is painful. I tell her that I like her earrings to compensate, and she smiles as if it’s the nicest thing I’ve ever said to her.
By the time we’ve reached the top tier and are both clearly sick of eating bite-sized treats, all I want to do is go home and sleep. We’ve stopped trying to pretend we have anything to say to each other and every second drags.
‘Ladies!’ It’s Daniel the waiter, thank God. ‘Are we all done?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ Mum says, sitting up. I hadn’t even noticed that she’d been sinking. ‘Would I be able to get a box to take this candyfloss home?’ she asks, pointing at the little puffs of candyfloss still in their cups.
‘Sure, no problem,’ Daniel says cheerfully.
‘For your dad,’ Mum says to me, smiling an affectionate, genuine smile. ‘You know him and his sweet tooth.’
The candyfloss will probably have hardened by the time she gets back to Reading, and even if
it hasn’t, there’s not much of it. Barely a handful of garish blue and pink spun sugar. And yet she’ll take it for him without a second thought, because she loves him. The way she points at the candyfloss; that smile on her face. But he hurt me, I want to say.
‘Oh, and can you pack up anything else that’s left into a separate box?’ Mum adds. ‘For my daughter to take home. And if there are any of those macarons going spare, put them in, too.’
Daniel grins and gives her a cheesy, but nonetheless sweet, wink. ‘Absolutely,’ he says.
And I just smile and try not to cry, because this is her trying. This is her knowing I like macarons. This is her wanting me to have a box of treats to take home. This is the love she can manage for me.
‘Shall I drop you off home?’ Mum asks me when we’re standing outside. The cool air feels good against my skin.
‘No, I’ll be OK walking,’ I say.
Her face falls a little, which makes no sense. It’s not like she can really want to spend more alone time with me.
‘Have a good trip back,’ I say, turning to head towards the beach. I need to see the sea. ‘See you … um. Soon?’
‘Suzie,’ Mum says. For one awful second, I think she’s going to cry, which throws me so much, I don’t know what to do with myself. I turn back towards her, awkward and stilted, waiting for a cue. She lifts a hand and touches my face, just gently. ‘Happy birthday, darling.’
‘Thanks,’ I say softly. Can I go now? Please let me go.
‘Bye then,’ she says.
I wait until she’s gone before I let myself cry.
18
‘Thunderclouds’ (feat. Sia, Diplo & Labrinth)
LSD
It takes me another week before I can sort out my shifts so I can visit Caddy in a three-days/two-nights block. She’s there at the station to meet me, wearing a University of Warwick hoodie and a huge beam. When I come through the ticket barriers, she leaps forward and throws her arms around me.
‘Oh my God,’ she says, voice loud in my ear. ‘I’m so happy to see you.’ She seems like she really means it, too.
We get the bus to the university and she leads me to her halls, which are by a lake and are much, much nicer than I’d expected them to be. There are eight people in her flat and most of them are in the kitchen when I arrive, right in the middle of a loud argument about … I have no idea. Caddy, who’d opened the door with a wide smile, swings it closed again and shakes her head at me.
‘Later,’ she says.
‘What was that about?’
‘Cleaning. It’s always about cleaning. The guys are such slobs and it makes Tess really mad. Come see my room instead. I figured we could chill tonight, get some food, maybe go to the bar for a bit? There’s a club night on campus tomorrow, if you’re up for it?’ When I nod, she grins. ‘I thought so. One sec.’ She fiddles with the door handle until it finally gives. ‘Come in!’
The room is pretty small and I can take it all in at a glance, but I take my time anyway because I know that’s what she wants, looking around with a smile. ‘It’s nice,’ I say. ‘Do you like it?’
‘Yeah, I love it. It’s mine, you know?’
I don’t really know, because it’s not hers, she’s just one more in a line of students who’ll sleep in that bed and work at that desk, but I nod anyway. ‘And what about everything else? You’re still loving it?’
‘Oh, yeah.’ She looks so happy. She’s shining with it. ‘It’s great. Hard sometimes, and the work is tough, but it’s all worth it, and I love my flatmates. We spend most of our time together. Last week we went to an escape room and Owen – you’ll meet Owen – smashed a vase by mistake because he thought it was part of the game, but it was actually decoration.’ She laughs and I smile obediently. ‘They made him pay for it.’
‘Do you have a lot of it?’
‘What?’
‘Time. What about lectures and seminars and stuff?’
‘They’re only a few hours overall. But there’s reading, too. A lot of it. And essays. That does actually take up a lot of time. And I’ve got my job, too.’ Seeing my face, she adds, ‘At the juice bar.’
‘You got a job and you didn’t tell me?’
Something in her face tightens. When she replies, there’s an unCaddy-esque edge to her voice. ‘No, Suze. I got a job and I did tell you.’
Oh, shit. She did tell me, didn’t she? Weeks ago. ‘Oh yeah,’ I say, trying to think of a way to dig myself out of an awkward hole. ‘Um. Sorry.’
Caddy just looks at me, her eyes travelling over my face like she’s searching for something.
‘You must’ve told me during all the Kacie-Leigh stuff,’ I say. ‘Things didn’t really stick then. I’m sorry.’
She’s blank. ‘Kacie who?’
‘There was—’ I immediately change my mind and stop. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m just sorry, OK? I’m crap.’
She closes her eyes for a second, mouth open like she’s going to say something, but instead she shakes her head, closes her mouth and turns away from me. ‘Fine,’ she says.
It’s not fine. It’s so obviously not fine. ‘Yell at me,’ I say. ‘Be mad.’
‘I’m clearly not going to yell at you,’ she says, rolling her eyes. ‘You know I won’t, so don’t say that.’
‘Maybe you should, though,’ I say. ‘Here, like …’ I put on a voice, an exaggerated Caddy. ‘Oh my God, Suze, you’re the worst. I listen to all your crappy problems, all the time, and the one time I tell you something about my life, you don’t even listen.’
A small, reluctant smile twitches on her face. ‘Is that your attempt at a southern accent? It’s terrible.’
‘Is that southern? I was just doing you.’
She mimics me. ‘I was just doing you.’ The accent is so spot on, her version of me so accurate, that I laugh in surprise.
‘You should probably have your conversations with that version of me,’ I say. ‘Much more reliable.’
‘True,’ she says. ‘Maybe I should.’
I lean over and put my arms around her shoulders, squeezing tight. ‘Then you couldn’t have this, though.’
‘You can’t cute your way into me being OK with you forgetting vital information about my life,’ she says, but she’s warm again, teasing, the two of us back on safe ground.
That’s the only time we’re alone together for the rest of the day. She takes me back into the kitchen and introduces me to her flatmates, taking her time over Owen – ‘The vase guy,’ I say, and he grins, like he’s proud – and Tess, a tall, thin drama student who hugs me and says, ‘I’ve heard so much about you!’ in a voice that puts my back up, though I’m not sure exactly why.
All eight of them and me hang out in the kitchen for the next couple of hours and I listen to their stories tumbling out over each other with overlaps and crossovers about buildings I don’t know and lecturers I’ve never heard of and people who mean nothing to me. I laugh and smile and make jokes. I go full-on Suze and pretend to myself that I’m not intimidated by this world, even when they ask me normal questions like what A levels I have, where I went to school, what my parents do, and it hurts more than it should. I’m not ashamed of where I am in my life. I might not have the usual trappings of a nineteen-year-old but I’ve survived things that felt impossible, and that matters a lot more than what’s on my CV.
But still. It hurts.
I’m expecting to have dinner with just Caddy, but six of her flatmates come along as well and I have no choice but to go with it. She stays close and affectionate, especially when we all start drinking, but it’s still not possible to talk properly with her, not about anything important, not with everyone else around.
The next morning Caddy has a lecture at nine, so I stay in her room until she gets back, looking through her stack of course texts and essays and amusing myself by trying to read them. She has a photo collage up on a cork board and I examine it, this visualization of her life. There I am, sitting on a bench on Brighton Pie
r with her and Rosie, posing as the no-evils. The two of us on the beach at night, hair blown by the wind. All three of us again at her eighteenth. But that’s it. Just three pictures. I look around and try to count the number of her with Rosie, but I can’t. There are too many. Them as tiny six-year-olds, beaming ten-year-olds, awkward thirteen-year-olds. They grow up together in the pictures, like they belong together, like they always will.
You were the one who left, I remind myself, and that’s when the door opens and Caddy comes in, already smiling, lifting her canvas bag up over her shoulder and dropping it on the bed.
‘Hey!’ she says. ‘God, that was dull. I should’ve just skipped it. Want to go get some breakfast or something?’
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Your photos are great.’
She glances at the cork board. ‘Yeah? I think it needs more you.’ I can’t stop my face breaking into a pleased beam and she laughs. ‘Come on. We’ll take loads of pictures today, OK?’
We get bacon rolls at a cafe on campus and she shows me around, talking happily about why she chose Warwick, how it is and isn’t what she expected, how she and Tess are already talking about living together in their second year. I finally admit that I don’t know what linguistics is and she explains it in sweet, patient detail.
Later, when we’re back at her flat getting ready to go out, I spend an hour on her hair and make-up, talking her through every step of the process. She’s giddy and happy, examining her face in the mirror when I’m done, turning to me with her arms open for a hug.
‘You’re the best,’ she says. ‘Thank you.’
‘Be honest,’ I say, screwing the cap on the mascara and pushing it back into her make-up bag. ‘This is why you invited me, right? My face-making skills?’
She grins. Her eyes are bigger, sparklier, more striking. ‘Also, I love you,’ she says. She hugs me again.
The feeling doesn’t last, though. When we go into the kitchen for a few drinks before we head out, it’s all I can do to stay beside Caddy, let alone talk to her. Somehow, I end up trailing along behind her on the way to the club, which is a sensation so alien to me, I feel like I’ve forgotten who I am. A crazy part of me wants to turn around and go back to the flat. How long would it even take her to notice?
