He nods. ‘OK. I’ll have tests.’
‘Thank you.’
I hurry to my room, where I fling my bag aside, ignore Homer and open my laptop. I google ‘back pain’ and ‘causes’. No mention of cancer, so I change my search. ‘Back pain’ and ‘cancer’. That produces results. ‘See,’ I feel like saying to the Black Horseman. ‘He needs the tests.’
I come back down.
‘How did you slip your disc?’ I ask, watching his expression carefully.
‘Tying my shoe. Can you believe that?’
That’s exactly what I’m wondering, can I believe it? ‘Did he give you painkillers?’
He nods. ‘And Valium to relax the muscles.’
‘Did you take them?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Maybe you should lie down.’
‘He said I’m better off moving around.’
‘Maybe we should change doctor.’ It’s not like he was any good last time.
‘Alex. It’s a disc. I’d put money on it.’
‘How about your life?’
Louis stands at the door of his house. Watching me.
‘What’s up?’ he asks.
‘Nothing.’ I walk past him.
He follows. Sticks his face in mine. ‘No. There’s definitely something. You’re worried.’
‘Louis, the only thing I’m worried about is that you won’t shut up.’
‘Let’s not do it today,’ he says.
‘What?’
‘I’ll make you lunch instead.’
‘Right, I’m going.’ I head for the door.
He laughs. ‘Alright, alright. But I’m going to feel used and dirty.’
I look at him. And he bursts out laughing. I hit him. He grabs me, throws me over his shoulder like he’s some sort of caveman and carries me upstairs. Where I do stop worrying. For a while. I feel like thanking him.
When I get home that evening, my father is sitting at the kitchen table, reading a cookery book. He has it up to his face, and I don’t know whether it’s because he can’t bend over the book or because he’s going blind. He’s wearing blackout shades – indoors – so the blind theory isn’t all that crazy. He’s also wearing grey tracksuit bottoms, a navy hoodie and flip-flops (in January). He’s also got serious 5 o’clock shadow.
‘Who’s the new stylist?’ I ask, dropping my bag and heading for the fridge.
‘My back.’
I turn. ‘What?’
‘Nothing else is comfortable. And I can’t bend to tie laces.’
‘So, explain the shades.’
‘I always wear shades.’
‘Yeah, but you can usually see your eyes through them. You look like a mobster.’
He puts a hand to them. ‘The shades are staying.’
He gets up from the chair, grimacing as he straightens, placing a hand on his lower back.
I frown. ‘Have you had the tests yet?’
He looks guilty. ‘They take a while to set up.’
‘Have you set them up?’
‘On my list.’
I give him a look.
‘OK. First thing tomorrow. Promise.’ He makes his way to the island, walking like an old man. ‘So, what would you like for dinner?’
‘Get Barbara back. Seriously, look at you. You can’t even bend down.’
He holds the counter, slowly squats down, bending at his knees, keeping his back straight.
‘Voilà,’ he says.
I shake my head. And go upstairs to my computer. There must be better advice on back pain than ‘keep moving’.
In the morning, he still hasn’t shaved. He looks seriously grizzly.
I make no comment. Just eat the porridge he insisted on making me.
‘Why don’t I drive you to work today?’ he asks.
I look up, surprised. ‘Why? We’ve Mike.’
He eases himself into the chair opposite. ‘When was the last time I dropped you anywhere? I’m your dad. I’m supposed to be giving you lifts. And moaning about it.’ He smiles.
‘What about the album?’
‘What about it?’
‘Don’t you have to work on it?’
‘The album’ll get done.’ He takes a spoon of porridge, lifting it all the way to his mouth rather than leaning towards it.
I look at him incredulously.
‘So, am I dropping you off?’ he asks.
I shrug. ‘Alright, then.’
‘Great!’ he says, like he’s just topped the charts.
He grimaces getting into the car.
‘This isn’t good for your back, is it?’ I ask.
‘Honestly?’
‘Honestly.’
‘No. It’s terrible.’ He chuckles.
‘I’ll go get Mike.’
‘No. I’m in now. I’ll let Mike collect you.’ Pain crosses his face when he presses on the clutch.
‘Dad!’
‘I’m fine.’
‘OK, just so you know,’ I warn him. ‘The first question I’ll ask when I get in is about the tests.’
‘OK, Boss.’
Louis lies on his side, looking at me.
‘You’re beautiful, you know that?’
I turn slowly. ‘You’d better not mean anything by that.’
He laughs. ‘What? So I can’t give you a compliment?’
‘No.’
‘OK, then, you’re pig ugly.’
‘That’s better.’ He laughs.
TWENTY-NINE | SMALL, HAIRY ANIMAL
I can’t believe how fast his hair grows. I can detect four colours in his beard now: red, grey, brown and black. Picture that with flip-flops, trackie bottoms and shades. I try to be kind.
‘The beard has to go, Dad.’
‘It’s not a beard.’
‘Then what is it, a small, hairy animal? Beards are so not in right now. At least, that kind of beard.’
He looks up from chopping vegetables. ‘It’s not a fashion statement.’
‘That’s for sure.’
‘If anything, it’s an anti-fashion statement.’
‘Okaaay,’ I say. ‘And that would be great if you didn’t look like Steve Carell in Evan Almighty. Seriously, with the flip-flops. All you’re missing’s the robe.’
‘A robe?’ he says, like it’s an ingenious idea.
‘OK. Just get rid of the shades. Seriously, Dad. You’re not a rapper.’
He smiles. ‘Can’t a man try something new?’
‘The flip-flops are new. The facial hair is new. Just leave the shades, OK?’
He just smiles.
‘OK. Suit yourself,’ I say casually. I lean forward to steal from his chopping board. ‘What you cooking?’
‘Stir-fry.’
‘Want a hand?’
He hands me a knife, but instead of taking it, I whip off the shades. ‘See, you don’t need –’ I start to say, but never get to finish. His eyes are red. Seriously red. And swollen. Like he’s been crying. Which couldn’t be right. He doesn’t do crying. I should know.
‘Are you OK?’
He snaps the shades back on and smiles. ‘Onions!’
I look down. ‘Spring onions?’
He ignores that.
I look at him closely. ‘Did you set up those tests?’
‘Yep.’ He says it too lightly.
‘For when?’
‘Tomorrow.’
I try to stare him down. But end up staring at my reflection in his shades.
‘Tomorrow, I promise.’
Next day, soon as I get home, I ask what the X-ray showed.
‘Slipped disc.’
‘Just a slipped disc?’
‘Just a slipped disc.’
‘Can I see it?’
‘What, the X-ray?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I don’t have it.’
‘Where is it?’
‘I don’t know. I think I might have left it in the hospital.’
‘Dad!’ God.
‘It’s t
he Valium. It’s making me stupid.’
‘You’ll have to ring them. You’re supposed to keep the X- rays.’ Doesn’t he remember anything? Then again, he wasn’t around.
‘OK,’ he says. ‘I’ll ring them.’
‘When?’
‘First thing.’
‘OK. Because I want to see them.’
I’ve compiled a pretty decent file on back pain and slipped discs. He needs a hardboard under his mattress. He needs to go for walks. Swimming is good. But not all types of stroke. I’ve a printout of all the different gadgets that could help: a special car seat, a roll to support his lower back, a type of belt that releases heat. When he’s over the worst, Pilates could help strengthen the muscles that support the spine. I collect up the sheets and slot them into the folder. I head downstairs.
The one time I want to find him, I can’t. I check the kitchen first (which shows how much things have changed around here). I try the office and the basement and am glad to find them deserted. I go outside because he’s been wandering around the garden on his own a lot lately. It’s only when I’m out here, freezing, that I see him – inside. He’s getting into the pool, climbing down slowly, like each step causes huge pain. The door to the pool is locked in winter so I have to go back in through the house.
When I reach the pool, he has managed to get in. He’s standing waist-deep, his back to me. I’m about to call out, when I realise something’s not right. He’s shaking. His whole body is shaking. Then, he drops his head into his hands. A loud sob echoes off the tiled walls. Oh my God. He’s crying – my father, who never cries, who doesn’t know how. I back away, my mind playing catch-up. He lied about the tests. This is more than ‘just’ his back. He’s hiding behind shades – because he doesn’t want me to know. He’s stopped shaving – because what’s the point? He’s being nice to me – because he’s not going to be around.
I run to my room, drop the printout in the bin and sink onto the bed. From somewhere deep inside comes a wail. I pull my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them. But it’s useless. I can’t hold it in. Loud, noisy sobs break free, then I’m crying like my heart is broken. And maybe it is. Down in the pool is the man who gave me piggybacks, taught me to cycle, read me once-upon-a-times. How easily I blocked all that out – so I could hate him. Tears flood my face, an avalanche of salt water – and snot. My body shakes. I hug myself tighter. But just can’t stop.
I don’t know how long I’ve been like this when I hear a quiet knock on the door. I press my lips together. Swipe tears from my face. Wipe my nose with one sleeve and then the other. I say nothing and hope he’ll go away. He knocks again. Then the door slowly opens.
At the sight of my face, I expect him to turn and run. But he doesn’t. He comes in.
‘Alex. What’s wrong? What is it?’ He comes and sits on the edge of the bed. He grimaces, holds his back, then stands again. He turns around to face me, then lowers himself onto his knees, like a child saying his prayers at his bedside.
‘You can take off the shades, now, Dad. I know.’
He looks confused. ‘Know what?’
‘It’s not your back, is it? You’re ill. Seriously ill. And you don’t want me to know.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I saw you in the pool. I’m not stupid. You don’t cry. You never cry. This is it, isn’t it? Tell me. I’m not a kid any more.’ But I feel like a kid. I feel small and vulnerable and in need of comfort. ‘And take off those freaking shades.’
He does, lowering them onto the bed. ‘I’m not sick, Alex. Sometimes, I wish I was.’
‘How can you even say that?’
‘I’m sorry. But if I could swap places with her, I would. Like that.’ He snaps his fingers.
And I feel guilty, because there were times I wished it had been him.
‘You want to know why I’m so upset? Because I failed you both. So incredibly.’
So he’s not dying?
‘I’ve been hiding, Alex, running away.’ What’s he talking about?
‘I couldn’t face it. Any of it. Mum’s pain. The fact that there was nothing I could do to save her. The reality of her being gone.’
This is about Mum?
‘I blocked it out. Pretended it wasn’t happening. Lost myself in work.’ I want to tell him to slow down. Go back. Repeat everything. But I say nothing. Just try to keep up.
‘Every time I looked at you, I saw Mum. I also saw your pain, and I couldn’t handle it. So I kept away. From my own daughter!’
But this isn’t about me. ‘Mum needed you. She loved you so much, and she had to die without you. You could have been there. You should have been.’
He drops his head into his hands. ‘I know. I. Know.’
‘You should have said goodbye.’
He looks at me, like his heart is breaking. ‘I couldn’t, Alex. I couldn’t let her go. She was ready. She accepted it. I couldn’t. And as long as I live, I’ll never forgive myself.’
Good, I think. ‘She needed you. We needed you.’
‘You needed me to be strong. But I couldn’t go into that room and be strong. I couldn’t pretend.’
‘No one wanted you to.’
‘No one wanted me to go in there and beg her not to die, not to leave us, but that’s what I’d have done.’
‘At least it’d have shown you cared.’
He stares at me like I’ve hit him. ‘I cared. God, I cared. Your mother was my life. She was everything. The only one who made sense of my stupid, crazy existence. The only one who really understood me. No one will ever know how much I loved her. And now, I have to face it. She’s gone, and she’s never coming back. I’ll never see her again. Never touch her. Never hold her.’
Welcome to my world, I think as he breaks down.
I imagined this. I wanted it. I thought it was all I wanted. For him to be sorry. For him to cry. But I never imagined how hard it would be to see him so lost without her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, finally. ‘I’ve been the worst dad. But I never stopped loving you, Alex, never stopped caring. That’s why I got the experts, people who knew about grief, who knew how to listen, who knew what to say. To give you what I couldn’t.’
Doesn’t he see? ‘I didn’t want experts. I wanted you. You were all I’d left.’
‘And I’m sorry. So, so sorry. I love you. So much. I always have. I want you to know that.’ He reaches out his hand for mine.
‘I’m tired,’ I say. ‘I need to think.’
He drops his head. ‘OK.’ He leans back and pushes himself into standing position. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says again, and then leaves, looking like a man who has lost everything.
The good thing about dogs is that they’re simple. If they love you, they want to be with you. They wag their tails. Lick you. Jump up. You know where you stand. When Homer comes over and nuzzles me with his wet nose, I don’t send him away.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘For being so mean, for taking it out on you. Tomorrow we’ll go to the beach. You can chase seagulls and bark at the waves. I’m sorry, Homesy.’
I put my arms around him and my head against his neck. I close my eyes and try to adjust to my shifted life. My father’s not dying. He loved my mother. He loves me. He doesn’t know everything. And he’s not always right. There goes gravity – again.
THIRTY | CARROT CAKE
At breakfast, I hand him the printout.
He puts down his spoon. ‘What’s this?’
‘Just some stuff on backs.’
He glances through the pages. Looks up and smiles.
‘Thank you.’ He’s still wearing the glasses. And the beard is getting scary. He slept in their old room last night. I heard him cry. We don’t talk about that. We don’t talk at all.
Mikes drives me to work. It’s my last day there. And while a part of me is kind of sad about that, another part feels it’s time to move on. At lunch, instead of taking the DART to Louis, I find myself walki
ng to the sea. I sit on the wall at Sandycove beach and watch tiny waves wash in and out. I lose myself in their rhythm and think about last night, everything Dad said. I wish I had Mum here now, to tell her that he loved her. But then, she always knew. It was me who raged against him. She who defended. She who told me that it was ‘his way’. I just didn’t believe her. She was fooling herself, I thought, avoiding the truth that he’d moved on. How could she have had so much faith in him? How could she have been so sure? And why couldn’t I be like her? Instead of being like my father: cutting and running.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper to the sea, as if the waves can carry my message around the world to him, to David.
Pat tries to give me money. For a ‘shopping spree’ with my mum.
‘Thank you so much,’ I say, touched. ‘But I can’t take it. We’re not meant to.’
‘I thought you might say that. So, Plan B.’ She hands me a gift-wrapped box. ‘Something small,’ she says.
It’s a matching set. Earrings, necklace, bracelet. And I know exactly how much it costs. ‘It’s too much.’
‘If you don’t take it, I’ll be offended. I mean that.’
I look at her. She’s just so sweet. I wish her daughter spent more time with her.
‘Thank you so much, Pat.’ I actually hug her. What’s getting into me?
When I get home, Streak’s car is outside. My heart sinks. Because my father must be returning to work. But his office is empty. And when I go into the kitchen, I see them in the garden, sitting on the far wall, in the same spot Marsha chose to read her divorce papers. Dad’s head is bent, and Streak’s arm is around him. Suddenly, I want to protect him from this – from the grief, the loss, the pain. But I can’t go back there. I can’t let his grief make mine raw again. So thank you, Streak, for your arm. For your presence beside him. For your ears. And your wisdom in staying quiet and letting him talk.
I turn from the window. I pick up the phone and call Rachel.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
‘You should be. You were a complete bitch.’
‘I know. Sorry.’ It’s not easy to explain. So I quote Mike. ‘I kind of went off the rails there for a while.’
The Butterfly Novels Box Set: Contemporary YA Series (And By The Way; And For Your Information; And Actually) Page 21
