“I’m fine. It’s okay. I was just frightened I’d lost you, that’s all. I’m going to be all right now.”
“Oh…”
“Don’t be sorry. Just close your eyes and fall asleep. I’m not going anywhere.”
I reach for his hand and grasp it tight. “Sam?”
“Yes, kitten.”
“I love you.”
There’s silence. And more shaking. He holds me tighter and I stroke my fingers through the wispy hairs on his forearms.
“I love you very much,” he murmurs, kissing my cheek.
I reach back to dig my hand in his hair and his lips press to my cheek, again and again.
My frozen heart instantaneously burns bright; all it would take is for me to roll over and we’d be toast, writhing in each other’s arms all over again.
I turn my head back slightly and realise he’s not shaking because he’s upset; it’s actually because he’s fighting his urges.
He’s shaking with desire.
His eyelids are heavy even though he’s staring right at me… and his breathing isn’t normal.
With my hand dug into the back of his hair, I bring him down to my lips and the moment he kisses me, I’m reminded what true loyalty and passion tastes like. He cradles my cheek and kisses me softly, passionately. I wish I could dive right into this, get myself good and lost with no way out – but the problem is, he means too much to me. I care a great deal about what happens next.
When he lifts away to look down into my eyes, he’s searching my face, seeking something. It’s then he wipes my tears away, which I never even noticed were falling as he was kissing me.
“My beautiful girl,” he reassures me, before tugging me back against him, lying down with me and encouraging me to sleep.
We lie entwined for quite some time, snuffling and holding hands, all our limbs tangled up. Eventually, though I become impatient for sleep and roll over angrily, flinging myself onto his chest to rest against his body. The teddy gets slung in the process and as I lie listening to the beat of his heart beneath his t-shirt, it’s then I have something other than my own despair to focus on. The rhythm of his body lulls me to sleep and because he has me wrapped so tight in his arms, I begin sinking… falling and falling…
It feels like this perfect embrace is the only thing I shall ever really need.
Chapter Seventeen
AFTER SIX WEEKS OF STALEMATE, my mother finally rings the doorbell. When I find her there, standing on the doorstep, I don’t know what to do – so I walk away while leaving the door open, allowing her to come in if she wants to. She follows me into the kitchen, holding onto the straps of her handbag with both hands, as if it’s imperative for global security that she keeps a tight hold on those bloody things.
“Hetty told you I’d be home alone, didn’t she?”
“She may have.”
I refuse to put the kettle on. I’d be condoning her that way.
“I knew you’d come crawling back, needing your fix of the kids.”
For a few minutes, she says nothing. Maybe I’ve shocked her. In my twenty-four years on earth, I’ve never once backchatted, been nasty or felt bitter towards my mother. For some reason now, I can’t help it. I don’t know why.
“If someone had told me that one day, I would have a daughter like you, I would never have believed them,” she stammers, but I’m not buying this act. It’s repugnant, actually. Why can’t she just be honest with me? “Me and your father have often wondered what we did to deserve you. You arrived so late in our lives. We’d given up on having our own family. It always seemed like a dream.”
“Well, it didn’t feel like a dream to me, being cooped up in a tiny flat above the chippy with only my books for company.”
She sighs, not like a whimsical ‘I forgive you’ sigh either. It’s a sigh of exasperation.
“Your dad just wanted to make a future for you. He put aside a lot of money for you. If you hadn’t married Gage, he was going to give it to you to further your studies.”
I give my own signal of exasperation: an agitated growl of displeasure. “I’m sick of this, Mother. Absolutely sick of it. Don’t you think I’ve been through enough already since Gage passed? Thinking about all the what-ifs and whatnot. I’m so tired of it all.”
I’m becoming more agitated by the second and I think she can tell. She reaches around me for the kettle and fills it under the tap, even when I always tell her to use the filter water from the fridge.
While the kettle boils, she rummages in her handbag for something. So, she does have a loaded gun in there, then?
“Here,” she says, handing me a photo.
It’s an old sepia image, grainy and tattered. I don’t recognise the woman pictured.
“That’s your father’s mother, Beryl. She was a wicked woman. Really… wicked. You know I don’t like to speak ill of anyone, but she was vicious. Now can you understand why he’s like he is?”
“OH! I see. Everyone has to be defined by their past, do they?”
“No,” she lambasts me. “I merely meant that if he has issues with affection and trust, with showing emotion and being present, she’s why. He’s always just been trying to get by, just like everyone else.”
While she pours water onto our teabags, I almost scorn her. I am so sick of everyone pouring me tea and thinking that’s the cure for everything. I don’t know how many half-drunk cups of tea I’ve left on the side this past month, but I bet there’s been enough to fill a bath.
“I feel angry and I don’t know why,” I growl.
“You do know why. You just won’t say it,” she challenges.
I turn to her, finally looking her in the eye. I can tell she’s been crying a lot lately and is probably as tired as I am, if not more. I want to scream and throw things. I have never spoken out of turn around my mother. I have always respected my parents and their position in my life as elders and carers. However, I am experiencing a horrendous, irrational hatred right now – and it’s directed right at them for some reason.
“Warrick said he can’t understand it, either. He agrees with me. Dad just sat in his sodding shed that whole time, the day we found out Gage was dead. He sat there, avoiding the whole bloody thing. He didn’t hug me or tell me it was going to be all right. He just… vacated the house and went limping into the shed.”
“He does love you,” she soothes, “he just doesn’t feel comfortable showing affection.”
She pushes a cup of tea across the sideboard towards me and it takes all of my energy to not swipe it off the counter and send it careering across the room, smashing it to the floor.
“Listen,” I demand, grinding out my anguish. “I can’t recall exactly what I said at the funeral, but Hetty filled me in. All I can say is that if I feel that Dad is not my father, it’s because he’s never given me a fatherly hug or done things other dads do. Like help me with my homework. Take me shopping. I don’t know… given me words of advice. He’s just always been… distant. Like he doesn’t even care about me! It was always you! YOU! You were the one bringing me up, NOT HIM!”
My mother’s mouth twists, as if she’s trying to stop herself saying something. She gives me a few minutes to calm down. All the while, I’m seething beneath my folded arms, trying desperately not to give myself whiplash from all the nodding and shaking of my own head. I just can’t understand him. It’s right now that I need both my parents and he’s not here. He’s never been here.
“I know that a lot of this is the grief talking—”
“Oh yes, because of course you can see into my head!”
“No,” she fires back, “because this isn’t like you.”
“Well, get used to it. I am sick of cowering in the corner. Now I don’t have to.”
She takes a few deep breaths, rubbing her forehead. “You’re the one who brought a bully into our home to save her, even when she’d been hurting you! You’re the one who never gave up on your studies, even when we never expected yo
u to achieve as much as you have. You’re the one who’s made a beautiful home for her kids in spite of being married to a hopelessly self-destructive man. You’re not the one who wallows in self-pity, Liza. You’re not the one who hates or allows herself to be brought down. You’re better than all of us.”
“No, no. I’m not her. Not anymore.” I pick up my mug of tea and throw it into the plastic washing-up bowl, sick of the sight of it. She jumps when it sploshes across the draining board, but she just doesn’t understand what it’s like to have people making you cups of tea all the time when the cure isn’t a fucking cup of tea.
The truth is, there is no bloody cure!
“I forgive you for what you said, but it’s going to be hard to forget,” she whispers. “I’ll have the kids whenever you want me to, but your father doesn’t want to see you right now. He’s devastated.”
“That’s a load of crap. He’s basically hidden himself away all my life. He basically was never there for me. I’m not the one who’s done the wronging here. What on earth does he have to be devastated about?”
“Like I said, I forgive you,” she mutters, trying to press home how much she forgives me – meaning we ought to drop this now and just move on. Well, I will not bloody move on.
“Forgiveness… ha! I’ve been taught to forgive my whole life.”
“Liza, you must desist…”
“No, I won’t. You don’t know what this feels like, Mother. When he died, it was like my shackles had finally been removed. Do you know what that feels like?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“No, you don’t. Because I’ve been taught to forgive. I’ve been taught that we forgive people their wrongs, like you’ve forgiven Dad’s all these years. His shortcomings. His failings. All forgiven, because Mother decrees it. Don’t you see how detrimental that’s been for me? Watching you and him. Forgiving every single day of your life, even when you’re so bloody miserable. I’ll tell you why you and he were always bloody working… it was so that you didn’t have to stop and contemplate how bloody awful your lives were, that’s why!”
She takes her handbag in her hands again, but she’s rooted to the spot, not moving. I know that she’s going to continue forgiving like she always has – convinced it’s the grief talking and not me. The thing is, forgiving is easier than facing the truth.
The truth is, people can do better – people can be present and available – not hiding in sheds or disappearing down the pub.
People can make a difference. All they have to do is take part.
“I forgive you,” she whispers again.
“Gage made me feel like I was lesser than what I really am. He made me feel small and puny. He put himself first and foremost in everything he did. Yet I forgave him. I should’ve taken Emily with me to Oxford, where I should’ve gone to uni. But no. No. I stayed here. I married him, at your insistence. I remained nearby so that we could all be close, still. Everything I’ve ever done is to make all of you happy and not me. No, not me.”
She lifts her sad eyes to mine and mutters, “We all know why you’re angry.”
“Why?” I spit, demanding she tell me.
“Because you now realise you’re the same as the rest of us. Anyone can fall into this trap and it took all of this to make you realise you were even in a trap. Trust me Liza, until you walk a mile in my shoes… you don’t have the right to tell me what I can and can’t forgive.”
I’m shaking because this hurts, but also because she’s not being the comfort I need her to be. She’s agitating me on purpose, the same as I’m agitating her. However, it’s meant to be her who’s the stronger. In this situation, it’s always meant to be her rising above this antagonism between us.
She’s never going to understand why I rescued Hetty – that my extreme loneliness prompted me to seek a foster sister to break the spell of my utter despair.
Maybe there will be a time when we can discuss this and agree on how my upbringing affected me – or perhaps she will continue to keep banging on about forgiveness, because that’s the answer to everything.
“I forgive you,” I whisper, “but I won’t remain silent anymore. That’s the difference. I’d forgiven you and Dad even before Gage came along, but going forward, I won’t be modelling my life on yours. Not anymore.”
She takes a shallow breath and shuffles out of my house. Sadly, I think we both know it may be the last time we speak in a long time.
HETTY RETURNS HOME a little later, with Jules in tow. It grates on me that so many people are flocking to the house, only now that I’m out of bed again. Why do they think I need them? I don’t.
“No school today?” I ask Jules, as she seats herself in my living room, sans kids.
“Not for me. I’m meant to be marking coursework, but I’m still the same old night owl. I’ll do it tonight.”
If there’s anyone who’s cleverer than me, it’s probably Jules. I shouldn’t expect to best her, but a part of me still wants to – and this isn’t me.
It’s following my mum’s visit this morning – and now this – that I begin to hate myself a little.
Betty is sleeping in her pram out in the corridor and yet again, Het is boiling the kettle. Rupert has been out with Aunt Het all morning and he was content to be cosied up in the downstairs travel cot as soon as he got back.
When she puts a cup of tea in front of me, I just stare at it. I cannot be arsed anymore. Maybe if I stop drinking it, they will eventually get the message.
“You two bump into one another, then?” I mumble.
“Hetty asked me to meet her,” Jules reveals.
“Ah, great. More people talking about me behind my back.”
“Not at all. She’s asked me to prepare Warrick for it coming out about their move. I think he’s going to take it hard, but he will get used to it.”
It’s now looking more than likely that Joe will transfer to Liverpool. Their move won’t be immediate, but it won’t be long until they go either.
“It’s not all about you,” Hetty semi-growls, catching my attention.
I survey her face, wondering if she and Mum have spoken yet. Hetty doesn’t look furious beyond words, so I’m going to say they haven’t yet spoken – or if they have, my mother has remained tight-lipped.
“Mum popped round.” I stare at Hetty, challenging her to react. I still feel as angry and as upset as I did earlier. When it’s an angry kind of upset, it’s hard to shake off. It feels like your world is existing on a split axis and could spin out of control at any moment.
“She did? She said she might.”
“She spun this story about how my paternal grandmother was so horrible, that’s why Dad’s like he is.”
“John’s always been rather… withdrawn,” Hetty explains, more for Jules’ benefit than mine.
“Withdrawn? Non-existent more like.”
Hetty gulps because she knows words have been had – and she knows things might have been said that cannot be taken back. She’s got that right.
“What happened?” Jules asks, placing a hand on mine as she sits next to me in the two-seater. Rupert is just to the side of us in his travel cot, his chest puffing up and down in sleep. Cece is lying in front of the fire even though it’s not burning, and Hetty is sat beside Cece, stroking her fur.
“Even if I am his kid, there are feelings in here,” – I hold a hand over my heart – “that make me think he isn’t my dad.”
“But what reason would Carol have to lie?” Hetty exclaims.
“I don’t know, you tell me. Maybe she’s desperate to sew it all up so that she can see her grandkids again. I mean, come on, Het. I was an afterthought. They had me when they were in their mid-forties almost. It was always like growing up with my grandparents, not… a mum and dad.”
Jules sucks in an awkward breath, adding her own two-penny worth: “Even that would have been better than what I experienced.”
“I don’t expect you to understa
nd it from my perspective,” I bite back, “and although I appreciate you went through hell, you cannot imagine the things I’ve had to battle to get here.”
“No,” whispers Jules, “you’re wrong. I can imagine, more than anyone. If I hadn’t picked you out of the crowd in the middle sets, you would never have achieved your potential.”
“Potential?” I have to laugh, so I do. “Yeah, really? I’ve reached my potential all right. Look at me. If he hadn’t died, we would have got divorced. I’m a mess. I’ve never had a proper job, at least not one that’s in line with my education,” I hasten to add, for Hetty’s benefit. “I’ve realised my potential, all right. Widow or divorcee, either way, now I’m marked, aren’t I? Sullied. Tainted. Used goods. Apparently, I was always destined to fuck up and then make my own mother despise the very ground I walk on.”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s not the case,” Jules soothes softly.
Hetty, on the other hand, looks ready to smack me one.
I put my head in my hands and groan, “Can everyone just please get out?”
“Are you going to be like this with Sam, as well?” Hetty growls. “Are you going to push him away, too? Because let me tell you, even if you do end up pushing us away, you’ll regret it more when you push him away. So much more.”
“You don’t get to talk about Sam,” I warn.
“Listen, you two. Come on. You’re best friends. There’s no need for this.”
“She’s off on one, and you know it,” Hetty states.
“I think Liza needs a lie down and to rest, that’s all.”
“No, that’s far from what I need,” I state, growling back at Hetty.
My chest is heaving and when Jules tries to touch my shoulder, I flinch and fling myself back against the sofa.
“You need to get me water. Right now,” I demand.
I feel an attack coming. It’s burning the backs of my eyes.
The next thing I know, Jules is holding a glass of water to my mouth and my hands are shaking as I wrap them around hers, unable to hold the glass on my own.
I let the water quench my demons and then put my head between my legs. After a while, Jules encourages me to lie down and props my legs up on a bunch of cushions. She takes my right palm in her hand and starts drawing patterns on my skin.
Guilt Page 13
