We entered the kitchen, and I waited to hear her suck in her breath at the pile of clothes in the laundry basket. It was only one load, still warm from the dryer, but I knew my mother. She whipped out the ironing board for every shirt, skirt or stray sock she could find. But she commented on how she liked what we’d done to the kitchen instead, so I poured our drinks and took them to the conservatory.
“If I’d known you were coming I’d have made a cake,” I said as we sat down.
She waved a hand. “Dear god, I haven’t eaten cake since the sixties. And I came to talk.”
“So you’ve said. About what?”
Mum hesitated, touched the ruby-red teardrop pendant around her neck. “You. Me. Us.” As I stared at her she added, “This is hard for me, Abigail.” Again I stayed silent until she quietly said, “I’m ill.”
I frowned. “What do you mean, ill?”
“I had breast cancer four years ago—”
“Breast cancer? I had no idea, you never—”
“Told you?” She shook her head. “I don’t fare well with pity, so I dealt with it alone.”
“But you’re okay?” I said quickly. “You’re in remission?”
“I was.” She hesitated, took a sip of her water. “But recently I’ve felt tired and had headaches. So I went for some tests.” Mum tapped the side of her head. “It’s in my brain. I have another nine months.”
“Nine months?”
“Perhaps a year at best.”
“Wait, what?” She was so matter-of-fact, so blasé. She must have been feeling something? Surely my mother, the irrefutable Ice Queen, couldn’t be that cold. “I can’t believe it.”
“Look—” she smoothed down her shirt “—I need to say goodbye. I’d like us to spend some time together before I...go.” She sighed. “I want to bury the hatchet. Forgive you—”
“Forgive me? Well, that’s rich—”
She spoke louder, holding up a hand “—and ask you to forgive me.” As my mouth fell open while my mind scrambled to process her words, she said, “And we need to talk about your father.”
“Dad?” My heart quickened. “What does he have to do with it?”
She exhaled. “Everything, Abigail. Absolutely everything.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “I don’t understand.”
Eyes lowered, she said, “You deserve to know the truth.”
“The truth?” I frowned. “What do you mean?”
My mother pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and index finger, then lowered them and looked at me again. “First of all you have to understand I loved your father, Abigail. More than life itself. He was a wonderful man—”
“Sorry, but how can you say that after what he did?”
She exhaled. “I would have done anything for him. But his betrayal...it broke me. I was never the same after he left me for...for...”
“Another woman?” I wanted to add if she’d not been a constant nag, if she’d been emotionally available, had an ounce of a heart, then maybe Dad would never have walked away. But I kept my mouth shut. Over the last few months I’d come to understand relationships were rarely as simple as they appeared.
“Yes,” she said. “Did I ever tell you she was American, and at least ten years younger than me?” I shook my head. “It made me feel so old, so...discarded. And I was only thirty-six when he left, hardly past my prime. But of course age had nothing to do with it. He loved her as fiercely as I loved him. Followed her to Boston.”
“Boston? You always said you didn’t have a clue where he was.”
“I don’t think he’s ever been back to England.” She paused. “But they’re still together. They have three children. And grandchildren.”
“What?” I sat up straight. “How do you know all this?” When she refused to meet my eyes I insisted, “Mum? How do you know? Did you contact him?”
After a long moment she said, “No. He contacted me.”
“What?” I whispered. “When?”
“This is the part where I need you to try to understand. What I did was wrong but...”
“Mum...” I eyed her, watched as her face turned ashen. “What did you do?”
“I’m so sorry, Abigail.” She took a deep breath, and when she spoke again her voice was so low I had to lean forward to hear. “He called the house many, many times after he left.”
“He did what?”
“At first I told him you were too upset to talk—”
“Hold on, you can’t be—”
“—then I said you and Tom didn’t want anything to do with him.”
“But you never said any—”
“I know—”
“And you had our number changed. You said it was because Dad gambled, that he owed people money. You said they were harassing you.”
She wrung her hands. “It was a lie,” she whispered.
“What?”
“Your father didn’t owe a single penny.”
I stared at her. “Then what happened?” She didn’t look at me for a while. “Then what?”
“He wrote.”
“He wrote?”
“At least once a month. He sent cards for your birthday. For Christmas.” Hands trembling, she opened her black leather purse and pulled out a thick wad of envelopes tied together with a wide, red satin ribbon.
“Jesus Christ, Mum,” I said as she passed them to me. “What the hell have you done?”
“He’s written every year—”
“Oh, god—”
“—to make sure you had his most recent address in case you wanted to—”
“Mum, what the—”
“—contact him. And in the last one he asked if you’re on Facebook or the Twitter thing. And I was glad you’d inherited your discreet side from me.” When her eyes met mine again I stared at her, the words unable to travel from my brain to my mouth. “Talk to me, Abigail. Please.”
I opened and closed my mouth a few times, sentences whirling through my head like mini-tornadoes, but still none of them made it past my lips. “Why would you do this?” I managed at last as I ran a fingertip over my father’s neat handwriting. “Why?”
Her voice came out barely a strangled whisper. “To punish him. Hurt him.”
“But you hurt us, too. Me and Tom. We thought Dad didn’t care. We thought he’d forgotten about us. We thought he’d died. Does he even know about Tom?”
“I sent him a letter a few months after the accident.”
“You did what?” I threw my hands up in the air. “I’m sorry, but who the hell gave you the right to? Who do you think you—”
The last time I saw my mother cry was when she’d stood in my hospital room, moments before she told me how much she hated me. I wanted to loathe her, detest her, but all I saw in front of me was a tired, lonely, sick old woman. It had been years since I’d looked at her for more than a few seconds. Her hair, which should have been silver by now, was still a rich shade of strawberry blonde, pulled back into a tight bun, making her cheekbones higher and more prominent. I noticed her rod-straight back, how she sat perched perfectly on the end of her seat, her knees and feet together, as if she were ready to meet the Queen at a moment’s notice.
As I stared at her I realized she’d never felt good enough, always inferior, constantly on her guard with defenses so strong, she’d alienated her husband, children and everybody else around her. She had nobody left. And now she was dying. Alone.
“I don’t know what to say,” I whispered.
“What I did was wrong, Abigail. I know that.” She retrieved a tissue from her bag and wiped her eyes. “But when your father left... The thought of losing you and Tom, too, that you might go with him... I was so scared.” I watched another tear slide down her cheek, leaving a streak of mascara in its wake. “I was so worr
ied I’d lose you both. And then it happened anyway.”
“But you didn’t lose me. You pushed me away. After Dad left you were so cold, and when Tom...” I pressed my palms over my eyes for a second. “The things you said at the hospital... But I know how much Tom meant to you.”
“I loved you both the same, Abigail.”
I half smiled. “I thought you said you’d tell the truth.”
She sighed. “I saw so much of myself in Tom—the good parts, before you say anything. But you...” She paused. “Well...your father and I used to joke how much you were like him.”
“What? A lying, cheating bastard?” Not that I could really argue.
“No, Abigail,” Mum said. “Smart, independent and funny. Stubborn and opinionated, too, but I loved that about him. And when he told me he was leaving, that he’d met the love of his life and couldn’t live without her, I thought I was going to die because that’s how I felt about him.”
“I had no idea. None.”
“I know this is so much for you to take in, but I had to tell you before I...”
I looked at her, feeling like I was a child again. “But what do we do now?”
Mum reached over and put her hand on mine, and for the first time in years I didn’t shake off her touch. “Read the letters. Contact your father. But most of all, Abigail, Abby, I want you to let go of the guilt.”
I covered my mouth with a hand and closed my eyes for a second, then swallowed hard. “I can’t, Mum. I just can’t.”
“You can. Tom’s been gone for so long... I stopped blaming you. You never meant for it to happen.” She sat back in her chair. “You have to stop blaming yourself, as well.”
“It’s not quite so simple, is it?”
“Promise me you’ll try. Life’s too short, believe me. And you have a wonderful daughter and a husband who worships you.” She looked at me. “I envy you.”
I laughed. “You’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
Mum frowned. “Why? Is something wrong?”
“How can you possibly think you have the right to ask?” I closed my eyes, exhaled and opened them again. “I’m sorry.”
“No, I deserved that, and more.” She got up. “I should go.”
“You can stay here,” I offered. “We have the spare room.”
Mum smiled. “I booked a hotel. I thought I’d give you some time to...” She gestured to the pile of envelopes still in my lap.
“No, Mum. Don’t go. I’d like you to stay.”
She looked at me for a moment. “Well, in that case,” she said, “I’d like to stay, too.”
NOW
NATE
“GRANDMA SANDERS IS HERE?” Sarah said on the drive home after I’d picked her up from Claire’s. “And Mum didn’t know?” She whistled. “You are so dead, Dad. So very, very dead.”
“I know,” I said. “I know.”
“Well, holy shit,” Sarah said, and I didn’t have the energy to reprimand her for her choice of language. I couldn’t have put it any better myself.
“How are things going with you?” I asked instead. “School’s okay?”
“Yeah, great. Got 115 percent on my latest math test.”
“Woo-hoo. Awesome. That’s my girl.”
“Dad.” She rolled her eyes and laughed. “You know you can’t get away with saying Woo-hoo or awesome anymore, right?”
“Is that so?”
“Uh-huh.”
I grunted. “What else is going on then? Mum’s been asking me about you and boys again.”
She sat up in her seat. “I bet she has.”
“What do you mean?”
Sarah shrugged. “Like, she’s never wanted me to have a boyfriend, not unless he meets her ridiculous standards. And she’s always checking up on me. I hate it. She needs to mind her own business.”
“She cares about you, Sarah. She loves you more than anything.”
“So do you, and you don’t...”
“I don’t what?”
“Nothing.”
“We’re parents. Checking up is what we do.” I glanced at her, but her face was in a determined pout. “And I wish you two would get along. Or at least try.”
“Why don’t you tell her that?” she fired back. “Instead of always giving in to what she wants.”
“Careful, Sarah.” I cleared my throat. “Anyway, are you looking forward to our trip?”
“Uh-huh.” She grinned. “It’s going to be the best trip ever. Zac’s so jealous and—”
“Zac? I thought you said, and I quote, ‘I, like, totally hate him. OMG, like, he’s like the worst ever.’”
“Pfft, good impression,” she said quickly. “And yes, he is. That’s exactly why I told him.”
“You’re sneaky,” I said with a laugh. “And a little bit scary.”
“Yup.” She grinned. “Totally devious.”
The house was quiet when we got back. Sarah went to the bathroom, and when I walked into the conservatory I wondered if I was going to find dead bodies with multiple stab wounds. But Abby was lying on the sofa fast asleep, her head in Dolores’s lap, envelopes and letters strewn across the floor in front of them.
“Thank you, Nate,” Dolores said as she looked up.
“No problem.”
“I meant for letting me come.”
I smiled. “I know.”
NOW
SARAH
Dear Diary,
It’s Sunday. Grandma left today. I can’t believe it’ll be one of the last times I’ll see her. Part of me is sad, the other part, well, I hardly know her, so how can I be upset? And that makes me even sadder.
It got me thinking, too. A lot. About what Dad said about Mum and me. About how we snap at each other and fight, or ignore each other, sometimes for days.
And about the lies.
I don’t want us to end up like her and Grandma. I don’t.
But I’m not sure what to do about it. Or if it’s too late.
I think I’ll talk to Dad. About everything.
Dad always knows what to do.
Night.
Sarah x.
PS. Word of the day: decimate, verb.
1: to select and kill every tenth man.
2: to reduce drastically in number.
3: to cause great destruction or harm to.
As in: I should talk to Dad so we can all stop decimating this family.
NOW
NATE
“NO THEY DON’T.” I tapped my index finger on Nancy and Liam’s table.
“Yes, they do,” Nancy insisted with a smaller laugh than usual.
“Nope.” I crossed my arms and smiled. “Sorry, but opposites only attract in the short run.”
The four of us sat around their dining table following Nancy’s “Thank you for the help” dinner. Sarah and Zac had declined to attend, and at some point over dessert the discussion had switched to mismatched couples.
“Pah!” Nancy sniffed. “You’re wrong.”
“I’m with Nate on this,” Abby said. I squeezed her hand, but she picked up her glass without touching me back and smiled at Liam. Strike one. “I mean,” she continued, “what about Katy Perry and Russell Brand? Angelina Jolie and Billy Bob Thornton? Marilyn Manson and—”
“Anybody?” Liam said with a laugh.
“Exactly,” she answered, beaming at him again.
Was that strike two? Abby had been so happy since finding out about her father over the weekend, it was difficult to tell. Jesus, maybe I was being a paranoid old fart.
“Mind you,” Abby said, “it’s Hollywood, so who knows what the truth is.”
Nancy shrugged. “I suppose. But we’ve known couples you’d never put together, not in a million years.” She turned to Liam. “Like Fr
ancis and Olivia? Remember them, honey?”
Abby, who was reaching for the jug of water, knocked over Nancy’s glass. “Oh, shit, sorry, Nancy.” She dabbed at the spill with her napkin. “Argh. I ruined my piece of cake.”
Since when did my wife eat cake?
Liam cleared his throat. “Let me cut you some more. What did you say it was again?”
“Yogurt cake,” Abby said. “With fresh cream.”
“It’s great.” As if to demonstrate, he cut himself another slice, too.
“Oh, good,” Abby said. “I’m glad you—”
“I’ll get the recipe from you,” Nancy said loudly. “Anyway, Liam worked with this Francis guy for a while, but then he was made redundant, poor thing. It was only a week after they’d all been on this big corporate team building thing, too. Cruel, huh? Remember, honey?”
“Not really,” Liam said.
“You went to the Cotswolds,” Nancy said and paused. “Surely you haven’t forgotten?”
Liam cleared his throat. “Oh, yes. Anyway, Nate, how’s business?”
“Liam.” Nancy shot him a look. “I was in the middle of a story. Anyway, Francis could have had a pet giraffe, he was so huge. And such a nice man, too, a real softie, and eloquent. Kind of old-fashioned, in a way.”
Liam and Abby were very quiet, so I said, “Okay...” to indicate at least somebody was listening.
Nancy continued, “Well, Francis goes to this team building thing, has what I’m pretty sure is his first ever one-night stand, gets fired and three months later, bam!” She clapped her hands. “They’re getting married.” She sat back in her chair and waggled a finger. “And this Olivia? She was the complete opposite to him. Short. Tiny actually. A biker chick with lots of tattoos. Remember, hon?” She laughed and patted Liam’s shoulder, but he didn’t answer. “There you are, Nate, I rest my case. Opposites attract.”
“Are they still married?” I said. “Your theory won’t work otherwise.”
She pulled a face. “God, I don’t know. We haven’t seen them in years, have we, Liam?”
“We haven’t,” he said. “Anyway—”
“I could find them,” Nancy said, sipping her wine. “What was his last name again?”
The Neighbors Page 26
