After Before

by Jemma Wayne

  Lynn stopped. John’s eyes had turned to steel, barbed with darkness, and terror? She looked at him for a long time. There was so much she wanted to ask him, so many things she wanted to know. But she knew without pressing further that he would not allow her to fix it. She would die holding onto this mistake.

  Slowly, she nodded her assent. She had kept her silence, misguidedly, for almost two decades, if he wanted it a few months longer, it was the least she owed him, the least she could do. Do. Something.

  Emily continued to clatter softly in the kitchen. In the background, a Sinatra she and John both loved started up on the radio. Usually John would have hummed along, but today he was silent. Lynn thought about reaching for his hand… Then the doorbell sounded.

  “I’ll get it,” John announced. He stood up quickly and strode into the hall.

  Alone on the sofa, Lynn lifted herself slightly and peered out of the window. Luke was on the doorstep. His car was still on, churning up cold air on the street. Vera was sitting in it.

  “No rehearsals today?” Lynn heard Luke ask as his brother opened the door and together they made their way back into the sitting room. It was a genuine question, but the two of them had long ago stopped being able to decipher digs from authenticity.

  “No,” John snapped back.

  Lynn flinched. It was all her fault. She thought she had at least done this thing well, this thing that was motherhood, but -

  Luke appeared at the door. She tidied the blanket over herself and attempted to look as solid as she could, but she noticed Luke’s face clouding with anxiety at the sight of her.

  “Good,” said Luke to John earnestly, staying by the door. “It’s good you came.”

  “You’re the one leaving for the weekend.”

  Luke scowled and turned away from his brother. “I can’t stay long Mother, I just wanted to stop by before we left to check you have everything you need. Is Emily here? Is she looking after you?”

  “She’s making lunch,” Lynn affirmed. “Your fiancée didn’t bother to come in then?”

  “I said not to. We have to hurry for our flight.”

  “Of course.” Lynn flapped her hand towards the door. “To Venice.” She was unable to resist the instinctive irritation. “Off you go then.”

  Luke hovered. “But you’re okay Mother?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Emily knows about your night-time medication?”

  “She’s here every day Luke,” Lynn answered impatiently, unfairly taking her frustration out on him, he who could handle it.

  He nodded, apologetically, heavily. It wasn’t right of her. But as he was turning to go an idea caught hold.

  “Emily!” Lynn called into the kitchen. “Emily!” She turned towards her son. “No need for a messenger. You can give any instructions you want yourself.”

  It was a necessarily cruel trick. The discomfort on Emily’s face at seeing Luke again was obvious to all of them. Luke tried to negate it with extra enthusiasm but Emily’s distress ruffled his own composure, and his false, raised tones seemed only to make Emily more nervous. At the first chance she got she scuttled for the door. Still, it had been at her most abject that Emily had last found the strength to talk. Perhaps, Lynn considered, looking to John, it was at their most abject when everyone found their greatest vigour. And so she was hopeful. And purposeful.

  “You have the number for the hotel,” Luke said once Emily had left and John, who had decided now against lunch, had also made a rapid exit. “I’ve left it on your nightstand. Call me if you need anything. Promise to. I’ll be back on Sunday night.”

  Indulgingly now, already half-thinking about Emily’s reaction to her son, Lynn promised. But she knew that the only reason he’d receive a call was if she keeled over and died, and Luke hovered for a second more, clutching his coat tightly, clearly knowing this too. They stared at each other then, and Lynn could sense his need for affirmation, for comfort, for the touch of her hand, and almost, almost she spoke. But in the end neither of them said anything, and Luke turned for the door, away to Venice where Lynn knew he would forget all about Emily, and John, and his dying mother, as he lost himself in his youthful fiancée.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Six

  They arrive by boat. It is sunset and the water laps against the sides of the Paradiso like liquid gold, carefully passing it forward. The men at the port have hauled their bags aboard and stowed them safely inside the sheltered cabin, but Vera and Luke sit in the seats at the rear, gazing at the perfection of the postcard they are entering. When the sea narrows into the Grand Canal of Venice, without realising it, Vera holds her breath and remembers to exhale only when Luke’s bitten nails gently scratch against her palm.

  The light begins to melt into the water as they wind their way around gondolas floating majestically in the molten darkness. She and Luke bounce malleably between the two worlds of density and translucence. Tourists are everywhere. They hold hands and board boat rides, wilfully letting the romance of the place whisk them into unreality while locals scurry through the shadows, propelled at a faster speed, charged with the business of their visitors’ imaginations. It seems a necessarily protracted journey, the gentle rocking of the boat lulling them into the otherworldly atmosphere of Venice.

  Lulling them like a lullaby.

  Luke smiles. They alight opposite the vast dome of the Salute and leave the last remnants of their London existence on the boat to drift away.

  Inside the hotel, they unpack in their separate rooms. Vera glances every now and then out of the window to the canal. Sometimes the flow of the water fills her with a welcome feeling of forward momentum; sometimes childish noises splash against her sides, dragging her back. Not that it is a case of forwards or backwards, past or future, truth or lies. But it feels like that. It is indeed one or the other. Vera tries not to think about Charlie who will be at the children’s home by now. She tries not to imagine that he may have allowed her to go with him. He will have waited at the restaurant, she imagines, for half an hour or so before giving up on her. And by the time he received her text message, sent hurriedly from the parked car outside Lynn’s house, he would undoubtedly have left, angrily. Vera remembers what Charlie is like when he is angry. Not violent, not loud, but a little cruel. He has not replied to her message.

  Half an hour later, she and Luke meet in the lobby. It is their plan to stroll through the nearby streets that lead to St Mark’s Square and Luke has bought a map for them to follow. He walks half a step in front of her and zealously calls out the road names as he finds them, whisking them around corners and through other couples who dawdle and mosey and create a lethargic bustle. It is useful for the landscape to occupy conversation for a while. Many weeks have passed since they spoke of the territory that is their relationship. Since learning about her son, it somehow fell into the periphery and now it has been a long time since Vera has even thought of it properly, or noticed it, or noticed it slipping away. Dragged away, she should say, dragged under, by the heaviness of lies, by an absence of truth. Luke calls out another street name that he has correctly located, his confidence in his navigation growing, and Vera longs for him to feel such certainty again about her. She quickens her pace slightly and tries to catch him. When she feels familiar hands touching her shoulders, it seems that they are helping to nudge her along.

  Because of the cold weather, the streets are not packed and they find a restaurant with a table for two with relative ease. It is outside but under a canopy and surrounded by cylindrical heaters with the advantage of being exactly in the middle of one side of St Mark’s Square. They sit facing each other. Behind Luke hangs the backdrop of the famous Basilica, like an oil painting on display. Vera takes out her camera and frames a photo. But in it, Luke’s head is turned slightly to the side, looking over her shoulder, as though another painting is hanging there.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asks him as the menus arrive.

  “Nothing.”
He buries his head behind the ‘specials’ insert. “What a beautiful place, isn’t it?”

  “It’s magical.”

  The waiter appears and they order, Luke in Italian. Vera opens her mouth to speak but then closes it again. Around them, other couples clink their glasses of wine and gaze into each other’s eyes and play footsie. She and Luke apologise to each other and make room when their legs accidentally brush.

  “It’s a rather small table isn’t it?” he says. “Everything here feels close, and interconnected.”

  “Unified,” Vera offers hopefully.

  “Perhaps,” he shrugs. “But a little disorientating. Anarchic. This square’s like the open expanse at the heart of a maze, but beyond it those roads we came through were so narrow and winding and all looked the same, and they all fed into this one spot, did you notice? It seems like this is the only place you can breathe and get a bearing.” He pauses. “Would you remember the way back?”

  “We came from over there,” Vera points but, as though slightly saddened, Luke laughs.

  “Sweetheart, we came from the corner opposite that one.”

  Their starters arrive: Luke’s a sweet melon clothed in Parma ham; Vera’s a simple salad. Tucking in, they exchange easy culinary raptures, Luke smiles at her and tentatively, Vera reaches for his hand.

  “You never really know a place,” he says suddenly, as though there has been no gap in the conversation.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Perhaps the rest of the maze is misleading. How do we even know if we’re at the heart of it?”

  “Your map shows us,” Vera volunteers light-heartedly, but Luke doesn’t seem to realise that she is joking. There is no pronouncement of funny or not.

  “No, I mean, how do you ever know if the space you’re occupying is really what you perceive it to be? Do you need to go outside it to look back in?” Luke holds her eyes now, imploring her to solve this confusing riddle as though the answer is urgent and necessary before he can return to the activity of eating his ham. Vera lays down her fork and tries to decipher exactly what it is he is asking. Does he want to go outside of their relationship to look back in? Does he know that she’s been seeing Charlie? Does he know something more? Vera’s leg rattles against the table. Abruptly however, Luke laughs. “What a romantic city,” he says, overly brightly as he digs again into the soft, juicy flesh of the melon, and now Vera wonders if perhaps his reflections are nothing to do with her at all.

  “Are you alright Luke?” she asks him.

  “Romance makes me philosophical,” he replies, as if this is an answer. “C. S. Lewis once said that good philosophy must exist, if for no other reason, than because bad philosophy needs to be answered. You should read some C. S. Lewis.”

  “I have.”

  “I don’t just mean Narnia.”

  Vera flinches.

  Luke looks up at her, then shakes his head at himself. He looks devastatingly sad. “Sorry.”

  The main courses arrive. While they are eating Vera asks him about work and buoyed by the language of policy and politics, gradually Luke unfurls. He tells her about the latest progress of his health initiative in the DRC: they are going to launch a massive anti-cholera drive, help the country to develop a clean water system. The minister has finally been convinced, the Prime Minister is on board… His eyes light up green as he speaks, luminous in a way Vera only now realises has been absent, and slowly, in response, Vera too finds herself enthusing. She talks about St George’s, about the journey she feels she is on, about finally being able to taste the first flavours of her own faith. And about the trouble she still has in knowing which path she should be following.

  “It’s just determination. You can do it,” Luke says, listening to her with what seems like fresh interest, and tucking into his pasta.

  Vera smiles, hesitantly, savouring the affirmation she hasn’t felt, nor perhaps sought from him in so long, remembering how empowering it is. But she wishes she could describe the paths honestly, tell him that while one fork leads directly to him, the other leads to her son, and there is nothing but brambles in between. She feels duplicitous. She yearns to talk to Luke about Charles. Even if he hates her for it, he would know what she should do. She opens her mouth. But then Luke looks up, his fork hovering mid-twirl while he weighs his next sentence. And apprehension churns her stomach.

  “What?” she prompts.

  “It’s just, well, you do have to decide to have determination. It’s a decision. And you mustn’t abandon it, you mustn’t abandon... ”

  “What are you getting at Luke?” Vera watches him selecting his words carefully.

  “When it’s challenging I mean…” She doesn’t speak, and now he hurries. “It’s like going to church, my church I mean… You could have stuck with it a bit longer.”

  Suddenly Vera feels indignant. “You mean I could have stuck with your mother?”

  “No.” Luke puts down his fork.

  “Be truthful, Luke.”

  “You be truthful.” He takes a breath. “I don’t want to do this now.”

  “But you’re angry,” Vera says, only just realising. She cannot believe that she hadn’t noticed and wonders how long he has been angry for.

  “Yes, okay, I have been angry about it,” he says, lowering his voice and staring at her meaningfully. “But I’ve been angry about lots of things.”

  Vera’s stomach churns again. “You haven’t said a thing.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  Vera doesn’t answer and Luke allows a long pause. He seems tired.

  “What do you want me to say?” he repeats slowly, as much to the universe now as to her.

  But Vera doesn’t have an answer. She has not counted on Luke’s own lingering feelings about the existence of her son.

  “What shall I ask you?” Luke continues. “How could you have abandoned a child? How could you have kept it from me? How could you have lied outright to my mother? And then abandoned her too, while she’s dying?!”

  “I didn’t abandon her Luke, she kicked me out!” Vera retorts abruptly. She knows that this is the least of the indictments, but it is the only one from which she has a corner to fight. “She scratched me with her fucking, sorry Luke but fucking, long nails, and she told me not to come back. And then she told everyone at your bloody church about my ‘abortion’.”

  “What?”

  Vera takes a breath.

  “What?”

  “She told her friends at your church.”

  Luke pauses. He picks up his fork, then puts it down again. “She shouldn’t have done that.”

  Vera says nothing. They sit like this for a long time.

  “Everyone’s fallible,” she murmurs finally. He nods and she is encouraged to continue. “I mean, there’s no such thing as a good Christian, is there?” He nods again. “We’re all sinners aren’t we? I am. And even you.”

  Luke’s eyes darken. She did not mean her words as an attack but he seems to have taken them as such. “I’ve tried to be a good Christian,” he protests. “I’ve tried. I’ve never had sex, or done drugs, or stolen, or lied. I’ve followed God’s teachings as best as I can. I don’t drink. I’ve always been to church. I chose a job that would allow me to help people. I’ve helped you, haven’t I? Haven’t I? I’ve done my part in being a good Christian.”

  Without meaning to, Vera laughs at this. His defensiveness is stunning to her, he who is so negligibly flawed.

  “Are you calling me a hypocrite?” he demands.

  “No Luke, no,” she laughs. “I’m just saying that everyone is fallible.”

  “Well of course they are.” He speaks slowly, restraining his voice from rising amidst the other diners. “Of course we are. ‘All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.’ Romans 3:23. We know that. We’re human. Every human sins. But I try not to, is what I’m saying. I try to be as good a Christian as I can be. I try to follow Jesus. I try. I’ve tried. Why are we even talking abou
t this?” he asks suddenly.

  “Because you - I - ” she falters.

  “You think I should be home with my gossiping mother?”

  “What? No. And she - ”

  “You think I haven’t been a good son?”

  “That’s not it at all.”

  “You think I’ve neglected my duty to her?”

  “Luke, you’re a wonderful son.”

  He stops. Suddenly deep lines spring across his brow. “If I was so wonderful I wouldn’t have left my mother with a carer,” he says abruptly, resting his head in his hands. His voice is riddled with pain and his eyes tip up at her nervously from their couch in his palms. “I wouldn’t have would I? I shouldn’t have left her. I just - I can’t stand to watch her deteriorate.”

  “I’m sure the carer’s amazing, Luke.”

  “I know.” He pauses. “I know she is.” He pauses again. And all at once his eyes harden and he is somewhere far away again. Vera finds herself struggling to stifle tears. They are still a little novel and she doesn’t quite know what to do with them. With her thumb and forefinger she pinches her thigh so as to keep them at bay. Luke lowers his head as if in prayer, and despite the busy tourists around them Vera feels acutely alone with him, peculiarly intimate. Raw. She has a sudden, consuming urge to tell him the truth: “I left my baby on a doorstep!!!! I thought he was dead!!!!” She wants to shout it. Scream it. Confess it. Truth, truth, truth, truth. She feels herself leaning towards him, her lips poised to speak. But now? Now, while Luke is so fragile? She opens her mouth, then closes it again. Is now not the time for her to be silent and strong? Then again, perhaps it would help him. Perhaps it would remind Luke that his sins, whatever he thinks they are, are as nothing. They are both flawed, they are all flawed, she and Charlie and John and Lynn and yes, even Luke, but Jesus loves them anyway.

  “Luke, you’re so much better than I could ever be,” Vera begins. But before she can continue he looks up, green-grey shining straight into her.

  “I should have asked you about it,” he says. “About the baby, about how you reached such a point of, I suppose, well, how you came to know it was the best thing for him?”