Let Me In

by Alison Keane

  “Dad?”

  “What are you doing here, Ellie?”

  I point at the stalls. “The market. What are you doing here?” That’s the bigger question here. When I go to his house for lunch every Sunday, I don’t even bother to ask what he’s been doing anymore because the answer is always work.

  “The market,” he grunts.

  “What, really?” I stare up at him. “I didn’t think this would be your scene.”

  Nathan appears behind Dad before he can respond. He gives me a funny look and jerks his head towards Dad. A ball of anxiety starts to form in my chest. Am I supposed to introduce them? It’s only our first date.

  In the end, Nathan breaks the silence. He holds out one of the takeaway coffee cups he’s holding. “Here’s your mulled wine.”

  Dad spins around, having not noticed Nathan until now. I swear he looks Nathan up and down before he turns back to me with a disapproving frown. “What are you doing, Ellie?”

  Irritation bubbles up inside me. Isn’t it obvious what I’m doing? Why is he speaking to me like a child in front of Nathan? “Enjoying the market, Dad. I’ll see you tomorrow?” I say, hoping he takes the hint.

  He doesn’t move. He stands there watching me with a very odd look on his face. My cheeks flush. What’s he doing here and why is he trying to make me feel awkward? He’s the recluse, not me—though I suppose that’s changed recently.

  “I’d better go,” he says, not looking at Nathan again. He storms off into the crowd, dragging his phone out of his pocket and punching at it. He looks furious.

  I sigh. “Sorry about him,” I mutter to Nathan. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him. He’s a recluse. He’s obviously forgotten how to act in public.”

  “Are you an only child?” Nathan asks. He taps his cup against mine.

  “Yeah,” I say, still staring in the direction Dad went even though there’s no sign of him now.

  “Me too.”

  I smile, warming to him even more. “Does your Dad still treat you like you’re thirteen?”

  He shakes his head. “I wish he did. He has no interest in me whatsoever.”

  Sympathy bubbles up inside me. “If it’s any consolation, Dad shows no interest in me when he’s not judging me.”

  “I’m sure your mum will lecture him when she hears what he’s done.”

  I sigh and take another sip of my mulled wine. I should have expected this to come up. I savour the spicy flavour on my tongue as I try to think of the quickest way to get this over with. “She died when I was two.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says immediately. There’s no awkward pause like there usually is when I’m forced to tell people. “Mine died when I was four.”

  “Really?”

  He rolls his eyes. “No, I’m just making it up so it seems like we have something in common.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “Do you remember her?”

  “Just bits and pieces. She was in hospital a lot so I don’t have the normal childhood memories of her at home.”

  “Oh,” I whisper. Tears come to my eyes before I even realise what’s happening.

  ‘It’s okay,” he says, hesitantly putting his arm around my shoulder. “My aunts and uncles have filled in the gaps. I feel like I know her even though I really don’t.” He smiles. “I’m sure it’s the same for you.”

  I shake my head. “No, not really. I don’t have any aunts or uncles,” I say, wondering how I can change the conversation to something a bit more positive.

  “What happened to your mum?” he asks, before I can think of something else to talk about.

  “An accident.”

  “What happened?” He winces as soon as he’s said it. “I’m sorry. That’s personal. I should have thought before—”

  “It’s fine, honestly.” I smile up at him to show him it’s true and I’m not just saying that. “She was in an accident when she was away touring.”

  “Touring? Was she in a band?”

  “No. She was an actress.” I smile as long-forgotten images float back into my head. They’re not memories—I know that now. I told Dad about them when I was a teenager and he was dismissive, telling me they must be daydreams because I’d never seen her on stage. But to me they’re real.

  “Oh wow. Theatre, then?”

  I nod.

  “What kind of stuff was she in? Was it here in town?”

  I shrug. “I actually don’t know. I’ve never looked into it.”

  “Doesn’t your father have old posters and stuff?”

  I shake my head. “He doesn’t really like to talk about her.”

  “That’s a bit selfish.”

  I baulk, unexplainably stung by the fact that a stranger has just criticised Dad—even though we’re not that close anymore.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean anything bad by it.”

  “No, it’s okay.” I frown. I’ve never thought about it like that before, but he has a point. “You’re right, actually.”

  I’ve always thought it was fair enough that Dad didn’t like talking about her, but don’t I have a right to know more about her? All I have are a few pictures of her buried in a box somewhere in my flat. I feel a rush of guilt: what kind of daughter makes no effort to learn more about her mother?

  “Maybe you should push him. It’s your story too, not just his.” He pulls his arm away and the full extent of the cold hits me again. “Your drink is finished. Shall I go get us two more?”

  Ellie

  Sunday

  I wake up and blink, smacking my lips as I try to figure out why there’s a slightly sour taste in my mouth. Last night comes back to me in snippets as I squeeze my eyes closed and take slow shallow breaths in the hope that the hangover doesn’t come.

  It doesn’t, to my surprise. Maybe it’s because my liver has had a chance to heal itself. After the market, we moved to a cosy bar just off High Street. I’d never been there before—I’m not sure I’d ever even noticed it. We chatted for a few hours over drinks. Nathan was the perfect gentleman and made sure to put me in a taxi before he left. I would have liked to ask him back for a drink, but I suppose I should be glad we left it the way we did. I don’t want this to be a casual fling.

  I stare up at the ceiling and replay the date in my mind. I’m soon distracted by the little spots of black. Mould. It’s coming through the paint again like it does every year, thanks to the damp and my flat’s unreliable heating system. I’ll have to scrub it with bleach when I get time.

  I can’t complain. There aren’t a lot of rentals in town and the rent hasn’t gone up in years. This place is a bit of a dump but I’m sure if the owner maintained it better he’d put the rent up and it’s already more than I can afford. So who cares about a bit of mould if it means I can get out of this town sooner than if I lived in a nicer place?

  There’s only one way my life is going to improve and that’s by moving somewhere else. And the only way to do that is by putting in as many hours as I can at my call centre job. I begged my dad to loan me the money to get away from here, but he doesn’t believe in handouts. Things haven’t been the same between us since I dropped out of uni—that was just one disappointment too many for him.

  I sigh and throw off the covers. It’s Sunday, which means I’m due over at Dad’s house for lunch. I’m not sure either of us enjoys the small talk and long silences, but I don’t have anything else to do. Besides, it’ll stop me from sitting at home waiting for Nathan to text.

  Dad’s house is on one of the better streets in town. It’s lined with detached houses on either side, with well-manicured front gardens filled with tall trees put there to keep prying eyes out. Everywhere you look it’s pristine. There’s no worst house on this street: they’re all perfect. I walk quickly. This is the street I grew up on, but there’s no pull of familiarity. I never felt like I belonged here.

  I stop with my hand on the gate as last night’s conversation with Nathan floats back to me. I know so little about Mum it’s embarrass
ing. I could tell Nathan thought that was weird. What’s wrong with me? Why have I never been curious to know more about her than the few scraps of detail Dad has told me?

  I pull open the gate and hurry up the path. It’s a double-fronted house with ornate pillars holding up the porch, a huge place for just one person. It’s a beautiful house, but for some reason I despise it. I always have.

  I press the doorbell.

  I do have a key somewhere, but I’ve not seen it in ages. Besides, this is a routine. It’s not like I’m going to turn up at noon on a Sunday and find he’s not here.

  Although…

  The memory of meeting him last night comes back to me and I frown. It’s just not like him to break his usual routine. What’s going on? Is there something I missed? I’ve been so caught up in my own problems that I haven’t paid much attention to Dad lately.

  “Ellie. Good to see you.”

  I smile. There’s nothing forced about it. It’s not like I don’t love him—I do. No matter what happened, he’s still my dad. He’s strict with money and set in his ways. Refusing me a loan was nothing personal—I know that logically even though I can’t help resenting him for it sometimes. My life would be a whole lot different right now if he had put his principles aside just once and lent me the money to get out of here. “Hi Dad.”

  I follow him into the house. There’s a delicious cooking smell in the air and my mouth starts to water.

  Dad walks through the house and into the kitchen. It’s a stark space, just like the rest of the house. No photos. No artwork or trinkets.

  “Why do you have no photos of her?” I ask suddenly. I’m not even aware of forming the question in my head: it just came shooting out of my mouth.

  He turns. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Why do you have no photos hanging up? Of Mum?”

  He tosses an oven glove from one hand to the other a few times before he answers. “Because I gave you all the photos I had,” he says with as much emotion as somebody might use to tell you that the weather’s been changeable today. “Come on. Sit down. I did the carrots with garlic and honey. Your favourite.”

  Dad stacks his cutlery neatly to the side of his plate. “Don’t you like it?”

  “It’s lovely. I just…” The truth is I was miles away. I’m not really sure what I was thinking about—all these thoughts are swirling around in my head and I can’t really make sense of any of them. Maybe the mulled wines and beers from last night hit me harder than I thought.

  “Come on. You’ve barely touched your food.”

  “I’ll try and eat more in a while.” I look at my plate. The meat is perfectly cooked. The roast potatoes are fluffy on the inside and crispy on the outside. I’m hungry, but I’m struggling to even get a few morsels down.

  I swallow. I can’t avoid it any longer. “Dad, can I ask you something?”

  “Yes.” He says it warily, like he knows he’s not going to like what I’m about to ask.

  I think about telling him it’s nothing and changing the subject, but then I remember what Nathan said last night. I have a right to know about her.

  “It’s about Mum,” I say, clearing my throat to try and distract myself from how nervous I’ve suddenly become.

  “What about her?”

  “Well, I don’t have any memories of her.”

  “Of course you don’t. You were two when it happened.”

  “When what happened?”

  He shoves his plate away. “You know what happened. We’ve talked about this before. What’s this about, Ellie?”

  The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. I know I should change the subject, but I can’t. I need to know.

  “Do you have any videos of her performances? Or home videos of us?”

  His eyes widen. “No. No, I don’t.”

  “What about posters or programmes?”

  “Posters?”

  “From her shows,” I whisper.

  He flushes. “No. I’m sorry, Ellie, but I was never one for fancy cameras or the latest video equipment. If I had known what was coming, perhaps I might have done things differently.”

  I squeeze my eyes closed as a horrible feeling of guilt washes over me. It’s not fair to stir this all up again. “I’m sorry, Dad. I just… I feel like I know nothing about her. Maybe if I knew more about her I’d have a better sense of direction.”

  He scowls. “That’s nonsense and you know it. You can’t blame your failures on your mother. You only have yourself to blame.”

  I flinch. “I’m not trying to blame her.”

  “What then? What possible benefit could there be to dredging all of this up?”

  “All of this? It’s my past. I have a right to know who I am.”

  He sighs. “The past doesn’t define you. You were a little girl. I didn’t want your childhood to be all misery and mourning.”

  “Couldn’t there have been a happy middle ground? We didn’t have to talk about her every day, but pretending she never existed?” My voice rises to a high-pitched squeak. “It’s embarrassing, not knowing anything about where I come from.”

  He shakes his head in a way that I’ve become very familiar with. It’s the look that says he’s disappointed in me. “Ellie, does this have anything to do with the lad I saw you with last night?”

  “Do you think he went back in time and convinced you not to tell me anything about Mum?”

  His face tightens. He throws his napkin on the table. “There’s no need to be sarcastic. You know very well what I meant. Isn’t it convenient that the last time you showed any interest at all in your mother was around the time you started seeing Mikey? And we both know how well that turned out.”

  My pulse rings in my ears. I stare at Dad, unable to believe what I’ve just heard.

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean,” he mutters.

  Tears fill my eyes and my heart pounds. He knew? He knew all this time and he never said anything? I shake my head. I can’t believe this. I just assumed from the way Dad keeps to himself that he hadn’t heard.

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” I whisper. “I went through hell last year. I didn’t think you… you…”

  This changes everything. The fact that he’s never bothered to ask me means he believed Mikey’s lies just like everyone else.

  “You never even liked him,” I hiss. “But you still believed his lies. Why didn’t you ask me for my side?” I shove my chair back, not caring that it scrapes against the tiles and makes a horrible scratching sound.

  “Ellie, sit down. It wasn’t like that. It—”

  “It’s fine,” I say through bitter tears. “Next time he’ll kill me, but that’ll be a relief to you, won’t it?”

  “What are you talking about, Ellie? Sit down, would you?”

  “No,” I snap. “No, I won’t. I’m sick of this horrible town and everyone in it.” I turn and bolt towards the door. I can’t be around him anymore. I’m not sure I can ever look at him again after what he’s just admitted.

  As I move past the kitchen counter, something shiny catches my eye. Even though I’m more upset with him than I’ve ever been before, I can’t help but stop. The warm glittering gold is so out of place here in this horrid cold house.

  I bend down and pick it up. It’s a gold bracelet. I don’t know much about jewellery but it looks old. Antique. It’s elegant and pretty. I turn back around to him slowly, not understanding. Dad’s never mentioned a girlfriend and there’s no other trace of her here. Should I be surprised he hasn’t said? Probably not after today’s revelation. I knew we weren’t close, but even I’m surprised by the distance between us.

  “Does your girlfriend know you’re the type of man who assumes the worst about his own daughter?” A horrible thought flashes through my head. I forget my hurt for a moment and take a step closer to him. I already know the answer to the question in my mind, but I can’t stop myself from saying it. “Does she even know y
ou have a daughter?”

  “Give that here,” he snaps, tearing it from my hand. “You’re jumping to conclusions. The real estate agent must have dropped it.”

  “You’re selling?”

  “Thinking about it.”

  I grit my teeth. “You never said.”

  “It never came up,” he says, not meeting my eyes. “I haven’t made up my mind yet. I’d have told you if I’d made a decision and things were further along.”

  I shake my head. The shock has gone, leaving only emptiness behind it. Of course he didn’t tell me. When’s the last time we had an actual conversation about anything? All we ever do is make small talk.

  “I’ll see you next week,” he calls after me as I hurry to the door.

  “I have a better idea,” I say without looking back. “Why don’t you invite Mikey instead?”

  I know it’s childish, but I couldn’t help it. It hurts so much that he never came to me. I’m sure nobody wants to confront their child about something like that, but isn’t the alternative worse? Just accepting it? I slam the door behind me.

  Why didn’t he just ask?

  5

  John

  John Cartwright wasn’t sure what time it was, but he did know hours had passed since his blowup with Ellie: it had grown dark outside now.

  He sighed and stared at the bracelet on the coffee table in front of him. He couldn’t believe he’d been so careless. Why hadn’t he cleaned the place up before Ellie came? He’d had a lot going on, but that was no excuse.

  He reached for his glass and took another long draught of whisky. He wasn’t a big drinker, but even he could appreciate the honeyed flavour of it as it burned its way down his throat. It had been sitting in the cabinet in the dining room for years, probably, a gift from a supplier.

  He put down his glass and shook his head. Look at me, he thought. Drinking alone on a Sunday evening. Tea wouldn’t have cut it after the conversation he’d had with Ellie.

  The bracelet caught his eye again and he cursed it. As if things weren’t bad enough. He got up and grabbed it, shoving it in his pocket. He could only imagine the conclusions she’d jumped to. He hadn’t been able to think of an excuse quickly enough.