I knew what it was. I hadn’t asked the important questions. The ones I had held on to for years. I was too scared to finally get answers. To break this peace I’d found. Asking your mother why she left you is never going to go well. There’s never a right answer. And unlike Nina, I wouldn’t be able to forget and start again. I just wanted us to stay happy – what was so wrong with that?
So I took sweeties, and biscuits and we drank cinnamon tea and played cards and laughed. And we didn’t talk about the things that hurt.
Until my mother looked at me, that sweet smile on her face, and I knew the same question was coming. The question I’d choked on yesterday, and the day before that, and if I was honest, any time anyone had asked me it in the last six months.
‘And do you have any children, Natasha?’
She was sat there, queenlike, her head tilted in expectation of an answer. She wanted to know if she was a grandmother, that’s what she’d said yesterday. And when I’d told her ‘no’ with an attempt at a smile, she said what everyone says: Oh, lots of time yet. Like parenthood is something to be ticked off a list.
I’d already told a lie, about Dad. Why not do it again, just to make my time here less painful? Just to have one moment where I said the thing I wanted to be true?
‘Yes,’ I heard myself saying, and my heart almost broke as I watched her face light up. She clapped her hands together.
‘I’m a grandmother! Tell me, tell me!’
‘I have a son,’ I felt my chest tightening, painful with the half-lie. ‘He’s six months old, almost to the day. He’s with his father right now.’ God, how had it been six months already?
‘Wow, a hands-on daddy, how wonderful. You must be missing him! It’s so hard to leave them at that age,’ a shadow briefly crossed her face, ‘at any age.’
That touched me, that acknowledgement. She knew she was wrong, on some level she knew.
‘Well, I’ll be back home soon,’ I said, and pressed my lips together. I shouldn’t have done it, this was a path I wasn’t ready for. It had felt easier, somehow, to pretend he was still here. But now I was a sad woman telling stories, just like that sixteen-year-old girl pretending to be a delicate flower so Daniel White would save her.
‘Do you have any photos with you?’ Nina asked, leaning forward, her hands clasped as if she worried they’d grab or reach beyond her control.
‘I’ll bring some tomorrow for you Mum,’ I said, desperately hoping that tomorrow she would ask the same question again and I could divert it the way I always did. What if she remembered this? What if it got stuck in her head as the truth, the same way that she thought chocolate cake was my favourite?
‘Oh god, I’m so silly!’ She laughed at herself daintily, hand over her mouth.
When I was a kid she always laughed loudly, mouth wide open until I could see the metal fillings in the back. Her laugh had been obnoxious; I used to cringe and look around when she laughed in public in case she caught someone’s attention. She’d always tell me she didn’t care if people looked, let them fucking look if they wanted, they had boring, small lives anyway.
And here she was now, so demure, so gentle. I wondered how much of it was the Alzheimer’s and how much of it was life. Had she been sanded down and softened in the years since she left? She had still told me so little of what she’d done, where she’d been.
‘What? What’s funny?’ I felt my lips twitch in response, even under the circumstances.
‘I’ve asked you a hundred questions and I didn’t even ask his name! What’s my grandson called, Natasha?’
I pressed my lips together to keep from crying. I didn’t know his name. Naming him made it real and we didn’t want that. We wanted to say goodbye and pretend it had never happened.
I took a breath, and thankfully a staff member came in to tell Mum she had a doctor’s appointment, and to lead her over. I made my excuses, marched out to the car and sat there for twenty minutes wondering why the hell I was so stupid. What had possessed me to lie?
I wanted the daydream, more than anything. I wanted to say out loud that I was a mother, that I had a son. That I had grown this perfect little person within me. But all of that was tarnished by the fact that he wasn’t here anymore.
I called Dan, unsure of anything beyond the fact that I wanted my husband. He was the only person who understood. Except he’d never wanted to talk about the baby. About what happened. And I went along with it, because if he was fine I needed to be fine too.
‘Hey, Taz, you okay?’ He was concerned already, just from a call in the middle of the day.
‘Why didn’t we name him?’ I said, hand across my forehead like I was trying to keep every single memory in there. ‘Why didn’t we do a service, or acknowledge he existed? He was here Dan, he was here and he was ours, and we threw him away…’
I heard him sigh, and then nothing. The click that might have been a closing door, the softness of his voice as he replied.
‘I thought it was what you wanted. A way to keep the pain at bay.’
I shook my head to myself, ‘We should have given him a name. Everyone deserves a name. Proof that they were here once.’
‘What do you want to call him, Taz?’ Dan was using the voice he had when he ‘handled’ me. I’d accused him of it years before, like I was a spooked horse about to bolt, but honestly that voice was the only thing that held me together some days. A low, quiet voice saying that everything would be okay again.
‘Something angelic, something peaceful.’
Dan went quiet and then cleared his throat, ‘I had a name, in my head at the time. Callum. It means “dove” and I thought you’d like that. I’d kind of had all these images of us arguing over different names, compromising eventually, and we never got a chance to do that.’
‘I like it,’ I said gently, echoing the name, rolling it around my mouth like I was trying it out. ‘Callum White.’
I stopped, then laughed, ‘Oh God.’
‘What?’
‘Callum means dove. White. White dove.’ I snorted, ‘Good thing we didn’t burden him with a name like that in life. In death, it’s probably okay.’
I wiped my eyes, taking a few deep breaths. Somehow, now that he had a name, the panic had eased. I could talk to him, I could remember he existed. Callum. My son, Callum. He had been real.
Dan cleared his throat, ‘It broke me too, Taz. I was trying to be strong, but I almost lost you too. I don’t think you realised how close it was. I almost lost you too. And ever since, it’s like I have. Like you’re not really here.’
‘I’ve been at every event, every family meal. I haven’t missed a dinner party or hair appointment or gym class!’ I reeled them off as if I’d known this argument was coming.
‘You know I don’t mean that stuff. I mean you’re not really here.’
I paused, ‘I know.’
‘So will you think about what I said, about the therapy?’ Dan’s voice had changed to his bargaining one. I heard this when he was on his work calls, his I’m-so-reasonable-and-I-care-about-what’s-best-for-you spiel.
Therapy rankled. I’d seen enough school counsellors as a kid to know how much power people had over your life, how much someone with a couple of degrees and problems of their own got to decide what you did. They’d all been so quick to tell me I wasn’t a problem child, that I wasn’t in trouble, they just wanted to be there to support me. And yet if I kept my head down and did my school work, they left me alone. As long as I looked like I was alright, as long as everything seemed perfectly normal, I could get along without their interference.
Looking alright and being alright were different things. And the minute I went home, they didn’t care what kind of mess their interference meant for me – counsellors could send you away, land you in foster care, leave you completely alone. They were the bad guys, Mum always said, always prying into people’s business, playing God like they didn’t have any skeletons in their closets.
It all seemed so m
iddle class, though, therapy, so self-indulgent. Like a form of self care all these early-twenties banker wives had as part of their routine; yoga class, therapy, hair appointment, nails. People who have to listen to you because you’re paying them, but at least your hairdresser isn’t going to tell you to leave your marriage or that you’re inherently unlovable.
I didn’t want someone telling me how to live my life. I’d been looking after myself for most of my childhood, and I looked after Dan from the moment we started our life together. I just needed time to recalibrate. To give myself a break from pretending to be okay. A holiday from being me, that’s what this was. And then I’d go back and be the perfect wife again. I could do it.
‘Taz?’ Dan prompted.
‘I’ll think about it.’ Would I hell.
I remembered those counsellors jumping all over me after Dad died. God, they were desperate for a bit of drama, foaming at the mouth to deal with poor little Natasha, suddenly an orphan, with her boyfriend in prison. All alone again.
And before that, when they called my mum into school to talk about my dirty clothes, and how she ranted and raved at me that she’d been embarrassed, that those people thought she was a bad mother, that they could all go to hell. She said they’d try to take me away if my uniform wasn’t clean, because they’d think I’d been bad. She said I needed to do better, I didn’t want to disappoint her, did I? Didn’t want them to say bad things about my mum?
I took to washing my uniform in the bathroom sink after that, tried to look as neat as possible, but the material never dried properly and I always felt slightly damp. They never did take me away though, moved on to other kids with bigger problems.
‘I’ve got to go, I’ve got a meeting,’ he said gently, and I could hear the regret.
‘Right, of course.’
‘I’m glad you called, though.’
Hope bloomed. ‘I could call you again later, around dinner time?’
‘Ah,’ he paused, awkward, ‘the lads are taking me out for dinner, because they know I’m on my own.’
Poor Daniel, with his embarrassing wife, who shat all over the birthday party he threw for her and ran off to Scotland.
‘Right, of course. That’s nice. Strip clubs and lines of coke?’
‘Steaks and beer,’ he sighed, irritated with me. ‘Anyway—’
‘You’ve got a meeting, right. Speak soon, bye.’ I hung up before he could say anything else, before he could justify, or make me feel guilty for being annoyed. Yes, of course, I’d abandoned him and he could hang out with his friends.
It was just that I hated those banker boys more than anything. I hated how he was with them, how he snorted and yelled and joined in with their crude jokes and Peter Pan energy. Like money didn’t matter and decisions never had consequences.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, sighing. I conjured the sight of my husband all those years ago, walking out of that prison and seeing me, looking at me like I’d been worth it. And then I smiled. Callum. Callum White. At least something made sense.
‘Love, would you mind visiting your mum later in the afternoon? I’ve got a big group coming in now, could do with the help?’ Kit seemed angry at having to ask, as if it was weakness. She was so grouchy about it I almost laughed.
‘Sure, what do you need?’
We worked together well, regimented but rushed, cutting cake and finding display boxes, getting change for the tin. She got the big coffee urn out and dragged it outside, before I chased after and insisted I help. How had Kit managed this long on her own? It was a small farm, sure, but between the animals and the riding lessons, and the events she had booked in, it was busy. Even before the tour buses that stopped by twice a day.
‘Are you okay?’ I asked, and Kit pressed her lips together, switching her little neck scarf from a dull grey one to a tartan one. Scottie McTavish, preparing herself for her time on stage.
‘Don’t fret yourself, I’m just tired. Wondering what I’m going to do with this place when my bones are too creaky to get down those stairs of a morning.’
I shook my head, ‘Do you want me to do the heavy lifting today?’
‘And what about when you’re gone, hen? Back away to London?’
I nodded, rolling my eyes sarcastically, ‘You’re right. No point getting dependent on me if I’m not going to be here.’
‘I’m not dependent on anyone.’
Even though she wasn’t offering, the idea of staying was tempting. Already a week had flown by, and I felt better than I had in years. My arms felt strong from all the lifting, my thighs were sore from the second riding lesson on Winston, which was marginally less terrifying. I had put on weight, really tasting my food, and my face looked less drawn. When I saw myself in the mirror every morning, I marvelled at how healthy I looked, how my skin looked ruddy and tanned. There was dirt under my fingernails and more than anything else, it was the fact I could breathe. I could stand outside the cottage, looking out at those miles and miles of land, the sun hazy behind clouds and I could take deep lungfuls of air. There was no weight on my chest, no worry.
Only the guilt that I was happier without my husband was getting to me, and the sneaky suspicion that we may be better off without each other. That everything he’d been through, we’d been through, was for nothing, because we weren’t actually right for each other.
But I could see my life up here, passing the days in this way. Helping Kit, seeing my mother, laughing with Kit’s friends on Friday nights at the pub. Living a better, simpler life. One without fancy parties or expectation or an insane dedication to money and status.
I was thirty years old and I’d never been alone. I’d fallen in love at sixteen and been with Dan. I’d built homes with him, learnt to cook with him, forgotten to put money on the electric meter, and got stung with bills and learnt to drive, all with him. The idea of starting over on my own was like a flutter, though whether it was excitement or fear, I couldn’t tell.
I could recreate my life to be happier.
But I’d have to do it without my husband.
And that idea felt like something was being ripped from me, like someone taking a liver or a spleen. Something essential.
‘Here they are,’ Kit said, and her voice trembled a little.
‘Are you okay?’
‘I wish people would stop asking me that,’ she rolled her eyes, and charged off to greet the bus, waving her arms wildly with that big grin on her face.
Everyone pretends when they need to.
I milled about, supporting Kit, listening to her stories, directing people to the toilets, explaining what went into the cake and selling little trinkets, tying them in to the stories Kit told. A little girl tugged at my leg and pointed at the alpacas, and I smiled at her, before trying my best to whistle the same way Kit had. It was a little weaker, but Hermione and Neville’s heads turned, and they galloped over to us. I could have sworn I saw pride on Kit’s face, if only for a second, before she turned back to her captive audience.
The girl’s parents thanked me, and I told them all about the alpacas, listened as they talked about how it was their dream to come back to Scotland, how they’d wanted to show their daughter where they met.
The little girl didn’t seem to care much, beyond feeding the alpacas carrots and giggling as they honked their appreciation. Just watching her joy made me feel good.
When the big group left, Kit seemed exhausted, but I felt elevated, energised.
‘You’re good at this, you know,’ she said as we carried the urn back inside and set about cleaning up. ‘You listen to people.’
I shrugged, ‘I didn’t do anything.’
‘That wee girl had been crying before she headed over to you. You made her feel better.’
‘Neville and Hermione made her feel better. She’s a kid. They don’t need much.’
Kit sighed, ‘You’re terrible at taking a compliment, you know?’
‘And you’re the mad old bag from the farm wi
th the wee crazy beasties,’ I replied, in my best attempt at a Scottish accent. Kit guffawed, almost dropping the tray she was cleaning.
‘I’ll miss you when you’re gone, girl.’
‘I’m not heading anywhere yet,’ I said, ‘although maybe Sarah’s closer to accepting the spare room now?’
Kit shrugged, handing me the tray to wash. ‘Sometimes you’ve got to let people hit rock bottom before they climb back up.’
‘A bit like Mum?’
She considered me, frowning slightly. ‘I don’t know hen, we don’t know anything about Nina’s life before she came here. She’s still stuck in the past. Prefers it to now.’
I knew the feeling.
But maybe Kit was right. I’d been enjoying living in Nina’s memories, but I’d been too scared to ask real questions. Every kid wants a great excuse, a reason their parent had to leave them. But there are so few reasons that are good enough.
Some days I asked the same questions and the answers were different. Sometimes they were the same, but I listened to the story again just because I was so pleased to hear it. It was like panning for gold, shaking out the dirt and confusion until I was left with only truth.
There were so many big important questions that I didn’t know how to ask, so I started with the easiest one: what happened to Hammie the hamster?
The first few times I asked she had no idea what I was talking about, couldn’t recall a hamster at all. She got irritable with me, and as I left the nurses were all smiles and sympathy, explaining that this disease robbed people of themselves so gradually, that a few things might fall through the cracks and my mother was dealing with it gracefully.
Most of the time.
I would try to be softer, I promised myself, try not to prod so much.
The next time I acted like I was writing her life story, rather than interviewing for her part in mine. On that visit, she remembered Hammie.
‘Oh, my, the little hamster! I remember when your dad bought him for you, you were so excited!’
The Things That Matter Page 17
