Chapter 22
That evening, when I glance out of my bedroom window and into the drizzling gray rain, I see one of the saddest sights ever—Joy, her rails all tucked in, her windows and skylights all shut, her adapter cable and wire stretching to the side of the house as she charges up. I catch a glimpse of Luke through the lit-up window, and see him wrapping mugs and hooking cupboards shut. I imagine Betty curled up on the sofa, and his music playing, and all the activities that go on before Joy embarks on a journey.
They are familiar routines to me now, usually both comforting and exciting—routines that signify the next leg of our travels. Routines that are the boring prelude to drawing a scrunched-up piece of paper out of a baseball cap, planning a route, finding a random stone circle to visit or a fairy glen to swim in. Routines that mean,Yay, we’re hitting the road again, and who knows where that will take us?Now the road will only be taking us in different directions. Now it means saying goodbye.
Tonight, as I watch him go about his business, those routines signal none of the fun stuff—at least not for me. It is the end of an era—though, admittedly, a very short era. I am grateful forhaving had it, that brief spell of freedom, and also grateful for where it led me—back to my real home, back to my family. To people I love, people I have missed. It has given me the chance to forgive and be forgiven.
Solemnly, I close my curtains against the dying evening light and make my way downstairs for dinner. I offered to cook for my parents, but they said they couldn’t face beans on toast yet again and would take their turn tonight.
It has been a day of bittersweet goodbyes, I think, as I walk slowly down the stairs. I have lost both of the men in my life, and that will take some time to settle—but I also have to remember what I have gained. I am back in Foxgloves, which I never thought was possible. I am in my mum and dad’s lives, which is a complicated but joyous thing. I can make up for lost time, be the daughter they need, and even rebuild my own life. I can start afresh, older, wiser, more useful. I am only young, still, no matter what Charlie says—and I have a lot of life left to live. I will do at least some of it here, in this beautiful place I can now call home again.
I have been giving myself pep talks like this all afternoon, and as I make my way toward the shiny new kitchen, I am halfway to believing it. Maybe a third of the way, at least.
I amble through the hallway, Frank coming to greet me. He snuffles at my hand but seems subdued, and I wonder if he understands, on some basic doggie level, that Betty is leaving us, or if I’m just projecting my own feelings onto a big, slobbery fur-baby. Both are possible. I find my parents sitting at the dining table, mugs of tea in front of them. There is no food apparent, which momentarily disappoints me, until I realize that I actually have very little appetite at all.
“Jennifer,” my mother says seriously, “please join us.”
I immediately wonder what I have done wrong, and glance at my dad to try to find a clue—my mother is always inscrutable. She is absolutely impossible to scrute, whatever that may be.
“Don’t worry, love,” he supplies, gesturing to the chair across from them, “it’s nothing bad!”
He might say that, but as I take a seat, with both of them facing me, I can’t help feeling that it is. I suppose it might at least be good practice for a job interview. I do hope they’re not going to ask me where I see myself in ten years’ time, because, frankly, I have no idea.
“So, we’ve been having a chat,” he continues, his arms folded on the table in front of him, “your mum and me. And we’ve decided that we’re kicking you out.”
“What?” I splutter, not quite believing what I’m hearing. “What do you mean? Why? What have I done?!”
I am a fraction of a second away from adding, “But it’s not fair!” when my mother holds up a placating hand. She has a slight smile on her lips, which, for her, is almost a belly laugh, and she says: “Now, now, none of that! First of all, we don’t actually mean exactly that—if you really want to stay here with us, then we would be delighted to have you. Your father is simply indulging in his flair for the dramatic.”
“Guilty as charged,” he admits, looking sheepish.
“Well, what do you mean then?” I ask, frowning. “I know I’ve been gone a long time. I don’t blame you if you’re still upset, but I thought we were working through it. I thought you were glad I’d come back...”
“It’s nothing like that, silly child,” she replies dismissively. “Of course we’re glad you came back! This has been complicated for all of us, but I never want you to doubt that you walking back into our lives was the best thing that has happened to us fora very long time. We’ve loved having you here—but we simply don’t think you should stay.”
“But I want to stay!” I reply, still beyond confused at what she is trying to explain. “I want to be here with you two. I want to be part of your lives. I want to help when Dad has his surgery.”
My mum nods briskly and picks up her phone from the table. She finds what she is looking for and holds the screen up to me. I look, and see a photo of a middle-aged woman with curly brown hair and a big smile.
“Um... she looks nice? How is that relevant?”
“This is Elaine,” she says, putting the phone down again. “She’s a fully qualified nurse, experienced in the cardio wards in several hospitals, now working privately. She is the person we have already interviewed, already decided we like, and already asked to come and help us after your father’s bypass. Don’t take this the wrong way, Jenny, but I suspect she’ll be more useful.”
It is a lot to take in, and it has been a tough day, and I am tender—it is difficult not to take it the wrong way. “You’re saying that you don’t need me here? Don’t want me here?”
“You’re half right, sweetie,” my dad chips in. “Of course we want you here—but we don’t need you here. Those are two very different things, aren’t they? I appreciate that you want to stick around and help out your old pops, but it’s really not necessary.”
I pause and look at their faces. Their new lines, their new wrinkles, their new strands of gray and silver. But when I look beyond that, I see them as they used to be—just as my parents.
“Look,” I say, laying my hands on the table, “I hear what you’re saying, and I appreciate it, but I think I should stay. I’ve been away for long enough, and I want to make up for it.”
“Jenny, darling,” my mum replies earnestly, “that was all so long ago, and it was as much our fault as it was yours—a marvelousteam effort by the whole family, in fact! I hope you know that whatever we did, we did for the best of reasons—we were trying to protect you. But we went about it in such a terrible fashion, we really did—we got everything wrong, and we have never regretted anything more. We see now how well you’ve done, how fabulously you’ve raised Charlie, and we feel nothing but pride. But you are, and always will be, our baby, and we still only want one thing—for you to be happy. And neither of us thinks that staying here with us is what will make you happy.”
“It will, Mum—I have a job interview and everything! I can be happy here, I know I can. I promise I’ll try!”
The two of them look at each other and share a smile. “We don’t want you to have to try,” Dad says. “We want you to just be happy. And we think you will be, if you go with Luke.”
“If I go with Luke?” I echo, not at all sure of what they are trying to say.
