I can’t rememberthe last time my body trembled this much with anxiety. Even when I was about to kiss Callie, I wasn’t nervous, I was calm. Settled. It felt right, and I knew it was right the moment our lips met.
But this? It’s pure internal chaos, sure enough. Callie was right when she said my life sounded that way. Itwastumultuous to not know when my parents would be home or when I would need to feed myself, when they would take off for a weekend that would turn into a week, when they would forget to pack my lunch or do the wash. I was fortunate growing up. I never questioned whether I was loved. But I did question whether I was remembered.
Dad nudges the door open with his toe, and Mum is sitting on the bed watching the telly. She glances up and her brow furrows. “What’s this, then?”
“Gavin wants to chat.”
“Now? We’re going to sleep.”
The lights are all on, the television is on, and she was just handed a cup of tea. I think she can handle five minutes. I close the door, then take a seat in the armchair tucked into the corner.
“Can you mute this?” I ask. “Or turn it off?”
My parents exchange a glance.
“What is it, Gav?” Mum asks, reaching for the remote. The room goes silent when she powers down the telly, the faint rumble of distant chatter emphasizing the quiet in here.
How do I even begin? There were no lessons on this. Nothing to help me know how exactly to jump into the deep sea that will be this turbulent conversation. I inhale, filling my lungs entirely. Surely there is a way to bring up the campervan without entirely throwing Grandad under the bus.
“What happened to your campervan?”
“We sold it,” Dad says. “Found a chap willing to pay in cash. Can you believe it? Got a good penny from it, too.”
“That’s great. Are you planning to stay for a while, then?”
Mum scoffs. “We couldn’t stay in one place ever again. Not now that we’ve tasted travel.”
“So you must be using that money to buy a new one.”
“Well, now that you mention it, we ought to talk about it. We’d hoped to wait until everyone left.” Dad puts his tea on the little bedside table and sits on the edge of the mattress. “We were growing too cramped in the other one. It was time for an update. More space, a nicer oven, perhaps. Newer toilet wouldn’t go amiss.”
“I see.”
“And we figured you wouldn’t want your parents driving around in an old clunker.”
“I didn’t think it was a clunker,” I tell them. The campervan they had was basic, but it was fully functioning. They hadn’t called me to cover any repair costs, at least.
“But if you helped us buy a nicer one, we could use it for the rest of our lives,” Mum says, sitting up now. “Think of it as a better investment.”
They’re in their fifties. I’m not buying the idea that they can use one vehicle for the next thirty or forty years. Or that they’llwant to. At some point, they could change their minds and want a regular house again.
“Dad, you can work again.”
“I am working, Gav. Remember? I’ll be writing that book.”
Good grief. The book. “Right, but I mean something with a steady wage while you work on that.”
He shakes his head. “It’ll take all my free time, I wager.”
I don’t know how to get through to them. Weariness settles over my bones, and I imagine us having this conversation every three years for the rest of my life. The money fromLeo and Johnnie’s BBC show will dry up eventually. Even with the way I’m investing, there are no promises. I’m not the CEO of Greggs, guaranteed never to go out of business.
Another show will come along and boot me out of the way eventually.Blueystill reigns supreme in the children’s entertainment world, though we are a close second here in the UK.
“I can’t do this forever.” The words tear from me, scared out of my mouth by the vision of having to manage my parents for the rest of my life. I picture boundaries being drawn around myself, safely keeping me protected, and draw strength from that. “It is not my responsibility to pay for everything. I’ll give you…I can help pay part of the way toward a new campervan because you need one, but I can’t buy it outright for you. I won’t sign on the lease.”
My parents stare, eyes wide, mouths pinched closed.
I continue. “It’s hard to be the only child of a mum and dad who don’t communicate unless they want something from me. It’s hard not knowing when you’ll be here or when you’ll leave. I have no sense of continuity, and I’m very often alone. It would mean a lot to me if we could open the lines of communication better, if you could tell me when to expect you.”
