‘Oh my God, Ilovethis song!’ she shouts from the bedroom. ‘Greaseis one of my favourite films ofalltime.’
‘Mine too!’ I call back. ‘A well-a well-a well-a, ooh!’
I pour us both a shaky glass as we sing loudly in unison and bring it to her in the bedroom. I haven’t drunk this much alcohol in ages. I know I shouldn’t, it’s really not good for me, but whatever, I’m enjoying myself. I can’t remember when I last had such a fun night out, and I really could do with a new friend – or any friend, for that matter. It’s difficult to admit – even to myself – that I’m desperately lonely.
When we finally stop belting out the film soundtrack some minutes later, she props herself up on her elbow, pats the space next to her on the duvet, gestures for me to join her. I flop down onto the bed, kick my shoes off and listen out for the thud as they hit the wooden floor.
‘Do you mind me asking what happened to your parents?’
The question instantly takes the edge off my happy buzz. I know there’s no way around it though. ‘The only way out of anything, Erin, is through it.’ I hear my therapist’s words again and take a breath.
‘My father died when I was four years old, from prostate cancer. He was from Venezuela, originally. Sometimes I think I have memories of him, but perhaps they’re just fantasies I created in my mind based on the things Mum told me about him. And my mum…’ I pause. ‘My mum died a week after my thirteenth birthday. She was killed by her partner.’
Her eyes widen.
‘Oh, Jesus, Erin… That’s some seriously heavy shit, hun.’
I laugh.
‘Yeah,no shit.’
‘Listen, we really don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to…’ She taps a floppy hand against my arm, lets it rest there.
‘It’s fine,’ I say, even though it isn’t. Having to have this conversation is the miserable legacy I’m left with.
‘He stabbed her through the heart in a moment of rage during one of their many arguments and she died almost instantly, right there, on the kitchen floor, in front of me.’
She looks suitably horrified.
‘Oh. My. God! That’s just awful… that’s just so…horrible.Did he hurt you too?’
‘No. Never. To the outside world, he appeared to be the perfect partner and stepdad. He was covert, you know, the worst kind of abuser? The kind that no one would believe it of. But there was this darkness in him, this demon that would rear its ugly head, and Mum, she was always on the receiving end of it, everything was always her fault.’
‘Yes,’ – she lowers her eyes and looks away – ‘I understand.’ But I wonder if she really does, or if anyone does, for that matter, unless they’ve been through something similar themselves.
‘We had a barbecue the night it happened. It was a glorious summer’s evening, a lot like tonight, I s’pose, balmy and warm, the air perfumed by the jasmine in our back garden, the kind of summer night you don’t ever want to end, and definitely not how it did…’
Other than to my therapist, I haven’t really spoken about what happened that night in detail to anyone, but I’m surprised how naturally and easily the words find me as I talk to her.
‘I can’t remember how the argument started between them, it was something and nothing, like it always was, I’m sure. They’d been drinking at the barbecue – he was a heavy drinker – but Mum, well, I think he – the abuse – drove her to drink more over the years.’
She’s searching my face with her eyes as I speak.
‘He was holding this metal spatula at the time, and he hit her with it, smacked her right round the face. The sickening sound it made, of the metal making contact with her skin, it still triggers me today.’ I shudder, close my eyes in a bid to distance myself from the memory.
‘She told me to go upstairs then, and that was code for she was going to get a beating and to stay out of the way. And so I went up to my room, put my headphones on. I remember at the time I was listening to the song, “Keep on Movin’” by Soul II Soul…’ I start to sing it, softly, badly probably, and she nods, joins in with me for a moment. Her singing voice is much nicer than mine, melodic and pretty.
‘I could still hear them going at it though, even with the headphones on and the volume cranked up. I figured they would run out of steam soon enough, like they usually did, but I felt so powerless, so helpless,so angry…’
She takes hold of my hand, squeezes it tightly. ‘I’m sure you did…’
‘The row seemed to go on for hours. I wanted to climb out of the window and go next door, ask them to phone the police,again.Not thattheyever did anything, the police, I mean, useless bastards.’ I snort, pushing back tears and contempt. ‘They let him gosomany times. Mum would never press charges against him anyway. She was too scared of the repercussions, and honestly…’ I turn on my side to face her, our noses practically touching. ‘I think, in spite of everything, she actually stilllovedhim, still believed it could all just work out if she hung on in there a little longer, if she was just more of this and less of that, and vice versa. If she could just get him some help, if he could only battle through whatever his demons were, then he’d be the good man she knew he could be again.’ I inhale, deeply. ‘It’s like those people you see playing the slot machines in Las Vegas, you know, who sit there, putting coin after coin in the sloton autopilot. Maybe thenextcoin will be the one that’ll win big… And perhaps, every now and again, maybe youdoget a win, and this gives you intermittent reinforcement that you really could hit the jackpot,if you just keep playing, and so it goes on, coin after coin after coin… until eventually you run out of money – or die, in my mum’s case.’
She’s nodding, her head cocked, her face a picture of empathy.
‘After a while I couldn’t take it anymore, the sound of screaming and glass smashing. And so I stomped down the stairs in a huff. I remember being a bit scared, but also angry, you know? Like, why can’t we just be a normal family, and why won’t he stop and why won’t she stop him and…?’ My guts are churning as I speak. I don’t want to put myself back there, in that dreadful moment, but I can’t stop now.
‘I saw them through the kitchen door from the stairs – he had her on the floor. I could see her legs kicking violently back and forth and I remember thinking,Oh God, he’s strangling her! He’s killing her!I think I shouted, “Stop!” or “Mum!” or both maybe, but then Mum was up on her feet and… I didn’t actually see the knife go into her. She had her back to me at the time, but I saw it, shiny, in his hand and I saw his arm come down.’ I pause, close my eyes and try not to visualise. ‘She fell backwards, straight, like a tree. And then… then I saw the blood.’ I hear the crack of emotion in my voice, my tears imminent. ‘It was… it was just soquick…’
