I gasp at that last sentence. I don’t think I’ve ever heard those words come out of my mother’s mouth. I’m not sure I thought they even flitted through her head.
When I came home, I collected all the bottles I’d hidden around the house, including the ones on my dressing table that looked as if they were make-up remover but were actually gin, and I threw it all down the sink. Then I went online and found my nearest AA meeting. I went that night, and I’ve been going four to five times a week since, sometimes in person, sometimes online. That was just over eight months ago. I even got a chip for that last Tuesday.
I wanted to thank you. That’s why I’m writing this letter. You gave me a wake-up call. I want to do better, be better. But I know we’ve been here before, and you’ve heard this all from me before – well, some of it – but I wanted you to know it’s different this time. I don’t expect you to believe that, but it is. I suppose only time will tell which of us is right about this.
And I suppose that brings me to the point of writing this letter. I’ve been going through the ‘big book’, doing the twelve steps, and I’ve got to the one where I need to say sorry, to make amends, and I would very much like to meet up with you, so I can do that face-to-face. If you feel you can, please give me a call or send me a text. I’m still at the same number. You know where I live.
Lots of love,
Mum x
I don’t know what to do. She’s right: we’ve been here before. She’s said a lot of this before. But it’s the things that she’s never said that give me a worrying glimmer of hope. It’s easier not to hope, because it’s exhausting to wait and believe, always wondering when the other shoe it going to drop. Part of the relief in going no-contact was that I’d ended that cycle. I told myself I didn’t care anymore.
I could meet with her. She might say all the right things. But it’s also highly likely she will not, that she will continue with her blaming and gaslighting, her complete lack of ability to take responsibility for anything, that she would attack me because she became painfully aware of the wounds she has caused me, blaming me for making her feel bad about them, and I just don’t know if I can do that anymore.
I stare at the crumpled piece of blue paper I’m holding. It looks as if it has been folded and unfolded many times, and yet, as I scan back through my journal, I can find no hint I have ever acted on it, that I’ve contacted my mother since the day I blocked her on everything. I even go back through my journals for previous years and discover a note marking the day the letter arrived sixteen months ago.
Obviously, I didn’t know about this letter on our last anniversary, because we were in Venice and my journal was tucked away safely back home, possibly even in this house, because I think we may have moved in fourteen months after we originally did. Glancing through the pages of my life held in these bullet journals, I get the impression that the sale to whoever else wanted it fell through and the house was put back on the market again just as we were ready for it.
We could’ve bought something bigger with the deposit Lukegot flipping houses, but I’m glad we didn’t. Even if we let go of this house one day, I’m happy to be here now. One more change may be too much.
I fold the letter back up and tuck it in the pocket at the back of the journal, then place the journal back on the stack of notebooks at the side of the desk, ready for the next day. As I do so, I catch the sparkle of diamonds and emeralds of my new eternity ring. New to me, anyway. Not all change is bad. As I think back to my blueberry pancakes, I remind myself that some change is very, very good.
I trace over the tiny stones with the pad of my index finger, feeling the bumps and curving lines of the design. I don’t need to decide anything about my mother right now. I stand with the Jess who’s been living this life much more fully than I have, the one who made these notes. I’ll let her make the call because I have something much more important to focus on.
This year is our iron anniversary. This year we are strong. We are unbreakable. And I’m going to enlist every ounce of the magic in this ring to keep it that way.
CHAPTER FORTY
LUKE
Twelve Weeks Before the Anniversary Party
‘What do you think?’ He pushes his iPad across the desk so she can see better.
She twists the case to avoid glare from the bright March afternoon sun coming through the office windows and concentrates on the image in the centre of the screen, then flicks through a few more.
‘It’s our tenth anniversary, and tin didn’t seem very sexy, so I did a bit of rooting around on the internet and found this artist who does one-of-a-kind pieces in pewter. I was blown away, it’s just … ’ How does he say this without sounding disloyal or pathetic? It’s a point of shame for him that he used to be so good at knowing what Jess wanted, what she’d like, but now he can’t seem to get anything right. ‘This is a bit out there. I suppose I just need a second opinion, and I thought you’d be the perfect person to give it.’
Hannah smiles at him. ‘Luke … This is stunning! So different. I know I’d love to receive something like this.’
‘But what about Jess? Do you think she’ll like it?’
Hannah studies the images again. ‘I … I think so. Like you say, it’s hard to tell with her sometimes.’
He nods slowly. That’s his problem. And it feels important that he gets this year’s present right. He found last year’s pottery figurine behind the weed killer in the understairs cupboard the other week.
For some reason, it feels as if he and Jess are about to reach a turning point. He doesn’t know how and he doesn’t know why, but there’s been a steady gnawing in his gut that only intensifies as the date of their tenth anniversary grows closer.
‘Hey,’ she says, catching what must be a bleak expression on his face. She comes around the desk and rests a hand on his upper arm. ‘What’s up?’
He lets out a frustrated sigh and runs his hand through his hair, shaking his head. ‘I don’t know. Do you think … do you think I make her happy?’
Hannah pulls back, her hand dropping away. Her face a picture of shock, as if she couldn’t imagine any other reality. ‘Of course! Whywouldn’tyou make the person you’re with happy, Luke?’
But she doesn’t feel the gaping distance he feels even when he’s in the same room as Jess. She doesn’t know the feeling that Jess is in a boat floating away from him, and all he can do is stand helplessly on the bank and watch the current take her.
He clears his throat. ‘Ten years is a long time … people grow apart.’
