It’s so dim in the kitchen that at first I don’t notice Mum in her usual seat at the table. Only when she speaks do I jump and swing round to face her. Her hair is greasy and unwashed, her face pallid. More pressingly, she looks enraged.
“What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?”
I’m taken aback. The last couple of days have seen a fragile armistice settle between us, and I’ve grown used to the overly polite, stiff interactions we have whenever we accidentally encounter each other.
“What are you talking about?”
“What have youdoneto yourself?”
Her eyes sweep upward. My hair. I’ve been so caught up with thoughts of Jack, I’d forgotten my fabulous new look. Whoops. I could’ve played this one better, eased her into it by softening the blow with news of Dad. I’ve shocked her, and—with her lifestyle—a heart attack is not beyond the realm of possibility. I’d rather not have her death on my conscience as well. I hold out my hands in a conciliatory gesture. If there was ever a time for subservience, it is now.
“I just thought I’d try something new.”
“You knew exactly what you were doing.” This is not good. Her voice has taken on that quiet fury that always spells danger.
“I spoke to Dad earlier,” I say quickly, and her mouth—open and ready to spew vicious vitriol—closes again. It takes her a while to collect herself. When she speaks, the words sound strangled.
“Sorry. It looks lovely.”
I bestow on her a kind, appreciative smile. “Thanks, Mum.”
A pause as she wrestles with herself.
“So…your father?”
“Just a quick chat,” I say cheerfully. “Mainly just complaining about the wife, you know how it is.” I lower my voice like I am letting her in on a big secret, knowing full well that my faux pas with the hair requires a grand gesture. “Between you and me, I think they might be having problems.”
And there it is. A hungry flare in her eyes. If I’d been concerned that any leverage I had with Mum was waning, I’m not anymore. She’s still just as invested. Just as in love.
“It could just be a bad patch, of course.” Important to cover my back. Just in case.
“Of course,” she echoes. She sits, staring into space, as she processes this new information, then stands, mutters something about a shower—probably a good idea—and leaves the room.
I wait for her bedroom door to close before rummaging in the fridge for something to eat.
—
The encyclopedia iswaiting for me on my bed when I go upstairs. My good mood, which has been dissipating rapidly since I tried and failed to overcome my fear of the bacteria on Mum’s disgusting kitchen surfaces, dips further. I’m starving, Jack hasn’t messaged yet, and now this.
I recognize it instantly. Another reminder, placed right in the center of the bed, where she’s sure I’ll see it. Punishment for my new hairstyle, I’m sure of it. Underhand tactics from her, but effective nonetheless.
The encyclopedia is showing its age. The cover is faded, the paper thinner and more delicate than I remember. I pull my sleeve over my hand again and flip it open. There it is. Dad’s messy scrawl across the flyleaf.
To my favorite little explorer. Stay curious.
I recall, with startling clarity, how his large finger would hover over a word as I struggled to pronounce it. None of us knew what was coming for us. We should have made the most of those times, but they slipped away, as everything does.
This book was the prelude to change. If only we’d known it then. Perhaps things would have been different.
Nine
My relationship withMarcie changed one afternoon when we were eight. By then, I knew the natural order of things. Small fault lines had traveled down the center of our perfect family, diving us into two unequal halves. It was Mum and Marcie, Dad and me. You can guess who held the greater influence.
Perhaps that’s not entirely fair. Mum did try harder with me in those days. At some point over the four years since we’d started primary school, Dad had set aside his role as our live-in peacekeeper and called her out for the flagrant favoritism she showed Marcie. Mum cried, relived the trauma of my birth, and went to therapy. Things were better after that. More balanced, though she still reserved those special, love-laden looks for Marcie alone.
It made sense, I suppose. Marcie was free-spirited, outgoing, and extroverted, which made her easy to love. I was not those things. I liked order. I liked routine. I liked to know when my next meal was coming and what it was. I liked to map out my days, and coordinate my toys, and learn about how things worked. I had a tendency to become fixated and could be obsessive in my interests.
This was useful for my relationship with Dad. He grew up a farmer’s son and never quite lost his affinity for the natural world. It gave me the perfect in, so I pretended to love it, too. I learned as much as I possibly could in my spare time: the difference between a great tit and a blue tit, a wood louse and a pill millipede, cow parsley and hemlock. And it worked. Dad was thrilled. He bought me a large encyclopedia for my seventh birthday, and it quickly became my most treasured possession.
