“No?”
“I went to visit your father.”
Up until this point, I’d been sure that—whatever transgression I had inadvertently committed—I would be able to talk my way out of it. Soothe her with news of Dad and his wife’s delinquency, tales of their horrible daughters. That’s not an option now. There is no talking my way out of this one.
She plunges on, voice vibrating with fury. “I thought it might have changed. You and yourscheming. Do you know, I have absolutely no idea who you are? I’m your mother. I’m supposed to knowsomethingabout the person I birthed, but you—it’s like this blank space.”
Bit unfair. At least I’ve got a good sense of humor. I hold my hands out toward her and arrange my face so I look like I might be about to cry. “Please calm down, Mum. It’s not that big a deal.”
It’s critical to defuse this situation as quickly as possible, make it out to be less serious than it is, and I go toward her again, but she raises her hand as though she is going to hit me, backing away as though I am something toxic.
“I know everything, Iris. I know you haven’t spoken to him.”
“Who?” A last-ditch attempt at ignorance. But my acts have never worked with her.
“Don’t. Don’t play the innocent. You know I’m talking about your father. You’ve been lying to me foryears. He told me he hasn’t heard from you since he moved out. Yet you seem to know an awful lot about his life.”
She’s got me there. She’s right: Ihaven’tspoken to him in years. Why would I? What use is he to me when he betrayed me to Marcie all those years ago, and again when he left me here with a woman who could barely hide her contempt for me? That’s not to say I don’t keep up with his news, though. I like to base my lies in truth, after all. It’s how Sally was born.
Five years ago, a woman called Sally, using her newly established Facebook account, sent a friend request accompanied by a message.Hey, Tilly, I hope you’re well. I see you’re also on my local Stitch and Bitch group! I’ve just moved to the area, and I’m looking to make new friends. Don’t suppose you fancy meeting up at some point?
And for some reason—perhaps loneliness driven by the significant age gap between her and her husband—Tilly responded. What followed was a gradual getting to know each other, a thoughtful message exchange that revealed little bits of personal information until the pair progressed from strangers to firm friends.
They’ve become very close, though whenever Tilly suggests a meet-up Sally is sadly either visiting her ailing mother in Scotland or whisking herself away for a spa weekend in Europe. Which is probably for the best, because Tilly has her own busy life to contend with. She has two daughters, an ugly house in suburbia, and an old, incontinent dog called Florence. In a moment of wine-fueled candor, Tilly opened up to Sally about her husband. The utter tragedy of his life. How he had twin girls, but one—the favorite—had a tragic accident. The remaining daughter still exists somewhere, though Tilly’s never met her.
She’d once said,Does it make me a bad person to say I’m quite glad she’s not in my life? It’s hard enough raising my own girls. I don’t want to take on someone else’s. She has her mum, though that’s not saying much. Total nutcase.
Fury rising, I’d replied,Not at all. Understandable.
Later that night, I’d scheduled my next coffee with Mum. We met the week after. “She’s got hemorrhoids,” I told her. “Really bad ones. Dad told me normal treatment isn’t working. She’s about to have them ligated. You know, where they tie a rubber band around the lumps, and they drop off. Like a lamb’s tail.”
Mum’s eyes had gleamed.
Tilly had messaged soon after that,It’s really weird. We got a package the other day that contained adult nappies and loads of toilet paper. There was no note!!!
Over the years, Tilly has proved to be a well of information. It’s not, obviously, enjoyable for me to hear about my father’s disgusting habits in the bedroom, but I accept the chaff in exchange for the wheat of the other insights she provides. The arrangement suits me well. It provides me with currency to use with Mum. She would never have allowed me back into the house without it.
Now Mum looks unhinged. Crazed with confusion, with anger.
It’s all falling into place: the makeup, the sudden interest in personal hygiene, the hair. She wasn’t seeing someone else at all, but still kindling a flame for my father. And when I mentioned the divorce…She’s not so unlike me after all. She saw her opportunity and she took it.
“Do you know what a fool you’ve made of me? When I turned up at the door, believing they were separating? I’ve been watching the house, trying to find the right time to talk to him. I thought I could offer some support, and tonight I finally plucked up the courage. God, when he answered…I couldn’t breathe, Iris. And thensheappeared behind him.”
She: Tilly. Hard for Mum to experience that, I’m sure.Icould barely stomach it, when I first saw Tilly in person, peeking through the window of their ugly house. She looked soyoung, so fresh-faced, juxtaposed with Mum’s grief-lined features.
“That bitch had the audacity to look scared. Can you believe it? Threatened to call the police on the spot,” she continues. “And he just stared at me, shaking his head. I’ve never been more embarrassed in my life. And when I asked him about the divorce, when I told him it was what you’d told me, he said that you hadn’t spoken in years. He feels bad about it—of course he does, he’s a good man. But you were always so odd. So strange, and jealous, andangry.”
She closes her eyes, takes a breath as though preparing herself for something. “You’re the reason he left, you know?” she says, and the words find their mark. They hit me right in the chest.
“Is that what you’ve been telling yourself?” I spit. There’s no pretense now. The words are hot, spewed with fury.
“I don’t need to tell myself anything. It’s the truth.” Her eyes flash. “Do you think we don’t know? Do you think it hasn’t played on our minds from the moment it happened? She’s dead because ofyou. If she wasn’t so upset…ifyouhadn’t upset her so much, arguing over nothing, she might still be here. She waseverythingto me, and you took that away.” Her lip curls now, and I see—for the first time—the depth of her disgust for me. “Always so self-pitying and strange,” she sneers. “And we just had to bring you home with us. We had to pretend to be thisnormalfamily whenyou’rethe reason she’s gone, Iris. Your father knew it, too. Hardly surprising he bolted at the first possible opportunity.”
I feel myself take a step away from her, as though my body is trying to put distance between me and her hateful words, even as they lodge themselves firmly at my core. All this time…I’d known she thought me strange and rigid and impenetrable. I had not guessed at just how deep her fury—her disgust—for me ran.
But she isn’t finished. She lifts her eyes to mine, and there is something black there—something that sends a shiver scuttling up my spine.
“Sometimes, I even wonder…”
