She tails off, as though she cannot bring herself to speak the words into existence. But I think I know what she was going to say.
Twenty-seven
As quickly asit came on, all the fury seems to leave her. She slumps down against the wall, like her final sources of energy have been expended on this single interaction.
I can only stand there, staring at her, wondering how long she’s kept this hatred bottled up inside. Wondering how I thought this relationship was ever salvageable.
And all at once, like all the anger she expelled had to find a new host to feed from, I feel it seep into me, filling me right to my brim until I am shaking with it. Marcie. It’s always about her. The years of abuse, the years of feeling inadequate, the years of yearning for that special type of love that only ever seemed to be offered to Marcie, and she isstill, somehow, the victim. For Mum, I will never be enough. I see that now.
I curl my lip as I watch her on the floor, her chest still heaving.
She’s in trouble now, and she knows it. She is aware of the consequences for this afternoon’s little accident. And I can’t even bring myself to feel bad about it. Not right now. Not after all she said.
Because there is a reason that Mum has relied so heavily on me for information all these years. A reason she has withdrawn from theworld, refusing to see anyone beyond me and those cashiers at the supermarket.
Mum is more like me than she would care to admit. She, too, struggles to let things go. Something inside her broke on the day Dad left. Mired in grief for her daughter and her husband, she could not—shewouldnot—accept that he had gone. And so she began a campaign of harassment.
She started small, texting and calling at all hours of the day until he blocked her, unable to cope with her grief when his own was still so acute. So she found his new address and turned up in person. When he refused to open the door for her, she screamed on the street outside. She called him a coward. She begged for him back. She said he was the last thing connecting her with her sanity. She was right. It wasn’t long after that when she discovered he’d moved on. And you know what they say: Hell hath no fury, and all that.
Things escalated quickly when she found Tilly’s address. She posted threatening notes through the letter box. She howled on the street outside. The final straw was when she began slipping small, unsavory “gifts” through the door. The police were called. Eventually, a restraining order was put in place. My relationship with Dad up until that point had been minimal. After that, it was nonexistent.
At that point, I was still optimistic enough to think that Mum and I could get by together. Join forces. I still held a small candle of hope that she might truly see me for the person I was, and not just an extension of the daughter she’d lost. And so I began to lie. I pretended that Dad and I had a relationship. Small things, at first. Just what I judged he would be doing, in this shiny new life of his. And then, I got cleverer. Sally’s friendship with Tilly added veracity, authenticity to my claims. I never went so far as to trigger Mum to go and see for herself, just made their relationship sound fractious enough to keep her happy. And then I mentioned the possible divorce. An overstep. That’s on me.
She’s rocking back and forth now, head in her hands. She looks so pathetic and small I almost find myself feeling sorry for her. Almost.
Then, she speaks. “I want you gone. Tonight. I never want to see you again.”
It was the only possible outcome. Sooner than I expected, but an inevitable conclusion to this broken attempt at a relationship. I’m not sad to be leaving, but I wish I’d foreseen how quickly it would come about. Had a chance to get a contingency plan in place.
There is nothing more to be said, so I leave Mum in the kitchen, and, as soon as I am back in my bedroom, my thoughts turn to Jack. The debt he owes me. It’s time to call it in. Time for him to put his money where his mouth is.
My fingers are still shaking as I tap out a message.
Hi Jack, are you free for a call? I could use a friend. xx
Better to do it this way, so he can hear the rawness in my voice.
It takes him twenty minutes to respond. I use the time to pack, hoping he hasn’t yet gone to bed, listening for the dull buzz of my phone against the sheets. Finally—finally—it comes.
Hi Iris, of course. I’m free now.
I snatch up the phone and call him immediately.
“Is everything OK?”
He sounds so concerned, I can’t believe I ever doubted him. My voice wobbles as I begin to speak—no need for an act now. “It’s my mum. She’s gone mad. She’s blind drunk, says she wants me out of the house. I can’t stay.” Then, to really hammer my point home: “I’m worried that she might hurt me.”
“Fuck.” He’s quiet for a moment. “I’m so sorry, Iris. You poor thing. Is there anything I can do?”
“I’m sorry if this is a massive imposition, but I just wanted to ask if you might have somewhere for me to stay?”
There is a long pause. So long, I wonder if the line has gone dead. And then: “Absolutely. Of course you can come. Shall I pick you up?”
“Yes, please. If you’re not busy. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it, Jack.” A small thrill plaits itself through my anger. It’s as easy as that. Inadvertently, Mum has handed me everything I wanted. Finally, I am going to leave this house, and all its memories, behind, to live with a man who understands me and everything I have been through. Who does not see me asself-pityingorstrange. Who is so sure of our connection that he will allow me to move in even though we have only known each other a matter of weeks. Thatmeanssomething. A testament to the strength of our bond.
I finish packing with a renewed sense of purpose, throwing clothes haphazardly into my bag in a manner that is so far from my usual meticulous attention to detail that I wonder if I am getting ill.
At one point, Mum creeps past my door, moving softly across the floorboards. I freeze until I hear her door click shut. I won’t say goodbye.
