In other words, he doesn’t want anything to change. It’s OK for him to go on as he is, ruining all of our lives.
You could be brutal. I remember trying to explain to you that some people are comfortable in their discomfort; change presents difficult questions about what comes next; casts the past in turmoil. None of us want to acknowledge the years we’ve wasted, when life could have been so much more fulfilling.
It sounds like an excuse. Dad doesn’t want to change. End of.
But I don’t think he knew how to be someone who didn’t drink. Still doesn’t know. The conversation left me questioning myself, too. How our marriage had come to this. Why I let it go on, far too long; that maybe I was change-averse, too.
Daily, I remind myself to search for moments of joy, however fleeting. Find them as I watch the sun rise. In the earliest spring flowers; one of Harrie’s toothless smiles. On the way to work the next morning, I stop off at my cutting garden at Mary’s. Since I was last here, the first tulips have grown up in tight buds that will open into shades of pink and terracotta. Picking them, I gather bunches of narcissi and daffodils, then cut twigs on which tiny buds are forming, pausing to glance briefly up towards Mary’s house. But the curtains are closed, the house in darkness.
‘These are glorious, Edie,’ Lucy says when I take the flowers into the workshop.
‘Our first tulips,’ I say proudly. ‘Only a few. But give it a couple of weeks and there will be hundreds.’ I imagine them in neat rows of lemon yellow and blackcurrant sorbet; pillar-box red. It’s always fascinated me, the way a bulb can contain the potential for life.
‘Did you see Mary?’ she asks.
‘No. The house looked closed up – almost as though she’s gone away.’ I frown slightly. ‘I hope she’s OK.’
‘It’s a pity you can’t find out,’ Lucy says.
‘I’ll call in on my way home,’ I say.
‘Good idea,’ Lucy says. ‘See if you can get an idea of how she feels about you moving in.’ She pauses. ‘Did you talk to Ollie last night?’
‘I tried. They were a bit preoccupied with Harrie,’ I say. ‘Though Jenna said something odd.’
‘She did?’ Lucy looks surprised.
I put down my scissors. ‘She said that Ollie felt guilty – that he’d known Lexie had a drinking problem. He should have been able to help her.’
Lucy frowns. ‘Did you know about this?’
‘He’s never mentioned it to me. There was the one New Year’s Eve when she came home drunk, but it was a one off – at least…’ I break off as the door opens and a man walks in.
Then as he comes closer, I forget what I was saying, as suddenly I realise I recognise him.
17
BEFORE
Dear Lexie,
When we moved into the house I’d rented, the peace we felt was tangible. Unless you wanted to, there was no reason for you to see your father again. But for me, it wasn’t that simple.
There was never going to be an easy way to tell Ryan we wouldn’t be going back. But I went on the next Saturday morning. Lucy sat outside in the car, waiting; you and Ollie stayed at her home, which was just as well. Ryan yelled and raged about me calling the police, then started hurling things at me.
It was all the affirmation I needed that I was doing the right thing. I told him we needed to discuss money, suggested that maybe we should put the house on the market. After all, it was mostly my savings that had made up the deposit. At some point, it would be useful for me to access that.
There was no logic to Ryan’s reaction. No thought about when he’d see Ollie and you. Instead, he told me I couldn’t take anything from the house. Not that he had any right. But he was out of control; it wasn’t the time to argue with him.
I could have handled it all so differently, Lexie! I know you would have! At the time, I was just relieved to have nothing more to do with the house or Ryan. I went back one last time when he was out and packed what I knew he wouldn’t miss, meanwhile seeking out second-hand furniture from local marketplace ads. Then a week later, I picked up our keys to the house I’d rented, and you, Ollie and I moved in.
Even before we’d unpacked, I knew as soon as our first evening that life was going to be better here. No one was flinching when they heard a car pull up, a door open or close; almost overnight, the tension of the years lifted. The difference in you both was palpable.
‘This house feels different,’ you remarked as you went from room to room.
I spectacularly misinterpreted you. ‘We can make it more like home, sweetie. Put up pictures and photos… Or anything else you want.’
But you shook your head. ‘I like it because it isn’t home.’ Your eyes were questioning as they looked at me. ‘Don’t you?’
