Chapter Five
MAC
So it turns out I have a son.
Miss Morton left me that morning with her business card, information on paternity testing, and a general sense of unease. She also left me with a photograph of a little boy with my unruly hair and brown eyes. I didn’t need any DNA test to know I was looking at a replica of me, circa twenty-eight years ago.
Life. It’s a confusing fuck. One minute, you’re hobbling along, clutching your wounded heart, and the next thing you know, that same battered muscle is expected to expand enough to care for someone else.
I don’t know if it’s science or myth—DNA or Mother Nature—but when faced with the choice of taking on or turning away your own flesh and blood, there isn’t much thought. Only action.
‘Ma.’ I slam the door and trip over a tiny pair of running shoes. ‘I’m home.’ See, it works both ways. When I made that call, my own parents were on the next train to London, eager to meet their grandson. Nature or nurture? Not sure who’s to blame. Or thank, in this case, given that they’ve been living here for two weeks now.
‘In here, Mac,’ my mum calls back.
I make my way into the third bedroom, hastily furnished with one of those plastic beds made to look like a racing car. We’ve had so much to sort out as well as kid shit to buy—toys, clothes, and all that sort of stuff. For now, he’s making do. We’re all making do. He has his own duvet and stuff, things from his home—his old home—but I feel like he needs so much and I’ve so little to give.
Guilt, thy name is fatherhood.
‘Where’s the wee man?’ My mother sits on the tiny bed, so basically, she’s sitting on the floor.
‘He’s in the bathroom,’ she replies, discerning I mean Louis, not my dad. At least, I hope.
‘I didn’t miss him, then?’ Wishful thinking, maybe? I’ve mostly avoided bedtimes by being at work. The way I look at it, I’m saving us both some pain because if I get home before Louis is asleep, we have tears and tantrums at my involvement. Having me around seems to make him miss his mum more than ever, and he eventually cries himself to sleep. Conversely, if he’s asleep before I’m home, according to my mum, he goes down like a dream. It doesn’t take the brain for Scotland to work out he blames me somehow for not having a mother anymore.
‘How was he this afternoon?’
‘Ocht, fine,’ she replies, all smiles as she folds a pile of tiny t-shirts and underpants. ‘We caught the tube into the city and went to Hamleys Toy Store.’
‘I bet that put a dent in your wallet.’ I glance around the room, but I can’t tell what he had before and what’s new.
‘It was worth it to see his wee face light up as he ran from one display to the next.’
I can almost see the scene, the delight on his face. He’s taken to my parents like a duck does to water. It’s easy to understand why with my mum. She has that maternal thing going on, all soft and womanly. But he even seems to adore my dad, who is the stoic Scottish kind. Unfamiliar with emotion and more than a little gruff. Meanwhile, my child looks at me like I’m some ogre. I’ve no idea what that’s all about.
I clear my throat. ‘Where’s Da?’
‘Asleep on the sofa. We went to the park on the way home. I think he might’ve strained his back pushing Louis on the swings.’
‘He should be careful.’ I don’t have to say it, but the implication hangs there anyway. He had a heart scare a couple of years ago, retiring shortly afterwards.
‘Away with you! You’d have done the same. Louis’s happiness is infectious. And a balm to hear.’ I’m prevented from what would be the blandest of replies by my son’s voice.
‘Grannnnyyyy!’
‘So. No need to tell you what that means, I think.’ My mother eyes me knowingly.
‘Aye, but he’s shouting for you,’ I say, holding up my hands.
‘I’ve wiped more than enough of my fair share of backsides. It’s about time you started to pitch in.’
‘Pitch in? I thought you were enjoying spending time with your newest grandson?’ Guilt and parenthood go hand in hand.
But not this time as she ignores my tone, concentrating on bundling tiny socks into pairs instead. ‘He’s not my newest grandson. He’s my eldest.’ Her tone is careful, but the implication still smarts. ‘And he’s a lovely wee boy, but we can’t stay here forever.’
‘I know that.’ I swipe a hand through my hair. ‘But—’
‘I’m finishhhhed!’ calls the little voice again.
