After the End(103)

Isn’t this what happened before? When Pip left me? The angry drinking, the bitter resentment? I remember Tom’s face when he took in the filthy kitchen, his nose wrinkled at my unwashed odor. I think of the months spent curled beneath the pink comforter at Mom’s house, of the crushing failure that weighed so heavy I couldn’t get up even if I wanted to.

Isn’t it what happened? And, before then, wasn’t it always what I did? Back off, run away, keep my distance. I think of the night Pip and I argued, and I packed my bags. I think of the weeks I lived in a hotel by the hospital, communicating with Pip through lawyer’s letters and terse notes left by Dylan’s bed. She came back to me for his sake, but is it any wonder she didn’t stay?

I look at the wall, to where Dylan’s picture hangs. My Family.

No. I say it again, out loud, this time. “No.” I screw the lid back on the bottle, then take it off again and pour the contents down the sink. I run the faucet and watch the red fade to pink and then disappear altogether. No. No more running away. No more shutting myself off.

I text Blair. I overreacted. I’m sorry. Can we talk tomorrow? And Pip. That voicemail was out of order, I’m sorry. But can we talk? And then I go to bed.



* * *





I don’t normally work weekends, but the last couple Sundays I’ve been at the Dearborn Institute—one of the schools that brings kids to the swim club. I did a few small jobs for them, just to help out, and I said I’d paint a wall on the outside of the residential unit. I’m on edge in the morning, waiting for either Blair or Pip—or both—to call, but I soon get into the zone. I guess some people feel like this about ironing, or running—that chilled-out state you get in when you’re making the same movement over and over.

“I can help.” It’s delivered as a statement, not a question. I straighten. A boy of eighteen or so is standing by my brushes. Thick brown hair almost hides heavy eyebrows that run in a straight line and meet above the bridge of his nose. He wears glasses, and a broad smile I can’t help but return.

“Sure.” I find a decent-sized brush. “I’ve done the edges, so we’re just coloring now.”

He puts too much paint on his brush—everyone does—and I show him how to wipe the brush on the string I’ve tied across the top of the paint pot, to stop the tin getting covered in paint. He watches me apply the paint to the wall—stippling it into the mortar lines, angling the brush on the smoother bricks—and copies me perfectly.

“Hey, that’s pretty good. You’ll be taking my job, if I’m not careful.”

I introduce myself, and learn that his name is Glen, and that he’s eighteen and in his last semester at Dearborn. He tells me his favorite food (cheese), what color his best shirt is (green), and what baseball team he supports (Cubs). We’ve almost finished the wall when Jessica Miller, one of the residential teachers, comes by. “Great job! You been helping out, Glen?”

“He’s been brilliant.”

“I need to go now,” Glen says. “I need to see Martha Stewart.”

“Thanks for your help,” I say, but Glen has hurried off. I raise an eyebrow at Jessica. “Martha Stewart?”

“Glen’s an avid baker. He likes her cooking program.” She admires the finished wall. “He’s done a good job. Maybe we should add painting to his résumé.”

“Is he looking for a job?”

“He will be. A lot of the kids here will move from school to some sort of residential home, but some of them—Glen included—will be supported into independent living, which could include getting a job.” She looks at me, and I see the thought forming.

“Look, I don’t have enough clients to start taking on staff,” I say, before she can ask, “but if it would be useful to do some shadowing . . .”

“Really?”

My phone rings and I check the screen. “Would you excuse me? I need to take this.”

“I’ll be in touch.” Jessica starts walking away. “I’m going to hold you to that offer, Max Adams!”

“Hey.”

I can’t read Blair’s voice. She sounds wary, like she’s keeping something back. I like you, she said last night. I might even . . .

“I’m an idiot,” I tell her.

“So, what’s new?”

I can hear her smiling, and I breathe out slowly. I think I’m getting a second chance.





forty-eight





Pip


   2016


The noise is incredible. Like standing on the runway at Heathrow as a plane takes off, only with no ear defenders, and with children instead of planes.

“God, I hate soft play.” Kat looks around and grimaces. “Heaven knows what’s in that ball pit.” We’re sitting on wipe-clean leather-look sofas in the “baby zone” corner of a giant warehouse on the outskirts of Leamington.

“They love it, though—look at them.” Grace is eight months old, and bottom-shuffling at an impressive speed around an obstacle course made from a series of colourful padded blocks, doing her best to keep up with Kat’s son, Thomas, all of a week older than Grace, but already a confident crawler. She has the fair curls Dylan had as a baby, and I wonder if they’ll darken, as his did. Sometimes I see him so clearly in her face that it takes my breath away, but mostly I just see Grace. My little girl. As Kat and I watch our children play, Grace traps herself in a corner and forgets how to turn around, and Thomas crawls on top of another child.