Before You Knew My Name (22)

When something so large has been said out loud, it sits and waits for you to address it, no matter how hard you work at ignoring it. I once read that a single cloud can weigh as much as a hundred elephants. It’s not something you can see, this weight pressing down, but the heaviness is there, all the same. This is how it is with Mr Jackson and me. I sat for him yesterday, and for the first time I felt he was not seeing me, not really looking at me, as he shifted an arm or leg more carelessly than I’ve gotten used to. I think he might be angry with me, and I’m trying to apologise with my body, because once again I don’t have the words to say how sorry I am. Last night, he was asleep before I came back from the bathroom, or at least he pretended to be, even when I ran a hand down his back, and rested my fingers on his hip bone. I wanted to say, against his back—Tell me. Tell me about your mother. But my own mother danced too close to the surface, set my cheeks on fire. So I removed my hand and, for the first time, we slept back to back.

This morning, I followed him into the shower. I shivered so much, he pulled me into him, wrapped his arms tight around me, and we stood under the stream of hot water together. But he left as soon as we dried ourselves off, said ‘Have a nice day,’ and never told me where he was going. It’s been hours since he left, and I’ve been sitting on the small couch, staring at his crates of books this whole time. I feel inundated with memories, swamped by them. The only thing to do is stay still. No noise, no light. If I concentrate hard enough, I can push the thoughts out, away. It’s dusk now, I’ve made it through the daylight, the jarring bright of it, my flashbacks reduced to skimming stones, darting across the surface of my thoughts. My hand on the door, the yellow of the kitchen, the blood red on the floor, half of that beautiful face missing. No single image stays for long if I remain steady, if I don’t move. I’m still there, staring at the wall, when Mr Jackson finally comes home. He immediately flicks on the lights, making me jump.

‘Alice? Are you okay?’

I try to nod, but instead, the tears come. Fat, crumple-face tears that haven’t been let out in this way since it happened.

‘Where did you go?’ It comes out as a wail. ‘You didn’t tell me. Where did you go and why did you leave me?’

And now I’m sobbing, the paralysis of the day giving over to the exhaustion of holding everything back. He stands there for a moment, watching me cry, then comes to sit down beside me. Arms go around me, and I fold into him.

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

I apologise over and over as I cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, trying to crawl under his skin, wanting to get closer. The separation of this day has terrified me.

Mr Jackson holds me tight until the sobbing stops. When I’m finally spent, drained, I feel the rocking. The way he is gently moving me, soothing me, as if I am a child.

‘I miss my mother so much.’

I immediately want to suck the words back in, but I push through the ache in my throat. It is a physical pain, knife-sharp, but the words keep coming. I do not want him to be angry at me.

‘We looked after each other. It was always just—us. I don’t even know who I am without her.’

Mr Jackson gently untangles himself from my arms.

‘You want a drink for this?’ he asks, and I nod.

‘The whole bottle, maybe.’

I wait for him to come back from the kitchen with the bourbon—somehow, I knew it would be bourbon. He hands me the bottle, and I take a swig, grimacing as I swallow.

‘Maybe not like that,’ he laughs softly. ‘Let’s get you a glass, amateur.’

The familiarity of this pet name is calming. By the time Mr Jackson comes back from the kitchen with an ice-filled tumbler, I can breathe again.

‘We had been doing really well. She had a good job, and we had been in the same place for two years. Two years was everything back then. And he … he was in jail, something stupid, I don’t know. Petty something. I never really paid much attention to what he did. Unless it involved my mother.’

‘He’—Mr Jackson interrupts me—‘Your father?’

‘No. Hell no!’ I shake my head vehemently. ‘I don’t know who my father is. Mike. My mother’s last boyfriend.’

A memory. Mike is driving me to school and he’s going too fast. There is no seat belt and I have nothing to hold onto, my fingers dig into the seat, tips white, and he laughs at my fear as we speed past the other cars on the road. When he slams on the brakes at a stop sign, he reaches out, puts his fat hand across my chest. ‘Easy there, Alice,’ he says, fingers grazing.

Another memory. He’s kissing my mother in the kitchen, his hand under her T-shirt. She keeps pushing it away, giggling, and back it goes, and I’m standing in the doorway, watching this dance, feeling sick, because I know this means he’ll be here tonight, and every night, until something bad happens again. They turn, see me watching, and he laughs that same laugh, the one that says he enjoys scaring me. I lock my door that night, push a chair against the frame.

‘My mom had terrible taste in men,’ I say, an understatement. ‘And she was really, really beautiful, so there were a lot of men around.’

I pour another shot of bourbon, ghosts hovering.

‘You’re beautiful,’ Mr Jackson says, and I want to be mad at him for leaving, I want to tell him I don’t care what he thinks. But that’s not how we do it, is it? When a man punishes us for our resistance, we scramble to make it right.