His & Hers(28)

Something about the old Victorian fireplace catches my eye. Our house was always so cold growing up—my mother refused to turn on the central heating unless the temperature was below freezing—so open fires were often the only way to keep warm. I remember the last time I used mine, but it wasn’t for heat. I burned a letter that nobody should ever read.

The bedroom door bursts open, making me jump, and my mother appears, wearing her warmest smile and carrying two cups of honeyed tea. Her face changes as soon as she sees me, and she drops them both, pieces of china and a pool of steaming liquid forming a murky puddle on the wooden floor. She stares at the fireplace, then at the friendship bracelet on my wrist, then she takes a step back and looks genuinely afraid. I barely hear the words she whispers.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“Nothing, Mum. I was just looking at my old room, like you said I should—”

“I’m not your mum! Who are you?”

I take a step forward, but she takes another step back.

“It’s me, Mum. It’s Anna. We were just talking downstairs, do you remember?”

Her fear morphs into anger.

“Don’t be bloody daft! Anna is fifteen years old! How dare you set foot in my home pretending to be her! Who are you?”

This is the sort of behavior Jack had described but I didn’t believe it. Her face is twisted into fear and hate and a mother I no longer recognize.

“Mum, it’s me, Anna. Everything is okay—”

I reach for her hand, but she pulls it away and lifts it above her head, as though preparing to strike me.

“Don’t you touch me! Get out of my house right now or I’ll call the police! Don’t think that I won’t.”

I’m crying. I can’t help it. This version of the woman I used to know is destroying my memories of the real her.

“Mum, please.”

“Get out of my house!”

She screams the words over and over.

“Get out, get out, get out!”





Him



Tuesday 10:35



I get in my car and wait, unsure exactly what for, already knowing it won’t be good. I have mixed memories of my former mother-in-law’s home, and being here always makes me feel bad. Anna never liked to visit. I used to wonder if it had something to do with her father. Losing a parent leaves a huge hole in a person’s life, but losing a child leaves an even bigger one. This house was the last place where we saw our little girl alive. Not that we could have known that at the time; dropping a child off to spend a night with their grandmother should have been a safe thing to do.

I think you reach an age—and it is different for everyone—where you finally realize that all the things you thought mattered, don’t. It often happens when you lose the one thing that really did, but by then it’s too late. Our little girl was only three months and three days old when she died. I sometimes think she was just too precious and perfect to exist in such an imperfect world.

My phone buzzes, and when I read the words in the message, I feel a rush of nausea mixed with an excitement I am ashamed of. Then a fist bangs on my rather dirty car window, and I only just manage to swallow what I’m sure would have been a very manly scream. I wish I’d taken another cigarette from Priya to keep for later. By later I mean now. Today is turning out to be a very bad day indeed.

I wind the window down by hand—that’s how old my car is—and get a clearer view of my angry-looking ex-wife.

“Are you following me?” she asks.

Her face is blotchy and I can see that she has been crying. She’s carrying her coat, despite the fact it’s freezing outside, as though she might have left in too much of a hurry to put it on.

“Would you believe me if I said no?”

“How dare you interfere with my mother’s health and living arrangements!”

“Now, hang on. I don’t know what she told you, or what kind of state she was in just now, but she’s been getting progressively worse over the past six months. You would know that if you ever paid her a visit.”

“She is my mother and this is none of your business.”

“Wrong again. I have power of attorney.”

“What?”

Anna takes a tiny step back from the car.

“There was an incident a while ago. I tried to tell you, but you kept ignoring my calls. She asked for my help; it was her idea.”

Anna’s face reddens as though it has been verbally slapped.

“What’s this really about? Are you trying to sell my mother’s house out from under her? Is that it? Trick her into giving you money, because you’ve realized that life is a bit harder on one salary?”

The low blow she delivers in self-defense stings.

“You know it isn’t like that,” I say.

“Isn’t it?”

“Regardless of whether or not we are together, I still care about your mother. She was good to me and to us. What happened to Charlotte was not her fault.”

“No, it was yours.”

It feels like she just punched me in the chest.

Anna looks as though she might regret saying the words as much as I regret hearing them. But that doesn’t make them less true. I take a breath and carry on.

“Look, your mum isn’t well, and someone needs to do what’s best for her.”