Rising (Blue Phoenix, #4)(77)

“I haven’t heard from you for years,” I say pointedly.

“You made it clear you didn’t want to see me about six years ago. I wasn’t going to be one of those relatives of famous people demanding money.”

“You needed money?”

“Everybody needs more money, Jem. After Paul left, things got harder.”

“Didn’t you find someone else? You always did.”

“No. I left him for a shelter; he hurt me badly. They helped me, and then I helped them. Others.”

The woman who refused to help herself? “Oh.”

“I knew it was too late for us.”

“Was it? You didn’t try that hard to fix things.”

Mum rests back in her seat, her breathing laboured. “Would you have let me? Look how long it took you to arrange to see me. It’s almost a month since I asked you to visit.”

“Probably not,” I say quietly.

Mum reaches out to her bedside table and takes the plastic tumbler, hands shaking. She sips; swallowing as if it hurts her and my resolve wavers.

“But you’re here now.” She gives a weak smile. “I’m glad you came to see me before… well, before.”

Before she dies. Before time runs out and she can’t assuage her guilt. So she can f-uck me up one last time.

But as I look at her, I know that’s not her motive. I believe she thinks she’s doing this for me. For both of us.

“How long?” I ask.

“I don’t know. Weeks.”

My throat thickens, why am I feeling? Where’s the wall gone? “Oh. Right. I’m not sure I can come again.”

“I understand. But you’ll stay and talk to me this afternoon?”

“Yeah.”

Mum tells me about the work she’s done, with domestic violence victims like herself. Helping families stay together. Did this help her? She abandoned her own family; how many others did she need to save before she felt she’d atoned her behaviour? I tell her things about Blue Phoenix, about the boys, but she never knew them. My mother was locked in her own world and her own pain; pain I had no comprehension of as a kid.

The conversation tires her, Mum’s breathing becomes shallower and speech slower. As usual, she doesn’t have the energy for me.

“I’m proud of you,” she tells me.

“Proud of me?” I ask hoarsely.

“Look at what you’ve achieved. Things could’ve ended so badly for you.”

I slump back in my seat. “And look at my f*cked up life. This man you’re proud of, that you’ve watched over the last few years, is he happy?”

“You’ve come through that though. You’re sober now.”

“I’m still f*cked up.” Because of you.

“I’m so sorry. I wish I could change what happened, but I can’t. Don’t let the past stop you being happy now. I’ve seen you with a new girl…did you say her name was Ruby?”

“Do you follow my life?” I interrupt. “You seem to know a lot.”

“Of course I do, and you looked happier recently. Are you happier?”

“I don’t want to talk about my life.”

“You’re right. It’s not my business.” She inhales a shaky breath, and I see her energy fading in front of me. “I wish you’d brought your guitar though.”

“What?”

“I listen to some of your music, not all of it; but you wrote some beautiful songs. My talented son.”

This is too much. “Your son? By blood, yeah but not by love.”

“Don’t, please.”

“I didn’t come here to tell you I forgive everything because I don’t. I live with the scars.”

“I’m not expecting you to. I wanted to see you; that’s all. I missed you.”

f-uck. I stand. Am I shaking too? “Don’t. You don’t have the right. You made your choices.”

“And now you make yours, Jem. Make the right ones.”

The sun shines through the open curtains. A bright autumn day fills the room with a humid warmth that isn’t helping my dizzying pain. “I think I need to go now.”

Mum sits forward and grips the chair arm with pale hands. She wants to stand and can’t. “Okay.”

The unrelenting ache grips and the words spill. “Mum, you left me. Not just once but again and again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I.”

I hesitate. She’ll leave me one final time, and I’ll never see her again. Every other time Mum left, I couldn’t understand why she didn’t say goodbye. Often it was when I was at school, and I’d come home to find a note and some money.

When people leave, they should hug you with the promise they’ll see you again.

This is what she wants to do now, but there’s no promise of a next time.

“Bye, Mum.”

The decision is made in the moment, without thought, without rationalisation. How can I leave and not hug her goodbye? I pull the chair over, sit, and hesitantly place my arms around my mum. She’s all bones and I’m frightened of hurting her. Mum hugs me back, hard; but not as hard as I think she’d like. Her back shakes, face buried into my t-shirt; and I fight, fight, fight against the tsunami of pain engulfing.