Someone Else's Shoes(92)
“I called him every day. I mean I always call every day. But I see clearly now—it’s Carl who needs to be fixed. And that what Ray really needed . . . was just me. I feel so bad because he just needed me. And now because of all this I can’t—I can’t even get to him.”
She sees him gazing at her, his eyes soft. “Pretty crappy mom, huh?”
He shakes his head.
Don’t you dare hug me, she thinks. Don’t you dare say something gloopy and sympathetic or go all Hallmark again. She is already feeling her usual discomfort at having made herself vulnerable, the urge to sprint away from him already creeping over her.
But he doesn’t hug her. Or say anything honeyed or saccharine. He keeps her hand in one of his and starts to walk. He says simply, “You will have your son. Very soon.”
“You think?”
“I know. I think . . .” he frowns as he speaks, as if he is considering his words carefully “. . . I think I have never met a woman who is less afraid of obstacles. I think you will have your son back before too long. And I think he is probably very lucky to have you as his mother.”
It is this last thing that makes her eyes prickle. “Why are you being so nice to me?” she says. She stops on the island in the middle of the road. “I’m not going to kiss you again.”
“Why would I say nice things just to kiss you? I’m not . . . How did you say? Transactional.”
He shrugs, tilts his head to one side. “If I wanted to kiss you I would just kiss you.”
He releases her hand. She stands on the pavement island for several minutes, the traffic surging around her, before she realizes she has absolutely no idea what to say.
twenty-eight
It was entirely predictable that sleep would not come, so at six, gritty-eyed and faintly nauseated with tiredness, Sam leaves the husband who may no longer be her husband, ignores the work clothes for the job she no longer has, climbs into her trainers and heads to the boxing gym. It is quiet at this time, with only the serious gym addicts locked into their own struggles, their punches and grunts echoing round the near-empty hall. A radio burbles in the corner, unnoticed. Sam warms up on the ancient running machine, feeling her legs begin to protest, her breath shortening in her chest, and then she attempts a few weights, just as Sid had told her, repetitions just to get her muscles moving, the lactic acid flowing, refusing to feel cowed by the inadequate size of her dumbbells. And then she steps off, wraps her hands, places them in the battered and vaguely pungent boxing gloves, tightening the Velcro straps with her teeth, and heads over to the punchbag.
The bag is weighted to the floor so that it does not swing too far, and she starts to punch—one two, one two—feeling her muscles start to warm, her core tightening with every impact. She sees one of the men glance over and turn away. She knows that look: it’s the dismissive look of a man who thinks she’s somewhere she doesn’t really belong, the blank stare that disregards a woman no longer considered sexually desirable. She stares at the back of his head for a moment, and then she punches hard, so that the impact hits her all the way back in her shoulder-blade. It feels good. She punches again, hard and deliberate, and she suddenly sees Simon’s face, his torso, as her fists connect with the scuffed red leather, and finds she is punching harder, the push from her shoulder, from her feet—one two. She jabs and crosses, her face contorted with the effort, sweat dripping into her eyes so that she has to wipe at them with the top of her arm, her breath coming in noisy gasps. She no longer cares if anyone is watching her or judging her crappy technique. She punches everyone who has exploited her kindness, everyone who has looked down on her, laughed at her, ignored her. She punches at the Fates that have left her with no job, the scorn of her daughter, the potential loss of her marriage, and the blows grow harder. She punches the three increasingly passive-aggressive messages her mother has left on her voicemail, the final one stating that her father is attempting to clear the second spare room himself for the Afghans and demanding to know what she is supposed to do if he falls and suffocates under all the stuff. You’ve obviously decided to disregard our feelings, just like you disregard Phil’s.
She punches the specter of Miriam Price, the shame of becoming someone who was sacked, and the future job she will no longer be able to look forward to. Even if Miriam had Simon’s number, there is no way her company will ignore the reasons for her departure, her lack of a reference. She hits at her own failures and weaknesses, her exhaustion and sadness, embracing the fact that her shoulders are screaming, her heart pumping, that every muscle in her body is begging her to stop. And finally, when she feels the strength ebbing from her, her T-shirt and sports bra dark with sweat, Sam wrestles off the gloves, unwraps her bandages, and throws them all into the basket. Then, gazing at her purpling knuckles with something like satisfaction, she heads to the showers.
* * *
? ? ?
Sam takes Andrea to her appointment on Friday. Andrea doesn’t protest when she announces that she is coming with her to this one. Sam takes the camper-van, as her car is still not working, but this is, it having been the focus of all Phil’s attention for days. She doesn’t want to ask Phil to replace the battery on the car. She doesn’t want to ask Phil anything just now. She is not ready for his cold stare, the casual shrug that suggests nothing to do with her life is his problem any more.