Maame(105)

I want to say this out loud, but then he presses his tongue flat and I say his name instead. I say it over and over because it’s the only intelligible word on my tongue and Sam likes that, it’s his incentive to go faster and heavier.

I hook my legs across his shoulders and, with greedy panic, I press him in deeper because I think it would be unbelievable if he’d take more of me and he obeys without a word. It’s a soft bite that makes me climax, that makes me scream and forget my own name.

Sam stops; I’m left shaking and would really like to fall asleep.

I close my eyes and wonder if he’ll kiss me and if I want him to; if I want to know what I taste like. I decide that maybe I don’t and he doesn’t.

He climbs on top of me and I wrap my thighs around him because I want to do that again, to feel that release again. How do I make him feel what I just did?

His skin is soft and his smell familiar; it brings to mind the comfort of borrowed jumpers and nights on his sofa in front of the TV; drinks under his arm when out with friends, and hugs hello. He enters me and the pain builds the farther in he goes. I’m about to ask him to stop, then he’s all the way in; my pulse triples and the pleasure from before returns. I have to grip onto the backs of his shoulders. There’s an exquisite pull in my stomach and he gasps as I move with him to deepen the pull. He moans into my neck and the desperate sounds coming from him make me love him, make me want to hold him forever.

He falls back and I stretch to meet him, pushing my hips forward and then back down and repeat, repeat, repeat. I bury my face in his neck and the creaks of his mattress come closer together. He wraps his arms around my waist. I moan and he begs.

When he stills and comes he says, “Fuck, Maddie,” and I almost cry.



* * *



From: [email protected] To: [email protected]

Subject: Untitled Manuscript

Dear Maddie,

I hope you’re well.

I understand you’ve now been told you weren’t selected for the Carrow Books Mentorship Program. I hope you weren’t too disheartened because I was the literary agent assigned your sample and I found it to be raw, compelling, and extremely emotive for such a short passage. I did wonder if you’d sent it in its earliest form because it did feel rushed and incomplete, even for that style of writing. This was mainly why you weren’t selected for the program. However, I think there is something there. Your application stated that this was currently an ‘Untitled Work In Progress,’ but Jess, your protagonist, intrigues me, as does her relationship with her father. I’d be happy for you to submit to me when this manuscript is ready.

All the best,

Eloise Forrester





Epilogue


We didn’t get to choose where in the cemetery Dad was buried, but he’s under the branches of the largest tree. So although I don’t always recognize my path, I always recognize that tree.

I jog when I get closer and kneel when I reach him.

“Hi, Dad.” I pull out some weeds and brush away loose rubble; I’m used to the insects now. “It’s just me today. Sam says hi; he wanted to come, but he needs to finish off some artwork samples and I told him he doesn’t have to come with me all the time.” It’s a little windy, but the sun is out so I pull a small blanket from my bag and sit on the grass. “He’s a good egg, isn’t he? That means a good person, by the way. I don’t know how familiar you were with British idioms. I don’t know where that phrase derives from, actually; I might google it later.

“Work’s good,” I continue. “Penny tells me I’m four to six months away from making assistant editor if I stay on track. I’m also … I’m also writing something about you.” I pull out my printed 971 words and Eloise’s email. “I don’t know why I brought this with me,” I say, waving the papers. “Just wanted to show you. Anyway, I drafted the first three chapters and Eloise wants the entire thing now, so I’m kind of … making us into a book. Nothing’s been promised and maybe nothing will happen, but it would be nice, wouldn’t it? To immortalize you here, somehow.” I shrug and return the pages to my bag. “It’s probably nothing but worth trying, right?”

Mum said I don’t need to keep visiting Dad’s grave except to tidy it up and lay flowers out of respect. “If you want to speak to him,” she said, “then you look up. You must speak to his soul, not his empty body.” This I can agree with, but if I’m here anyway, I like to sit and talk to Dad about a lot of things.

“Sam took me to a really nice restaurant the other night where I had the best risotto and apple tart I’ve ever had. Also, Shu and Lydia spent the weekend with Nia and me; Nia and Shu are quite different, but they get on well enough, and it helps that Lydia is loud enough to fill any silences. James is currently in Manchester, but we spoke on the phone this morning. He likes to call even if he hasn’t got much to say. Mum’s flight back to Ghana is coming up and I’ve booked to go with her for three weeks. I’ll spend two in Accra and one in Kumasi. It’ll be nice to see where you both grew up.”

Mum calls at that very moment. “I’ll call her back. She also calls me a lot now; usually after I’ve been to therapy, to ask what I spoke about. She doesn’t agree with everything: ‘Always childhood, childhood. Is no mother safe from criticism?’ But she doesn’t disagree with everything either, and that’s something. She’s also started talking to me about Grandad and her childhood. Of course, Ghana was more challenging than the UK, because she had to walk hundreds of miles to school in sandals, through jungles with tigers roaming free and snakes in the trees. Apparently.” I roll my eyes. “But she listens and that’s new. Sometimes I talk and there’s silence and she’ll say, ‘Go on, I’m just listening.’ I can tell when she’s biting her tongue and sometimes she can’t help herself, but that’s fine. Baby steps. Oh, now she’s sent a text.” I read it out loud.