A Year at the French Farmhouse(79)

‘It’s not that.’

‘Then what?’ She felt a lump in her throat. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Well, not exactly. Dad, he’s… A couple of nights ago, I came in and he was kind of…’ He paused and looked at his nails, finding a dirty one and lifting the grot out of it with another fingernail.

‘He was what, Ty?’

‘I dunno.’

She sighed. ‘Angry?’

‘No, not that. More… you know like, sad, I guess.’

‘Oh.’

‘And like he doesn’t normally talk to me about stuff like this. But he kind of said some things to me.’

‘OK?’

‘He… he’s got… He’s not well, kind of…’

Her stomach heaved slightly. ‘Oh my god, Ty, what is it?’

‘He’s… He said he feels anxious. He’s… Well, he feels anxious about coming here, or really doing a lot of things. He says that’s why he can’t come. He just… Well, he can’t.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yeah.’ Ty shrugged. ‘I thought you should know, in case you want to…’

‘In case I want to…?’

‘I dunno. Come home and look after him.’

‘Oh, Ty.’ She reached for his hand again but this time he pulled it away before she got there. He stared down at the table, the back of his neck red. For a boy who’d barely admitted emotions existed for the past five years, to fly out here to tell her Ben had anxiety was nothing short of incredible.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ he said, at last. ‘I mean, I’m meant to be going to uni… but I can’t leave Dad in this state can I?’

‘Ty, look. I realise this is hard. It’s hard for me to hear too. But your dad… I mean there’s help out there. People can… well, get through these types of things.’

‘But…’

‘And there’s no way you’re going to delay going to university. You’ve worked hard for that. We’ll find a way – we’ll sort it. Dad will be OK, I promise.’

He grunted.

‘I mean, he’s eating? He’s going to work? There’s food at home for you?’

Ty nodded.

‘And do you know if he’s getting any help?’

A shake of the head.

‘OK, well, how about I ring him. I’ll ring him and check he’s OK.’

‘And if he’s not?’

It was so hard to have this conversation with her son. And even though it wasn’t directly Ben’s fault that Ty had taken it upon himself to come out, she felt angry that once again she’d been put in this position – the last thing she wanted to do was to use her son as a kind of envoy between them.

‘If he’s not, we’ll find some help for him.’

‘But you won’t come?’ He looked at her then, and she saw something in his eyes.

‘Ty, did Ben… did your father send you?’

‘No.’ He flushed. ‘I mean, he knows I’ve come to see you… He paid for the flight, and that. But he doesn’t know why.’

She nodded. ‘Right,’ she said.

‘You’re not mad at him?’

‘No. Not mad.’ She lied. She was a little bit mad. A little bit worried too though. Ben had suffered from anxiety on and off in his twenties – panic attacks, sleepless nights. They’d worked through it together, but there had been a few dark days. Eventually, he’d learned to manage it. If it had flared up again, then she felt wretched for him. But at the same time, she couldn’t put her life on hold to help him; she’d give what help she could, speak to him, help him find proper support.

But anxiety or not, he must have known what Ty intended to do. He’d driven him to the airport, paid for his ticket. In an attempt to – what? Get her to come home? Make her feel guilty for being here without him?

The mix of elation at seeing Ty, anger at Ben, worry for Ben and the churning in her stomach from last night made her feel suddenly nauseous. She took a sip of tea and tried to calm herself down. It would be OK; she’d find a way to make this OK.

‘Anyway, I’m so glad you’re here,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘How long have I got you for?’

‘Four days.’

‘Well, that’s brilliant. I can’t wait for you to see everything, to meet some people; I’ve got loads to show you and tell you about,’ she said, smiling.

She didn’t like the fact that Ben was trying to manipulate her. But on the plus side, it had given her a few days with her son. And she was determined to make the most of them.





27





It was 10 p.m. and the sun had begun to set, bleeding red and orange across the horizon, and the trees stood in contrast, black against their coloured backdrop. It was the kind of scene that, if she’d seen it in an oil painting, might have made her assume that the artist had got a bit carried away with creating the perfect canvas. Good effort, but too idealised – B+.

‘So what do you think?’ Lily asked as they sat together on the wrought iron chairs that had now been returned to their rightful place in the back garden. She’d invested in a couple of cushions for them and for the first time she’d been able to settle comfortably into their curved shape, without her back or neck complaining.