Page 54 of The Book Swap

“Please don’t say that unless you can do it.” My brother’s voice sounds like it might break.

“Okay.”

“Want to say hi to James?”

“I’ve got this meeting. Send my love.”

“Okay.”

Elliot turns, his shoulders low. His husband’s sadness is etched on his face.

“Sorry about that,” he says. “It’s like he knows the worst time to call. Every time. And then he blames me and gets upset.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking down at his son.

“Maybe don’t take on Carl’s emotions as your own,” I say, hating to see my brother like this. “You can’t fix it for him.”

Elliot starts guiding the stroller back onto the bustling streets. There are giant billboards all around us advertising everything from a new Billie Eilish album to the world’s most famous fizzy drink.

“Like you do with Mum, you mean?” He fixes his eyes on me, anger flashing across his face.

I swerve to let someone pass. “Whoa. That was unnecessary.”

“True though.”

“Well, someone has to with Mum. It’s different.”

“Is it?”

We turn right toward Broadway, where I take a leaflet for a musical I won’t have time to see.

“What do you mean, ‘Is it?’ Of course it is.”

“You can’t fix her either though.” His voice is low.

I can feel a lump forming in my throat.

“Maybe not, but I can make things better for her. You’d know that, if you ever came home.”

A smile, lacking any warmth, flashes across his face. He stops and does a slow clap. “There it is. Finally.”

“What?”

“An admission that you resent me for being here.” He turns to face me, and I look at him standing there, his shiny Rolex blinding me. I think of his incredible apartment. This life where he gets to choose to do whatever he wants, day after day, while I’m on a train home to my parents the moment I need to be.

“I don’t resent you for... Fine. Maybe I do. Maybe it feels shit to be the one who always has to look after Mum. To give up his life and go back to a different one.”

He leans forward. “You took that on. No one asked you to. Not Mum. Not Dad. They’ve always told us to live our lives. It’s what they both want for us.”

“Well, maybe you’re able to do that without feeling guilty about it, but I’m not.” I screw the leaflet up into a ball in my hand, crushing as hard as I can.

“Obviously.”

“What?”

“How can you ever stop feeling guilty when you blame yourself for how she is?”

We’re at a complete standstill now, on one of the busiest streets in New York City, glaring at each other. Swarms of people are having to walk around us and it isn’t like it would be in London. There’s no polite tutting here. Everyone is shouting at us to get “out of the fucking way.” I’m too riled to care.

“It’s hard not to blame myself when everyone keeps reminding me it was me being born that made our mum ill.”

---