Page 71 of By His Side

No, this was a mess created by the woman kneeling at its epicenter with her back to the door. A tipped over cardboard box showed where the mess had originated. And as Katy Perry stared back at me from the carpet, the top of her head blocked by the chihuahua sitting on the edge of the poster, I worked out what the ‘mess’ was.

My mother sat amidst all the childhood things she’d claimed she’d gotten rid of. It was all there as I let my gaze travel over it. My school report cards; old exercise books; the Warhammer models I’d painted before boys had interested me far more than staying home; the obligatory World Cup sticker albums so loved by teenage boys during that era. I’d never completed one, but I’d kept them, regardless. Pokemon cards from when they’d been a craze; a football scarf and a cap bought for me by my father when he’d taken me to an Arsenal game, and a hell of a lot more. There were photo albums as well, but they were my mother’s, not mine.

One of the school report cards was open on my mother’s lap to show she’d been reading it. Instinct told me to retrace my steps and get out of here before she registered my presence.

“You were always so good at school,” my mother said without turning.

Too late to escape then. She’d probably heard the key in the door, and as only the cleaner and I had one, and it wasn’t the right day for Gemma to pay a visit, it didn’t take a genius to work out who it was.

“You managed to be sporty, academic,andcreative,” she continued. “I used to love going to your parent’s evenings and listening to the teachers talk about how much they enjoyed teaching you.”

“I was never any good at languages,” I said. “I bet none of my French teachers talked about how much they enjoyed teaching me.”

“I don’t remember.”

I stepped into the room, picking my way carefully across the floor so I didn’t stand on anything. When I reached the sofa, I sat. I could see my mother’s tear-streaked cheeks, now. Something twanged in my chest, but I refused to let it show on my face. I’d let my mother keep hurting me for years. There came a time when you had to harden your heart against it. Although, if that was the case, it begged the question why I was here. “You told me you’d gotten rid of this stuff. Where was it?”

“I know… I lied. I’m sorry.” My mother lifted her arm, using her sleeve to wipe her face. “It was mean of me. I wanted to get rid of it all, but I just couldn’t bring myself to go through with it. I stored it in the garage instead and tried to forget it was there.”

Just like she’d tried to forget I was in prison. There was a running theme there. I picked up the closest photo album and opened it to the first page. The photos were from when I was a toddler. I’d seen them before, but not for years, a reluctant smile pulling at my lips as I found myself confronted with pictures of my mum, dad, and me in various combinations, one of them usually required to take the photo. However, there were a few pictures with all three of us, where someone else had taken on the task of capturing it.

The sofa gave as my mother joined me on it. I didn’t look up from the photo album, tracing my finger over my father’s familiar features instead. “I miss him,” I admitted.

She sniffed, and I wondered if she was crying again. “I miss him too. I often think I should have remarried, but I’ve never met anyone who could hold a candle to him, so it didn’t seem fair.”

“You’ve still got time.”

“I’d probably just mess it up like I mess everything else up.”

I wasn’t brave enough to ask if she was talking about me. Instead, I went back to studying the photos with my mother watching silently as I flicked through the pages until I reached the end, where there was a photograph of me in my uniform from when I’d started school. The problem with reaching the end of the album was that it left me with nothing to do except stare at the closed book. I waved a hand at the array of stuff covering the floor. “Can I take this stuff?”

“It’s yours.”

I nodded without looking at my mother. Apart from that first glance when I’d seen she was crying, I hadn’t looked at her at all. It was easier that way.

“Why did you come here?” My mother’s voice sounded cracked and dry, like an autumn leaf that had long since fallen from the tree.

Why indeed?“I don’t know. I was going to call, but…”

“I was going to call, too.”

“Were you?” I didn’t need to be looking at her to know she’d winced. I felt it.

“Yes… I just… I didn’t know what to say.”

“Hello would have been a good start. Maybe you could have followed that up with, how are you? You know, normal conversational stuff. Anything would have been better than complete silence.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to talk to me. Not after…”

“Not after you told me to leave.”

“I put more money in your account.”

She had. Regular amounts. Far more than I could ever spend, especially when Darien had never asked me for a penny. I bought groceries, but that was about it. It was something we needed to talk about now that life wouldn’t be dictated by talking to lawyers and pleading my case for the millionth time. We should at least be splitting the bills.

I forced myself to lift my gaze and look at my mother, really look at her. Her eyes were red, like she’d been crying for some time prior to my arrival, and her hair was greasier than I’d ever seen it before, even after my father had died, like she hadn’t been taking very good care of herself. “I didn’t want money. I wanted…” I couldn’t bring myself to say it, focusing on Samson instead, who’d stretched out over Katy Perry so that little of her could still be seen.

“I saw the news. I sawyouon the news.”

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