Page 37 of Tough Love

“I was hurt.” It was the only way I knew how to cope: put distance between my family, and bury myself in study. “There was nothing I could say that would have explained how I felt, so I chose not to say anything at all.”

“And now?” Mum asks, referring to the fact months can pass between even a phone call.

I shrug, my eyes glazed as I stare at the tabletop. “I still don’t know what to say.” She leans back in her seat as I look up at her. “What’s the point in forcing it, Mum? We’re not close. We don’t have anything to talk about when Idocall.”

She sits statute, only her lips moving as she twists them side-to-side. I’m right; the conversations we do have are forced pleasantries. There’s no real connection, no bond anymore. It’s easier just to carry on with our own lives than endure the torture that is pretending we actuallywantto talk.

“What made her finally see the light?” I ask, redirecting the conversation back to Kath as I pick at my nails.

“Tristan mentioned something that gave away he really was there the final time.”

Yeah—thefinaltime. As in, he abused me over and over, repeatedly, and nobody believed the things I said until he almost killed me for carrying his unwanted child.

“How could you let him stay around after what he did?”

“We didn’t know at first,” Mum explains, her tone sombre, almost matter of fact. “Kath swore she’d stopped seeing him, told us she was spending time with her friends to get over it all, but she was sneaking around with him behind our backs.”

My chin crumples as I nod, my eyes hard, my heart even more so. “She was busy screwing him when I lay in hospital being told I could never have kids of my own because of the damage he caused.” I snort a bitter laugh. “Nice.”

Mum sighs, wiping her cheeks with her fingertips. “It was a complicated time, Amelia. Even if she had come to visit you more often, would you have wanted to see her?”

I don’t know. The few visits she did pay were awkward to say the least. “I’m not sure.” I place both palms flat on the table to stop my anxious picking and meet Mum’s torn gaze. “What happened after you found out she was pregnant? How in the hell was he around long enough to get his name on the damn birth certificate?”

Her line of sight drops to the table, her fingers tapping an incessant rhythm. “We tolerated her excuses at first, afraid if we pushed too hard she’d leave too.” Mum shrugs. “We’d just said goodbye to you, and neither of us wanted to risk driving Kath away as well.”

“But?” I prompt.

“We drew the line at him coming to our house; banned him from visiting. She didn’t take too well to that.”

My breath shudders as it leaves my nose. “She picked him … again.”

Mum nods, staring at her hands in her lap as she fusses with the fabric of her skirt. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Amelia,” she snaps. “As painful as it is, the past is just that, the past. We can’t change what happened, and we can’t do a damn thing about you girls when Kath’s dead, can we?” She stares at me with such venom that I literally recoil.

Point taken.

Her chair scrapes loudly as she pushes out from the table and gathers her rubbish. “We’ve wasted a quarter of an hour already, so I suggest you start ticking off the things on our to-do list.”

I sit still as a statue while she leaves the room, my hands shaking in my lap. She’s brushed it off, shoved our family shame back in the box where it belongs. Sure, I get her point that bickering about the past won’t change what happened, but denying the damage it’s caused won’t change how things arenow.

The computer screen stares back at me, and I sheepishly click the second document tucked behind the one containing the names. Laid out in a checklist format are the things we need to organise: headstone, food choices for wake (catered by funeral home), flowers, song choices, names of people who will make speeches, outfit for Kath.

The words all make sense, and yet they swirl through my mind, as indecipherable as a foreign language. My eyes are still glued to the screen when Mum returns.

“Coffee?” she asks from the doorway, as though nothing amiss has just gone down.

“Sure,” I reply, as though I’m not breaking apart inside.

And just like that our façade of strength is spackled back into place, holding us together for another day.

The time flies by, and before I know it, Dad returns with Briar. I disconnect from the unanswered call I’d been making, and head through to greet them.

“How was it?” I ask, bending down to help Briar get his soaking gumboots off.

His pant legs are so drenched that the wet patch runs above his knees.

“We had fun.” Dad smiles. “I think it’s what we both needed.” His gaze drifts toward Mum, settling on the large bouquet of flowers on the sideboard behind her. “Who are they from?”

My shoulders sag as I look at the gorgeous arrangement. “Her work. They got delivered about half an hour after you left. There’s a card,” I say, gesturing dismissively toward it. The message was basic, conveying their deepest sympathies for our loss.

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