Page 36 of The Meaning Of You

I agreed, my curiosity thoroughly piqued.

“Okay, well the long and short of it is, my father was a prick. In life in general, but especially with me and my mother, although mostly my mother. I copped the tongue lashings and name calling, but he saved the physical stuff for her.”

My heart sank. “Oh Jesus, Nick, I’m so sorry.”

He drew a long slow breath and his next words were louder, like he’d moved the phone closer to his mouth. “I don’tremember a time when he wasn’t knocking her about in some way. Mum said he wasn’t like that the first few years they were together. Quick to anger, sure, but he never touched her physically. Then he lost his job a few months before I was born and the drinking started. It went downhill from there. My childhood memories are pretty much filled with images of him screaming at us or pushing her around. I try not to think about that time at all. It’s safer for my mental health.”

“Did she ever think about leav—” I stopped myself. “I’m sorry. You said no questions.”

He gave another long sigh. “Yes, she did, but he found us both times. Busted her face really bad the first time. She couldn’t leave the house for weeks. He wouldn’t let her see a doctor, so her nose never set right and her right ear had a chunk out of the top where he split it wide open.”

I gasped. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah, pretty much. The second time he landed her in hospital with a concussion and three broken ribs. He lied and told the medical staff she’d run her car into a tree and wasn’t wearing her seat belt. She backed him up, of course. Not that she had much of a choice. He refused to leave her side in case she said anything. She was terrified.”

The idea of a young Nick being witness to all that fucked with my head. Let alone what his mother must’ve been going through. Rage burned through my blood and I wanted to hit something. I grabbed the spare pillow and threw it across the room. It hit my dresser, sending the stack of books on top careering to the wooden floor in a thundering pile.

“Jesus, what was that?”

I snorted. “Your father’s head if I could have five minutes alone with the bastard.”

Nick was slow to answer. “I appreciate the sentiment. As it turned out, my mum did finally make her escape when I waseight. Things had gotten really bad between them. She came into my room one night when he’d left to go drinking with his mates. Told me to get dressed. That someone was coming to pick us up. That we were leaving. I wanted to take my train set but she said there wasn’t time. I remember putting up a fuss, not really understanding the urgency, and her just dragging me out the back door. But that’s as far as we got. My dad reappeared unexpectedly, having left his wallet behind.”

“Oh fuck.” My heart pounded in my throat.

Nick huffed dejectedly. “Yep. And he was so mad, Madigan. Like a fucking animal. I’d never seen him like that before. He ordered me back in the house and I was too scared not to go, even though my mum begged me to stay with her, insisting we were leaving. Dad totally lost it, and I think he might’ve killed her except for a car’s headlamps lighting up our driveway. It startled my father long enough for my mother to break free and make a run for it toward the car. It slowed and she jumped in. Years later I realised that the car must’ve been coming for both of us. It was our ride out of there and I’d missed it. The last memory I have of my mother is her face pressed to the passenger window as they drove away.”

Jesus Christ. “So you never heard from her again? Sorry, I know you told me no questions.”

He sighed. “It’s fine. And no. I kept waiting for her to come back for me, but she never did. I thought that maybe my dad had found her and... you know. Or maybe she simply got herself a new life and couldn’t risk returning.”

“She left you alone with him?”

I pictured his shrug. “Like I said, he never hit me as such, just a little shoving around and a lot of shouting.”

Like that wasn’t just as bad, sometimes worse.And define shoving.“Don’t brush it off, Nick. That’s years and years of a total fuck-up to have to endure.”

And tells me a lot about the why of who you are.

“I won’t deny it. But when I was fifteen, I got lucky. My rugby coach had no time for my father who spent most matches hurling abuse at the other team and referees. I also knew I was gay by then, not that I would ever have come out to my dad, but I suspect my coach knew that about me as well. He took me aside and told me that if I ever needed a place to sleep, I was welcome to stay with his family. It was enough to get me through. The second I turned sixteen and could legally leave home, I turned up on my coach’s doorstep and that was that. Surprisingly, my dad didn’t put up much of a fight. Maybe he was happy to see the back of me. More money in his pocket for booze. Whatever.”

“That was so fucking brave,” I told him, meaning it.

He huffed. “Self-preservation, more like. I finished school, went to university, and moved to Auckland. I still keep in touch with my coach and his family, but they moved to the UK when I was at university so I don’t see them. My dad died ten years ago of an alcohol-related illness. Like I could give a fuck. He was estranged from everyone. I organised his cremation and sorted through everything else by phone and email. Told the funeral home they could put his ashes out for rubbish collection for all I cared, but we settled on scattering them in the bush, which they did for me. Then I sold his crappy house and donated most of the money to LGBTQ+ charities.”

I snorted. “Good for you.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, that was the best fucking feeling. The bastard will be spinning in hell for eternity. Anyway, that’s the whole sad story in a nutshell. I’ve spent most of my life angry at my father, confused about my mother, and generally messed up. If you’d told me in my twenties that I would find a guy, fall in love, and settle down, I’d have said you were out of your freaking mind. Who’d have guessed?”

Nick inhaled slowly and I sensed him relaxing, like telling me his story had created some breathing room between us and the line went quiet, neither of us looking to fill the space as I began digesting the true horror of his story. It explained a lot, of course, but it raised just as many questions too. Questions I didn’t think would be welcome and so I parked them for the moment.

“I wouldn’t say you’re messed up,” I finally countered. “I’d say that you’ve had a pretty normal response to a fucking horrible childhood.”

He chuckled. “Nice try, but trust me, I am absolutely messed up. But I did get myself some counselling while I was at university, so I’m at least a functioning and semi-aware mess and quite aware of my tendency to beself-containedand... what did you call it?”

I grinned up at the fan above my bed. “Resolute was the term.”

“Yes.” He sounded amused. “Resolute. Although you’re being far too easy on me.”

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