Page 7 of Just Like That

‘And you will do a great job of that, I’m sure.’

‘So, you’ll come when he’s awake then? Because whatever his prognosis, he’s going to have a long recovery ahead of him and he’ll need support.’

‘That’s something else we’ve just been discussing,’ says my mum. ‘We need to make sure that Seth gets the best care possible to support his recovery and we don’t have a bottomless pit of money. Rather than us wasting it on flights back and forth and overpriced accommodation, we think it makes more sense to put that money into private rehabilitation services of some sort.’

Getting to my feet, I pace around the bench restlessly.

‘You mean you’re not coming over at all?’ I’m shaking my head in denial of this possibility. ‘Please tell me thatthisI’ve got wrong.’

‘Not at all.’ My dad placates me. ‘We’re only saying that we need to be smart about how we support Seth in his recovery. We’ll pop across when they wake Seth up, of course we will.’

This statement is the hammer blow for me. I’ve always accepted my mum and dad’s laissez-faire approach to parenting, because it’s all I’ve really known. When they took off for Spain, I was able to see it how they did – as their turn in life to regain their sense of self after being Mum and Dad for all those years. My jokes about them running away from us because we’re so different to them were just that: jokes. I’d always assumed they’d be there for us when we really needed them. But hit with this harsh reality of the worst having happened, I’m now left wondering if we were ever really anything but a burden to them. Perhaps having kids seemed like a good idea at the time, but in hindsight, given another chance, they probably wouldn’t do it over.

Thinking of Seth lying on that trolley unconscious with machines tracking his vitals, I feel the blood in my own body start to pump aggressively. I begin to seethe, and before I know it, I’ve lost control.

‘OK, great. You just “pop over” when it suits you then. You know, whenever you feel like showing some care and compassion for your son, who’s pretty much at death’s door—’

‘Now, come on, Jess,’ my dad interjects. ‘I know you’ve had a shock and you’re dealing with a lot. You’re learning what it is to be an adult – and that’s an important part of you becoming a resilient and independent woman. We won’t be around forever, you know.’

‘Oh, don’t pull that nonsense with me,’ I scoff. ‘You’re both in your late fifties. You’ll be around for a while yet. You’ve clearly convinced yourself of “the greater good” here, but all I see is you throwing money at the problem, while dressing it up as the perfect “life challenge” for me—’

‘Jess, please.’ My mum’s tone remains strained. ‘You’re in shock, as your father says, and we have the wisdom to act rationally and sensibly to this. Once you’ve had time to think about it, you’ll realise it’s the best solution—’

‘No, I won’t.’ I kick at the ground in bare frustration. ‘I really won’t. But you just carry on thinking that way if it makes you feel better, and I’ll go look after your son.’

I jab forcefully at my phone screen to end the call, and after a few more kicks at the ground I flop down on the bench, the fight having well and truly left me. How can they be so lax about their own son having a stroke? And how can they feel all right about putting the responsibility all on me? Perhaps they don’t, but their precious life in Spain is just too important to them. Whatever their thoughts and motivations, one thing is clear: I’m on my own with this, and Seth cannot ever know how they reacted. His recovery is my number one priority – I will not have it hampered by the knowledge that his own mum and dad barely batted an eyelid when he was clinging on to life.

Feeling all this settling on me like a twenty-ton weight, a bubble of grief forms in my chest and within moments, big fat tears are rolling down my cheeks and onto my top. Swiping at my face while I dig in my bag for a tissue, I realise I have nothing to help stem the flow, and I cry even harder, until I’m a disgusting sobbing mess. In fact, I’m so lost in my grief that I don’t even realise that someone is standing right in front of me.

‘Are you all right?’ a deep male voice filters down from above.

Looking up, I shield my eyes from the bright sunshine, and see a man hovering over me. He looks around thirty and is unshaven with dishevelled dark brown hair. He’s also quite broad and muscular, and he’s wearing overalls, suggesting he’s a manual labourer of some kind. Even in my emotional state, I don’t miss that he’s quite attractive, in a rugged way. Making eye contact with him, I suddenly feel embarrassed by my behaviour.

‘Oh… erm… yes, I’m… sorry… I didn’t mean to disturb you.’

‘You didn’t disturb me. I was passing and I thought you might need some help.’

‘No, I’m OK. Or at least I will be.’

‘Have you had some bad news?’ The man gazes down at me in a way that makes me feel small and vulnerable.

‘Eh… yeah…’ I give a long, loaded sigh. ‘Something like that.’

‘Do you have anyone you can call, maybe? You seem like you need some support.’

‘Not really. They wouldn’t be able to do anything anyway.’

‘Right. Can I do anything?’

The man seems a bit uncomfortable, but he also shows no sign of leaving. I cross my arms over my body protectively. He’s obviously trying to help, but it’s clear he’s no natural when it comes to comforting someone in distress. The best thing would be for him to leave me in peace, but for some reason, he doesn’t seem to want to do that.

‘I’m OK, really,’ I reply. ‘Thanks for your concern.’

Rather than taking the hint, the man lingers, looking thoughtful.

‘How about I buy you a coffee?’

As he says this, the penny drops as to why he’s still here. He’s not a concerned citizen; he’s hitting on me. That’s why this interaction is so awkward: because his expressed motivations don’t match his intentions. This realisation has me fizzing again, my fuse having remained short following my altercation with my parents.

---