Page 12 of The Tapes
‘Thanks for checking,’ I say.
Faith hovers for a moment, considering whether to say more. I’m almost always asleep before her and she’s concerned that I’m sitting up, chatting to myself directly after the AA meeting. All that not long after Dad died.
‘I’m honestly fine,’ I say. ‘I promise.’
She waits a moment and then nods, apparently satisfied, before heading downstairs to grab her yoghurt. I move back into my room and close the door, then sit on the bed, listening to Faith make her way back upstairs. She very much keeps her own hours, although I was no different at that age. I could sleep for twenty-four hours, or for two, with seemingly little warning or preparation for either.
When Faith has settled, I return to my own bed and lower the volume on the player.
‘…she’s only nine and her dad left last week. It’s all been a bit?—’
I listen to Mum’s voice again, but only briefly, because I’m struck by the realisation that memories simply don’t work the way everyone assumes. The wayIassumed. Everyone thinks it’s a binary black-and-white thing, where a person either remembers or they don’t, except my mother recorded these tapes in real time. This is an accurate on-the-day version of how she saw things, yet, even from the snippets, I’m realising how much I’ve forgotten.
I don’t recall Dad leaving – but Idoremember the time when Mum told me he had to go away to work for a few months. Allthat time, I was going to school, visiting friends’ houses, or going to clubs – then returning to a home where I only had one parent. I took it in my stride, as a child. It wasn’t worth remembering.
It seems so obvious now that hewasn’tworking somewhere for that length of time; he’d simply walked out. Was it because of Mum? Me? Was he having an affair?
But that sparks another thought, because Dad was gone during a winter and I remember telling Mum I liked a coat I’d seen in a shop window. When I got home from school the next day, it was on my bed waiting for me. I assumed she’d bought it because I needed a winter jacket. Now, having heard my own mother describe herself, and perhaps even without that, there’s such clarity to what actually happened.
All memories that are now so perfect and yet, an hour ago, didn’t exist.
I listen to more of the tape, where Mum continues to explain her problem. The pilfered book about kleptomania has clarified things for her and she says it’s like reading a biography of herself.
‘…I once stole hiking boots from the outdoors store in town. I’d seen them in the window the week before and couldn’t stop thinking about them. I went in to look at them and there was a second pair at the back of the store, near the counter. They had a left foot on the rack, then a row of boxes underneath. There was only one person working there, this university kid, maybe twenty, twenty-one, something like that. I knew where to look for security tags by that point, so I’d already ripped them off and left them in a different shoebox. Then I waited until he was helping someone over by the coats, and just put the boots on and walked out. I actually felt sorry for him because I wondered later if he might get charged for them. Stupid thing was, I already had a new pair of boots because Bruce had bought me some forChristmas. They were so much better than the ones I took, and I’m not sure I even wore the stolen ones in the end.’
I stop the tape again, partially because there’s a shuffling from the other side of the wall as Faith settles for the night. The other reason is that it’s not easy to hear that voice speaking with such clarity about her own failings. Is the self-awareness better or worse?
It’s hard to stop listening for long, though.
‘…there was this checked red and black pet coat that looked cute. We don’t even have a dog, so I left it on next door’s porch. It might make up for the time I took their car. That’s the thing because the book says that things escalate. I went from boots, to dog clothes, to their car, to robbing the bank. I stole a million pounds just to show I could, then gave it back and the manager thanked me for helping. That’s the thing with?—’
The obvious lie has me stopping the tape, simply to take it in. The mistruth is so clear and unbridled that I listen to it again, just to assure myself she said what I thought. Mum never stole next door’s car and she definitely didn’t rob a bank. Even if she somehow had, there’s no way she simply gave it back, no harm done.
But who’s the lie for? Was she kidding herself, trying to pretend her problem wasn’t so big? Except it occurs that being a serial thief means being a serial liar. It would be impossible for so many items to simply show up without explanation. She would’ve had to claim she bought things.
We weren’t rich, but I had new school shoes every year, a new uniform, new bag. There was nothing I ever needed that I didn’t have. It didn’t occur to me then that any of this was strange. NowI wonder how much of that was taken from various shops, then left on my bed. Perhaps all of it.
It’s impossible to know for certain, because there’s nobody to ask. Dad could not have been so blind to it all. He must have known. Maybe that’s why he disappeared for those months? I think maybe I knew as well. Deep down. But it’s not an easy thing to keep at the front of your mind when you’re thinking about your own mum.
I can’t listen to any more of the apology tape, so swap it for a random one with a month and year. It’s late, so I undress and lie under the covers, listening to my mother talk about her book club. She had a large disagreement with someone named Viv about the meaning of a Stephen King novel that apparently split the group. She spends a good fifteen minutes explaining why she’s right and Viv is wrong.
Perhaps she reallywasa podcast pioneer?
I’m still not asleep, and another dated tape has Mum whispering about a long hot summer and how the plants in the garden are wilting. There is still so much more content and it feels as if they’ll end up being a dizzying mix of heavy confessionals blended with banal musings about books and weather.
I definitely prefer the latter.
Except I still cannot sleep.
I retrieve the first tape and skip through the first part.
‘… and I need you to know that I love you.’
I listen to it over and over, wishing I didn’t need the affirmation, yet addicted to it. It’s impossible not to see my mortality, especially as my own daughter is sleeping on the other side of the wall. Perhaps I should record a video for her, saying I love her, just in case? She would likely think it strange in thepresent but, one day, she’ll be me – and I’m certain she’d want to hear this again.
‘… and I need you to know that I love you.’
I close my eyes and listen to my mother tell me she loves me one more time, although it’s hard to sleep as the tape skips back to the infant me, and then onto my mother saying she knows who the Earring Killer is. I know I should stop it entirely but I’ve been denied this voice for thirteen long years and the one taste now feels like an addiction. Not only do I want to hear more – but I already have a plentiful supply in the giant box under the bed.
