Page 52 of Statistically Speaking
“I’d imagine she is,” I say, knowing exactly the kind of boys who get into those kinds of games. Nice ones, usually. As eighteen-year-old pastimes go, it is extremely benign.
“Could be worse.” Erin shrugs. “It certainly was when I was her age.”
Margie cackles and adds, “I was a bit of a handful myself back then!”
“You still are!” say Erin and I at exactly the same time. Margie pretends to look offended, but I can tell she is secretly delighted to be considered a source of trouble.
Once she’s had enough, Erin and I help Margie out of the pool and into the changing rooms. It takes her a while, but Margie manages alone while I sit in the cubicle next to her, listening to her swear and curse. I am alert for any signs of distress, but hear only mild frustration as she dries off and gets back into her clothes. We head for the café, and Erin gets the coffees in while Margie and I settle at a table by the vending machine.
A half-in, half-out Mars bar tells a tale of bitter sadness and disappointment.
Margie is recounting a story about one of her grandchildren winning Reader of the Week at school, and about her plans to visit them in the new year. She seems happy, animated, her hair damp on her shoulders as she chats.
I am half listening but am also distracted by a group of toddlers being led in a line toward the small pool, like brightly colored ducklings. They’re wearing inflatable arm bands, and there are eight of them, so sixteen inflatable arm bands in total. Which is, of course, completely irrelevant to anything in the world but automatically noted by my whacked-out brain.
My phone is out on the table, and as Erin returns with a tray of drinks that she is merrily sloshing all over the place, it does a little jump as it chirrups and vibrates.
“Ooh! Get that!” cries Margie. “It might be a pic of your Karim in the nude! If it is, I want to see...”
I grab the phone, knowing that it won’t be a picture of “my Karim” in the nude. At least I don’t think it will. I see that it is my email app. That I have a new message from Geoff with a G. The subject heading is “your mother.”
I feel a sudden rush of nerves, and the sound of the pool—the giggling kids, the slosh of the water, the background chatter of the café—recedes into the distance. I grip the phone so hard I see my knuckles go white, and I have a strong urge to just delete it. Slasher in mask, just ahead.
“You all right, love?” asks Margie, reaching out to touch my arm. I jump, as though I had forgotten she was there. Maybe I had.
“Yep. Just a work thing. I’ll be back in a sec.”
I get up and stride away, heading outside to the car park. I have no idea why I lied. Why I felt the need to escape. Why I do many of the things I do.
I shelter in the doorway, hiding from the rain, and calm myself down by watching the cars for a few minutes. Audi seems to be the favored brand of the local swimmer, and most of them are black.
I take a deep breath and open my inbox. I have shared a few messages with Geoff, and he is chatty and friendly even in writing. He has told me about his retirement, about his children and his three grandchildren, and about his dog, a springer spaniel called Mabel. He seems genuinely very pleased to hear from me and is delighted at the way my life has gone. I suppose it must be good to hear a success story when much of his career was probably taken up with meeting people at the lowest point of their lives.
When I broached the issue of my mum and told him I was trying to find out what had happened to her, he was supportive but also professional. He said he was still in touch with some people from that place and time, but also that even though he was retired, there were still rules. Protocols. Matters of confidentiality.
I told him that I understood all that and would be grateful for anything he could do. And now, here it is—the moment I’ve been partially dreading. I could, of course, open the email and find that he has discovered nothing. I could find that he has discovered she is in fact dead. I could find that she has been abducted by space aliens and is currently running a vaping shop on Venus. Or I could, of course, actually read the damned thing.
Dear Gemma, the email says.
I hope you’re well, and not too busy with work! Now I’m retired I find myself always a bit concerned about overwork in others! Anyway, I have news about your mother. As we’ve discussed before, I am limited in what I can say, and what I can share. However, would you be happy for me to pass your details on to my former colleague, who could then pass them on to the relevant parties? Your phone number and email address, perhaps? I think, then, maybe you could get all the information you need from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. Let me know either way—best wishes as ever, Geoff.
He is not of the generation that posts kisses after signing off, and I am glad, as I still think of him as an adult talking to the teenage me and that would be weird.
I look over the email again, and again. I am reading between the lines, I know, but I think he is telling me that my mother is still alive. I think he is asking me if, via some convoluted process, I would be okay with her being given my contact details. Or am I completely misinterpreting that “horse’s mouth” comment?
Where did that saying come from, anyway? I’ve never heard a horse speak, so I’m unsure about why they’re considered to be such a reliable source. And while I’m at it, what are gift horses, and why shouldn’t we look them in the mouth? Why are there so many phrases about horses? And why am I so bothered about it, right now, as I stand in the rain clutching my phone?
I am bothered, I know, because it is a distraction from what is really bothering me. Saying yes to Geoff’s question will open doors—possible stable doors, allowing horses to bolt. It will open doors to my mother getting in touch, or even my mother choosing not to get in touch, and I wonder if I am ready for that.
I went looking for her, but I never felt ready. I asked Geoff, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know. Remembering my life with my mother in it makes me feel dizzy. My life with my mother in it was uncertain, and unpredictable, and those are not qualities I am renowned for liking. My life without my mother in it is undoubtedly simpler, easier, safer.
But still... she is my mother. She is the only blood relation I know of, apart from my own daughter. Isn’t it hypocritical of me to expect my own offspring to want me in her life, while turning my back on my own mum? It is, I decide. I understand why I feel like this, and I think it is reasonable—but it is also going to be hard to turn my back on. She is part of me, whetherI like it or not. I owe it to her, and to myself, to at least have the backbone to take these first steps.
I am an adult now, and things are very different. I reassure myself that I am too strong, too grown, too bloody rooted, to be sucked into her chaos again. It is the fear of it that is controlling me, and I refuse to be controlled by fear.
I tap out a reply, tell Geoff I am out and about and will send a longer email later, but that yes, I would be happy for him to pass along my details.
I press Send before I can change my mind. I close the app down, switch off my phone, and go back inside.
