Page 59 of Statistically Speaking
“Well,” I say, my voice steady as I settle back onto the sofa opposite her, “like I said, I live near Liverpool. I’ve moved around a lot, done lots of different teaching jobs. Now I ama history teacher. I live in a nice flat right by the beach, and I have a lovely neighbor called Margie. I share her dog, Bill. I’ve been there awhile now.”
She nods and leans forward, her skinny arms wrapped around her body.
“That sounds brilliant, Gems. I know it doesn’t mean much, but I was always so proud of you. Despite everything, you’ve done so well. And what about your love life, eh? Gorgeous girl like you. Any boyfriends?”
“Or girlfriends?” I respond, grinning.
“Fair point. Anyone special?”
I think of Karim, miles down the motorway, probably home by now. Wrapped up in the happy chaos of his family, getting grilled by Asha, playing with the kids.
“I think so,” I say. “But it’s early days yet. I’ve not got the best track record on that front; I’ve managed to mess a lot of stuff up, so I’m just taking it one day at a time.”
We share a look, and we both understand what I haven’t said—that my track record is poor because I am not good at building and maintaining relationships. That I am scarred and damaged. That I, too, have done my best.
I haven’t said it, but she gets it, and I see her lips pinch together in dislike. For a moment, I am seven years old again, seeing the signs of a row brewing and willing to do anything to dissipate it. This is the point at which I would normally surrender, distract, try to draw her attention away from whatever was irking her.
I don’t do that this time. I am too old for such games, and I already know that I cannot win.
“Any photos?” she asks, breaking the moment.
I pull out my phone and sit next to her, realizing as our bodies touch that she is even less solid than she looks. Barely even there.
We sit, and I show her pictures and tell her stories, and she asks questions. We share information about our lives, both of us treading carefully, both of us knowing that there is too much lurking just beneath the surface. Too much between us that could erupt.
I am there for about an hour before Sam returns. She shouts out as she lets herself in, and as she enters the room, I see her worried gaze dart immediately to my mum. Checking for breakages, inside and out. Guarding her, concerned for her.
“Everything all right, duck?” she says, looking from my mum to me and back again.
“Everything’s grand,” Mum says reassuringly.
Sam has a package in her hands, waves it in the air, declaring that she has oatcakes and will get the kettle on.
“Whatareoatcakes?” I ask, still confused. “And what’s with all the ducks?”
My mother laughs, and I remember that sound so well. It is a beautiful laugh, all the more special for its rarity.
“Oatcakes are a big deal around here, babe. Kind of a savory pancake, I suppose, that you make with cheese and bacon and, in some weird cases, jam. And ‘duck’ is just a term of endearment. It’s a strange old place, but I like it.”
I can hear Sam clattering around in the kitchen, the sound of cups being washed, of the fridge door opening. It is so simple, this small domestic scene. It is comfortable and calm, the two of them settled in their world.
I am glad that she has found this. For the whole of my life, I have never known her at peace. I have only seen the small spaces between the pain, and then the price she paid for them. This—with her oatcakes and her ducks and her parakeet and her pottery shire horses—is what happiness looks like for her.
I stand up, knowing that it is time to go. We have danced around some things, faced some others head-on. We have tiptoed around the darkness, and I think I now have to leave. This has been big, and now I need to be small.
“I’ve got to get going, Mum,” I say as she gets to her feet. “But it was lovely to see you. I’m glad you’re doing well, I really am. The best I’ve ever seen you.”
Sam emerges from the kitchen, a tea towel in her hands, watching us.
Mum initially looks disappointed, her face creased with a small flash of irritation, but she covers it up quickly.
“It was so nice, Gems. I’m glad you’re doing okay.”
“I am,” I reply, not actually sure if I mean it or not.
At the moment I feel raw, like my insides have been scrubbed with a wire brush, but that will pass, I know.
When it does, perhaps I will make this drive again. Perhaps I will invite her to come and meet Margie. Perhaps, one day, this will feel less fraught. We will never be a normal family, but perhaps we can at least be a family—if we both carry on doing our best. And if she even wants to—she has never been an easy woman to predict.
