Page 55 of Statistically Speaking
“You’re going to see her this weekend?” he asks.
“Yes—is that a problem? Had we arranged to do something that I’ve forgotten? I thought you were going home for your niece’s birthday party?”
He laughs, squeezes my fingers, and says, “I think we both know that it’s extremely unlikely that you’d have forgotten something, Gemma. Yeah, I was planning on popping back to deliver presents and be the favorite uncle. The only uncle, actually. So I won’t be around after you see her. Will you be all right?”
He is concerned for me, and it is still a strange sensation. Still something that doesn’t sit entirely right with me.
“I’ll be fine, don’t worry,” I say, throwing as much confidence into it as I can.
He is quiet for a moment, then continues: “So... random idea, but it occurs to me... Stoke is kind of on the way to Birmingham—just a little detour off the M6, almost Alton Towers...” I know this now, of course. I have looked it up.
Planned my route. Learned way more about the history of the pottery industry than I ever needed to.
“I don’t think it’s going to be as much fun as Alton Towers,” I reply, wondering what he is getting at and feeling tense when I begin to suspect what it is.
“Few things are as much fun as Alton Towers,” he answers. “I love theme parks, by the way. That’s probably something you should know about me. But no, I wasn’t thinking we’d call in for a quick go on the Runaway Mine Train or anything.”
“The Runaway Mine Train? Isn’t that for kids?”
“No! Well, okay, it’s not as big as some, but it’s my favorite, all right? Don’t hold it against me. Anyhow, forget Alton Towers—what I was thinking is that we could maybe go together? Down the M6?”
“Down the M6” sounds so innocent, I think. Just a drive on a busy motorway. What’s a few miles between friends?
But the reality is that what he is suggesting is much more complicated than that. In our case, “down the M6” leads to a world of family, and a world of complexity, and a world of unspoken commitment.
“I’m not sure,” I say as we reach my flat and I get my keys out. I hear Bill’s welcome woof as we lurk outside. “I mean, I haven’t seen my mum for so long. I don’t know how it’s going to go. There’s every chance I might just chicken out and turn into a Runaway Gemma Train myself. I don’t think it’d be... comfortable for you?”
He takes my keys out of my hands, as I’m making a god-awful job of talking, thinking, and door-opening at the same time.
“I wasn’t saying I should come to your mum’s with you,” he explains as we walk up the stairs and go into the flat. “That would be inappropriate right now. Though obviously, if you wanted me to, if you thought it would help for me to be there, then I would.”
I sit on the chair instead of the sofa, not knowing why. We usually get back here and curl up together on the couch whilewe talk rubbish, holding a casual postmortem of our days. He notices—of course he does—and looks confused when he finds himself on the sofa alone.
“Thanks, Karim,” I say, “I appreciate that, but I think I need to see her by myself.”
He nods and replies, “I agree, that’s probably for the best. What I’m thinking is this—we could drive there together. I could drop you at your mum’s and maybe hang out in Stoke for a bit.”
“What would you do there?” I ask, although it really is irrelevant. “Do you know the place?”
“I’ve been there. Well, to be more precise, I’ve been to the football stadium... but you know, it’s a city. There’ll be cafés and shops and fleshpots of earthly delights.”
I frown. From what I read when I googled my mum’s new hometown, I’m not 100 percent sure about the fleshpots.
“But why?” I ask eventually. “Are you worried in case I become such an emotional wreck it’s not safe for me to drive?”
He puffs out a slightly exasperated breath, and I realize that I am annoying him and that he is trying to remain calm. He thinks I am being deliberately obtuse, and he might, of course, be right. I think what I am actually doing is stalling for time.
“I would never worry about such a thing,” he answers. “I know you’d be able to handle it. But as I’m planning to go home as well, maybe it might make sense? Maybe you could see your mum, and then we could... go to Birmingham. Together. See my dad and my sisters. Eat birthday cake and stuff.”
He is leaning back, trying to appear casual, but I can tell that I have made him feel edgy. This is probably not going how he imagined it would. I am probably not reacting like a normalgirlfriend should. He runs his fingers through his thick hair and looks around the room while I consider what he has said.
“You want me to meet your family?” I ask dumbly.
“Yes. I do. Why wouldn’t I? Though I’m kind of getting the vibe right now that I’ve made a mistake. That the timing isn’t right. That I’ve loaded too much into one weekend. I didn’t think it through properly. I just thought it’d work for both of us, but now I see that meeting your mum again and meeting my lot for the first time would be... excessive.”
It would, I think, nodding.Excessiveis the right word. It would be a lot to deal with, and there are too many variables. I have no idea how I will feel after visiting my own mother. I might be upset, I might be sad, I might be hurt. I might end up creeping into Karim’s family home like a wounded animal escaping a trap, and that would not be a good start. It would be too much tension for one day.
All of that makes sense. All of that is logical; all of that could be reasonably explained. But beneath the sense and the logic and the reason there lies something more instinctive, more deeply ingrained: I am terrified at the prospect of meeting his sisters and his father.
