Page 58 of Statistically Speaking
She chuckles and answers, “No, I don’t!”
“Well, at least you’re not dead?” I reply, smiling.
“Ha! Ain’t that the truth of it. Better than dead, that’s for sure. Sit yourself down now, you’re making me nervous, and I think we’re both jumpy enough, aren’t we?” I sit and find that the sofa is one of those that has no bottom, like the one in Erin’s house. I live in a world where I seem destined to be eaten alive by other people’s furniture.
I look around at the busy but clean room. At the puzzle books and the small collection of remote controls on the arm of her chair. It reminds me of Margie’s place a bit, with its air of clutter and the sense that if you dug deep enough, you’d find traces of prehistoric existence.
“This is nice,” I say, and mean it. The fact that she still has a large-screen TV, still has a mobile phone, still has what look like good-quality pieces of pottery, suggests that she is as clean as the room—they’d have been long gone if she was still using.
It is a huge relief, and one that makes me sag as much as the sofa. I hadn’t realized how worried I’d been—that part of me half expected her to tap me up for money and make her farewells. That fretting about how she was going to be had dragged me down so much.
“It is, isn’t it? Best thing I ever did, getting out of London. Too many bad memories. Too many bad friends.”
“What made you do it in the end? Leave, I mean?” I ask as I sip the tea, as much for something to do as from any genuine desire to drink it. “I never knew where you went. Your phone just went dead.”
She nods, and I see her fists clench and remember her habit of denting her own flesh with her fingernails when she was upset. I wonder how good for her this meeting is, and hope it doesn’t push her back in the direction of bad habits. I know it’s not my responsibility to police my own mother, but I also wouldn’t want to be a catalyst for a collapse into her old ways.
“You don’t have to talk about it,” I say quickly. “We can just forget about it, Mum—it’s in the past.”
She looks up at me, eyes big and face sad, and I get the feeling she knows I am worried, and exactly what I am worried about.
“It’s okay, babe. I don’t mind... except, well, it’s a sorry tale and not one I’m fond of recalling, Gems. But ignoring it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, and ignoring it also means it might just creep up on me later, so best spit it all out.
“I’m not going to go into too much detail, but basically I hit an all-time low. Even by my standards, which we both know weren’t very high. I owed money to some people who weren’t fussy about how they got paid back. I was using again, even though I’d cleaned myself up while I was at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. You seemed... sorted, on your way. You certainly didn’t need me. There just didn’t seem to be anything worth staying in that life for, and I knew if I did, it’d be the end of me. I suppose I had to make a choice—me or that place, the past. You were... part of the past. I thought it was better for both of us.”
That jolts, and I feel the familiar stab of rejection that I grew up with. Whatever maternal feelings she had toward me were always so easily overridden by her own needs. I am not in a position to judge—but it still stings.
“And Sam? You met her here?” I say, looking around and seeing clearly that this is a home inhabited by two people, not one. There are coats hanging up that are way too big for my mum, a mug left on the coffee table with a Stoke City emblem, the TV positioned so it can be seen from both sofas.
“I did, not long after I moved up. She used to live in the flat downstairs, but now she lives here. With me. Is that a problem for you?” I see her chin jerk up, a hint of her old defiance showing in her eyes.
“Why would it be?” I reply, smiling. “I’m glad you’ve found someone you can be happy with.” Despite the defiance, I can see that she is relieved at my response. That she has one less battle to fight now.
“I am, I suppose,” she says, “happy. Or at least as happy as I can get. I’m on my medication properly; Sam makessure of that. I don’t use anything, other than the cigarettes, obviously—some habits I’ll probably take to the grave. I have a nice little life here, Gems. It’s more than I expected. More than I deserve. I wasn’t much of a mum for you, was I? I’m sorry. Didn’t ever feel like I could do anything different. I wasn’t ready for a kid, and even now I’m probably stuffing it up.”
“It’s okay,” I say gently, concerned at how quickly she has reached such an emotional point. “I always knew you did your best, Mum.”
“Did my best? I suppose I did—but that won’t look good on me gravestone, will it? My best was crap, and you should have had better. I was... I was a mess. My own childhood was a mess too, even though I never told you about it, and I ran away from home when I was in my teens. I didn’t know what a mother was supposed to do. I didn’t know anything. I couldn’t even look after myself. I should have given you away as soon as you were born; at least then you’d have had a chance.”
Her final comment hits me like a punch to the throat. My mother knew I was pregnant. She knew I gave Baby up for adoption. Is this her way of telling me I did the right thing, or has she simply forgotten? Rewritten history?
I don’t know the answer but I am hit by a powerful mix of sadness and anger. I put the tea down, the sugar sickening my stomach anyway.
“I turned out all right, Mum,” I say simply, chewing my lip to keep the other words inside. The angry ones. The painful ones. The ones that are desperate to lash out but will not help either of us.
“No thanks to me for sure. Anyway—tell me all about it. Your life. Everything I’ve missed.”
“I will,” I reply, standing up, “as soon as I’ve used the loo.”
She directs me to the bathroom down the hallway, and as soon as I am inside, I lock the door behind me. I stand in front of the mirror, holding on to the edges of the sink to steady my shaking legs. I splash cold water onto my face and stare at my reflection.
Even now, away from her, I can somehow feel her self-pity. Even as she apologizes, I can feel her self-justification. I can feel her need to be told she was right, she did her best, that everything turned out fine. She was always a black hole of need, and I think I’d somehow buried that memory.
You are not a little girl anymore, I tell myself.You are not weak, or vulnerable, or scared. You do not need to feel threatened. You do not need to give more than you have, in the hope that it will help—in the hope that it will fix her. That didn’t work when you were a child, and it will not work now.
I do a quick and automatic tally of the number of items balanced on the sides of the bath—two shampoos, one conditioner, Tesco own-brand bubble bath, one exfoliating face mask, one rubber duck—before I use the facilities and wash my hands. I give myself another stern look before I leave.
When I go back into the living room, she has obviously just finished a quick cigarette, stubbing it out hastily as I return and then wafting the air to clear it of the smoke. I notice the smell of plug-in air fresheners rising around it but not quite claiming it. Monty squawks away to himself, running up and down his perch as though furiously protesting the presence of a stranger.
