Page 60 of Statistically Speaking
Sam says goodbye, and Mum walks me to the door. She is wearing fluffy slippers with pink bows on them, I notice, her feet tiny, like a ballerina’s.
As we stand in the hall, she reaches out, takes hold of my arm with a strength that surprises me.
“Before you go, Gems, I have to say one more thing. I know it won’t change anything, but I have to say it. I wish I’d been a better mum for you.”
I place my hand on hers, whether to console her or to prize it off, I’m not quite sure, but she isn’t finished. “If I’d been a better mum, I could have kept you,” she continues, staring at me intently, as though willing me to listen. To hear. “And if I’d been a better mum, then you could have kepther...”
We have not mentioned the baby I had when I was a child myself. We have not gone down that road, both of us perhaps too scared of where it might lead. My eyes widen, and I have no words to use to tell her how I feel. To tell her that she is right. That if she’d been a better mum, perhaps she’d be known as Grandma now. If she’d been a better mum, maybe we would have raised her together. If she’d been a better mum, perhaps I wouldn’t be the way I am. Perhaps my daughter would be here with me now—eighteen years old, by my side. She is right, but it would be wrong for me to say so. Needlessly cruel and pointlessly harsh. What’s done is done, and I have no desire to launch some kind of witch hunt, to share blame, to cast around for someone else to carry my pain. But neither can I quite find it within myself to dismiss what she has said, to tell her it is not true, to reassure her that she played no part in how things worked out.
I stay silent, refusing to crack beneath the force of her gaze, the strength of her need. When I was little, I’d have crumbled. Now I am stronger, and I need to remember that. I nod once and smile, letting her interpret that however she wants.
We are at an impasse, looking at each other warily, both weighing up our next moves. I should have left earlier. I should stay longer. Maybe I shouldn’t have come at all—none of the options feel right.
Moments pass, and I realize that there is not going to be a neat ending. A warm hug and a promise to stay in touch. A tearful farewell and a lifting of hearts. There is only this—two damaged women circling each other in a dark hallway.
“Take care of yourself, Mum,” I say and turn to leave.
Chapter 25
One Candy Necklace and a Herd of Fluorescent Ponies
I find myself trapped in a hellish one-way system as I try to leave, which is perhaps reflective of my state of mind. I did the right thing, going to see her. I know I did.
And she seemed good, really good—yes, she was sad, and nervous, and presented familiar moments of potential confrontation, but all within the loose parameters of “normal” under the circumstances. She hadn’t magically transformed into a cartoon mother, but I never expected that. I certainly hadn’t magically transformed into the perfect daughter either.
But it was, I decide, positive. I coped. She coped. It didn’t feel as though she was going to spin off into oblivion just because she’d had to deal with a difficult situation. Or that I was going to either.
Maybe that’s because she is clean and managing her illness, maybe that’s because of Sam, I don’t know. Either way, I am grateful for that, grateful to have a new memory of my mother—a stabler one, a happier one. At the moment it is too early for that memory, that version, to superimpose itself over the one that lives in a vulnerable corner of my mind—the corner where little-girl me lives.
Yes, it was right to reach out, to see her—but just because somethingisright doesn’t mean itfeelsright, and I am hyped up and wired as I drive. Like I’ve had too much coffee and stayed up for three nights solid.
I find, as I fight my way through traffic to the highway, that I am distracted, on autopilot, not paying anywhere near enough attention to where I am going.
Perhaps that is why I take the wrong turn. Perhaps that is why I find myself on the M6 heading south rather than the M6 heading north. Why I find myself driving toward Birmingham and not toward Liverpool.
Perhaps, though, it is not simply because I am distracted—perhaps I am operating on some kind of instinct, motoring toward Karim and not toward home. I’d told him I wanted to be alone, but now I am not so sure. It is my default setting—but that doesn’t mean I can’t change. Look at my mum—she’s changed, under far more challenging circumstances.
I am upset, and I need comfort, and I am driving toward Karim. It doesn’t sound like a big deal, but I feel a sense of mild surprise at my own actions. This by itself may be cause for celebration—hang out the bunting, Gemma, you’re actually starting to behave like a human being!
Once I’ve come to terms with what I’m doing, I call in at a service station near Stafford to get a coffee and pop his address into the GPS. It is not far—less than an hour away now I am on the motorway and away from the sprawl of one city and near to the sprawl of another. As I glance at my phone, I see a glut of messages from Karim. I smile as I open them, feeling a simple thrill of happiness that he is checking up on me.
There are a couple along the lines of “How did it go?” and one with kiss and hug emojis, because he’s mature like that.Next there are lots of photos. They show a large garden in full kids’-party mode—a big table set up with food and drink, a bouncy castle, groups of men and women of all ages, kids in costumes. He has sent close-ups of the popcorn machine and the birthday cake, and I realize that I should eat sometime soon. There is a group shot of his sisters sitting with his dad, who looks like an older version of him, silver threads in his hair.
I smile at the photos of his family, and laugh at his comedic captions, and flick through onto a video that he says one of his sisters took.
It is of the bouncy castle, the low-level hum of the pump almost drowned out by the delighted screams of the children. Shoes and boots are flung far and wide, and about a dozen little ones are leaping around on the purple-and-green plastic, falling over, doing rolls, attempting somersaults. In the middle of them all, looking just as happy to be there, is Karim.
He is bouncing as hard as he can, making them all wobble and shake, the shrieks and laughter equal parts fear and pleasure. A little girl—his niece, I assume—clings to his calves, and he lets out a fake film-villain laugh and shakes her loose before leaning down to tickle her. She clambers back up, scales his body like a climbing frame, and wraps her arms around his head.
It makes me smile to see him like this, at the heart of it all, surrounded by people who love him, and whom he loves in return. But it also makes me realize that today is not the day for me to meet his family. There might be another time when it feels right—there might not. Who knows? But I don’t want to go into that garden, into that party, into that scene of communal happiness. I feel too toxic. Too full of my own needs.
Today is not the day to plunge myself into the silliness and purity of a kids’ party. Not the day for me to wonder if I am passing muster with his family, with his dad, his sisters, all those cousins and nieces and nephews. Not to mention the strangers, the family friends, the mums and dads of school pals, possibly one of those scary clowns that claim to entertain children but actually only give them nightmares...
I feel myself spiraling off into the land of fictional anxieties and walk back to the car. I have made this little detour for nothing, and I need to head home. Before I start the engine I reply to his messages, telling him I am fine, that I will see him tomorrow, that I am glad the party is a raging success. I add four kisses, going crazy.
I am disappointed that I don’t feel like I can fit into his world, but I remind myself that this has been a difficult day, and that it has taken its toll.
I feel a sense of distance between myself and Karim, between myself and the rest of the world, but I also know myself well enough to understand that it will pass.
