Page 160 of Falling for You
In typical Mom fashion, she was fine for the entirety of my visit. She continued to downplay everything, remaining steadfast that she just tripped over her own feet and fell down the stairs, just as anyone could have done. There was no reason for me to have come back.
If I hadn’t been with her the past five years, I would have believed her. She was so convincing, it’s almost impossible to imagine that she isn’t fine. But I know the truth, sadly.
She shooed me out of the house and back onto a flight to London at the first opportunity, insisting that I carry on living out our London dream, taking care of Stevie and finding Keira Knightley or Emma Watson. She shamelessly told me that she was living through me and made me promise to send her more postcards. (I didn’t even realise that was a thing any more. I call her every day and send her pictures constantly – is that not good enough?)
I ended up only being in New York for three days, taking some last-minute time off work. Thankfully, working as a writer means I can pick the work back up again pretty quickly if I write in the evenings, so Brian wasn’t concerned about the short notice when I called him up. However, this has putme back a week or so in my quest to find Aunt Tell. But on the plus side, Mom did chat about Aunt Tell a lot over the past three days, which made me feel more confident about my plan. If she loves her so much, then surely Aunt Tell must love Mom that much too? Maybe it’ll be quite easy to persuade her to come home for a bit to visit Mom.
Dad didn’t say much during my visit, just stayed by Mom’s side and made himself busy around the house. But when my taxi arrived, he hugged me in that tight, strong way he always does and told me to take care of myself, and we went back to pretending that everything was normal and not talking about Mom’s illness. But at that moment, it suited me fine. It was much easier to get on a plane pretending that her dementia wasn’t real. Hell, if Stevie and Dad do it all the time, then why can’t I?
I look up as the door clicks open, and to my surprise Stevie walks in. He’s out of drag, but I can tell by his red face he’s come back from a show. He always scrubs his make-up off like he’s scrubbing red wine out of a carpet, and it means his face holds a pink tinge for a few hours afterwards. His hair used to be a clear giveaway, too, having a life of its own after sitting under a wig and hot, bright lights for hours, but since he shaved it and bleached it blonde, it’s much tamer.
‘What are you doing here?’ I say, getting to my feet and grabbing the suitcase he’s lugging behind him.
He shoots me a death look, which makes it clear that he’s spent the last however many hours sitting on a Megabus. ‘I live here?’ he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, which I suppose it is.
‘I thought you’d be at a show,’ I say, kicking the door shut as he stumbles in and throws himself on the sofa next to me.
‘I was,’ he replies, his voice muffled by the cushion his face is squished against. ‘It was a lunchtime show, in Manchester.’
‘Cool.’
‘Not cool; it took seven hours to get back. The traffic was so bad.’
Stevie started drag a few years after he moved to London. I’m not sure whether he’d always wanted to be a drag queen, but he always loved dance, music and performing. He’s exceptionally creative, so really, when he told us that he’d started performing as Stevie Trixx, it felt like a natural fit. It was like all of his talents had been combined into one.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask, peering down at him as he stares mindlessly at the ceiling.
‘I’m so tired,’ he groans. ‘I’ve worked the past ten days straight.’
He lifts his head slightly so he can see me. ‘How’s Mom?’
I think back to her in the hospital, making everyone laugh and chatting to all the nurses and fellow patients like they’d known each other for years.
‘Exactly how she always is,’ I say after a pause. ‘Acting like nothing had happened.’
Stevie drops his head back onto the cushion. ‘I’m glad she’s okay.’
‘She misses you,’ I say, unable to help myself. ‘She was asking all about your shows.’
Stevie unlocks his phone. ‘Yeah, I’ll send her some pictures or something. I miss her too.’
I sigh inwardly. There is no point trying to push Stevie any further on this. It’ll only start an argument – and for what? He knows I think he doesn’t speak to Mom enough and I find it extraordinary that he seems to not want to speak to his own mother. Who also happens to be the kindest, most supportive person in the world.
But, like I said, there is no point in saying all that. It’s not like I haven’t said it before.
‘I missed you,’ Stevie mumbles, his eyes fixed on his phone.
‘Yeah?’ I say, taken aback.
‘The flat is too quiet when you’re not here,’ he continues. ‘I’m glad you’re back.’
‘Well, I’m glad to be back,’ I say automatically.
Stevie flings a floppy arm towards me and pats my arm, the closest we’ll get to physical affection.
‘Are you sure you’re all right, man?’ I say. ‘Was it a bad show?’
He shakes his head, not looking up from his phone. ‘Just tired, feeling a bit drained.’ I nod, getting to my feet. Stevie looks up at me, his eyes widening. ‘Where are you going?’
