Page 94 of The Perfect Son
Ian shakes his head. “You need help, Tess.” He looks to Shelley and another message passes between them.
Shelley nods. “This has to stop.” She waves her hands across the kitchen.
“You’re just as bad.” I shake my head, talking fast and low so Jamie doesn’t hear. “Do you think I haven’t noticed you controlling me with all of your ‘kind’ little comments? ‘Oh, poor Tess, best not go out without me. Poor Tess, let me speak to your family for you.’”
“Tess, I never—” Shelley starts to speak but I cut her off.
“Manipulating me when I’m at my lowest. I heard you on the phone after we got back and Ian had been in the house. You were speaking to each other, weren’t you? I heard you arguing.”
“That’s not true,” Shelley cries out.
“I want you both to leave now, or I’ll call the police.” I move around the table to the cake, sitting ready on the oven top. The plate is smudged with black marks from the icing, but the cake itself is not a bad effort. The sheet of pre-bought black icing is hiding the slope of the chocolate cake where it rose wonky in the oven. I’ve cut out the bat symbol in yellow icing. The wings are a little jagged in places but the eight yellow candles are hiding the worst of it.
The jangling of cutlery fills the silence as I yank open a drawer, pull out the first knife I come across, and slam the drawer shut. The carving knife in my hand is far too efficient for slicing through sponge but I’m too angry to riffle through the utensils to find the cake cutter.
I should never have let them in. I push the Legos to one side to make space for the cake and the knife on the corner of the kitchen table. I was stupid to see Shelley as two people. There is only one person standing before me, and any pretense that we are friends is gone.
Neither of them moves. It’s as though they’re waiting for me to say something. I don’t need to look at Shelley’s face to know she is crying still. Is she sorry for her part in this? Sorry I’ve found out? Or is it another angle for her to manipulate me with? She might have lost her son, but she’s not having mine.
“Please, Tess, sit for a minute,” Shelley says, throwing a pleading glance at Ian. “We need to talk. Ian’s right. You need help.”
“You’d like me to think that, wouldn’t you?” I say, grabbing the box of matches from the window ledge. My fingers fumble in the box for a moment before I grip a match and scratch it across the box.
“Oh, Tess, no.” Shelley reaches for my hand and the matches but I shrug her away. Does she think I’m going to burn the house down now?
The flame hisses and speeds down the stick. I touch it to each of Jamie’s candles and blow out the match before it singes my fingers.
“This is ridiculous,” Ian says.
“That’s what you’ve wanted all along, isn’t it?” I say to Shelley, ignoring Ian’s comment. “To make me out like I’m a mental case and need help. Make me so reliant on you that I can’t think for myself.”
Shelley shakes her head. “No. That’s not true.”
I laugh, a short “ha,” and shake my head. “I thought I was going crazy, you know, but that’s exactly what you wanted. Who did you get to call me? And how did he know to call me Tessie?” I point the question at Ian.
“This isn’t what Mark would’ve wanted,” Ian says.
All of a sudden there’s a shift in the air and it’s them together against me. The walls of the kitchen are closing in.
“I don’t need help and I certainly don’t need you to tell me what Mark wanted. He wanted me, he wanted Jamie. He wanted us to be happy.” The words unravel growl-like from my mouth. I slam the box of matches down beside the plate and the knife, upending a pile of Legos. A piece flies across the floor, adding to the anger crackling—wood on the bonfire—inside me. I can taste the smoke in my mouth as I turn to them. “I want you to leave.” My voice is suddenly loud and bounces across the small kitchen.
“Tess, please listen to me,” Shelley says. “Jamie isn’t—”
I don’t hear her final word. I don’t need to. Happy—that’s what Shelley was going to say—Jamie isn’t happy. But I don’t hear because Jamie is standing in the doorway. His face is dark, his tongue pressing so hard against the tooth at the front that it’s protruding outward at a horizontal angle. Anger is pulsing out of his body, the same anger I felt just moments ago.
My indignation crumbles to ash as I stare into the piercing blue eyes of our son.
“Jamie.” My voice quivers. “It’s OK. Shelley and Ian were justleaving. Then we’ll have cake.” I wave a hand to the candles. The eight tiny flames are standing tall. Two blobs of wax have already rolled onto the cake and smudged the icing.
“No,” he says. The one hollow word echoes in my head.
“Bloody hell,” Ian mutters.
“Tess, look at me.” Shelley’s voice is almost a shout, but I can’t pull my focus away from Jamie. His hands bunch into two tight fists and his piercing blue eyes narrow on the carving knife. I follow his gaze and no longer see a knife to cut his birthday cake—I see a weapon.
“This has to stop,” Shelley says. There is a warning in her voice that finally drags my eyes away from Jamie and the knife. Shelley’s face is tight, her eyes wide with panic. This is exactly what she wanted, isn’t it? To drive Jamie and me apart.
“I want Shelley to be my mummy,” Jamie says, his voice soft and childish like he’s three again and asking for his teddy. “I hate you.”
