Page 65 of Every Silent Lie
He nods.
“It started with irritation—she’d get worked up about the silliest of things. Dad thought she was menopausal.” I smile on the inside, seeing him shaking his head to himself when Mum would start a conversation that they’d had just a few hours before. Brain fog, he thought. “She lost interest in tennis, and she was the queen of the tennis club, she’d forget our birthdays then try to convince us we were wrong, our birthdays were in fact on entirely different days, and then a huge argument would erupt because we didn’t know what we were dealing with.” His face is pained, his hand coming to rest on mine and squeezing. Again, I don’t need the comfort. I’ve not accepted what’s happened to my vivacious, bright mother, but I’ve long stopped crying about it. There were too many other things thrown into the equation of my grief. “And then one day she called me to say she was lost.”
“Where was she?”
“In Carlisle.”
“Scotland?”
“She doesn’t remember how she got there, why she was there. We found a train ticket in her coat pocket, London to Northampton.”
Another frown.
“Her sister lives in Northampton. Dad said she was visiting her sister. We figured she didn’t get off the train.”
“Wow,” he murmurs.
“And that was that. It felt like the moment she was diagnosed, she rapidly went downhill. Dad was struggling to cope, she got aggressive, didn’t trust anyone.” I subtly clear my throat and try to swallow that permanent ball of desolation that’s wedged there. But I’m on a roll. Get it all out. “Then Dad died suddenly. Heart attack.” Dec’s shoulders drop in silent disbelief. My God, he’s not even heard me verbally paint the whole, horrid picture. “His doctor said he’d visited months earlier with chest pains and was sent for an ECG, but he didn’t go.” And I know it’s because we were all so lost amid the mess of Mum’s aggressive illness and her fast decline. He was too worried about her, and he didn’t want to worry us even more. And perhaps because he’s my father, and I know how stubborn he was, he was in denial. “She’s just a shell now with nothing behind her eyes. The odd flicker of hope comes, but it goes even faster. I just have to wait for her to die, although, really, my mum died a few years ago.” I breathe out through my nose, my lips pressed tight, my ironic smile light. “Glad you asked?”
“Don’t do that,” he murmurs. “Don’t try to lighten your grief, Camryn. It bleeds out of you like blood from a deep cut.”
“I’m so tired of hating the world,” I say without thinking, for so many more reasons that Dec can ever know. This, just this one monumental devastation, broke me. Add the rest of my shitty life?
“I want to make you love it again.” He holds my hand and squeezes. “Is that possible?”
“Maybe,” I murmur, moving my hand in his, feeling him, screaming yes in my head but being too frightened to voice it. Because I’m not sure I could ever love a world that’s been so cruel to me.
“You mentioned your brother.”
I laugh a little. “My busy brother,” I breathe, with all the cynicism I intended. “He’s good at burying his head in the sand.” I’ve often wondered if that’s a man thing. Do they feel the need to put on a brave face, box things up and shove them away so they don’t have to face their vulnerabilities? It’s not fair for me to think that. I know I’ve done it to an extent, and I know Dec’s worked that out. It’s why I went to a bar every evening rather than going home and confronting the emptiness. It’s why I got myself a high-profile, high-pressure job, so I could allow myself, to some extent, to be consumed.
The mask in place. The ice queen throwing out standoffish vibes, making sure no one got close.
I look down at our joined hands. Dec dared to get close. Will he regret that? I desperately hope he doesn’t. “I’m done talking about me,” I say, letting go of his hand to claim my drink, finishing the last drop. Julio looks a little thrown when I look up at him. I haven’t tapped my glass. I was too busy spilling a part of my miserable story.
“She’ll have a water,” Dec says, pushing his empty to join mine. “We’ll both have water.”
I look at Dec in interest, not that he pays much attention to it.
“Water,” he reiterates.
Poor Julio doesn’t know what to do. “Looks like I’m having water,” I murmur, unable to stop myself reading into what Dec wants me to make of that. No more escape? I don’t need to drink now?
“And your marriage?” Dec says.
I fail spectacularly in my attempt not to go rigid. “This conversation feels a little one-sided.”
“Have you acknowledged the papers?”
“No,” I say shortly, silently willing him not to ruin the evening. “Have you found your wife?”
“No.”
“So we’re both still married.”
“True. The difference is, I don’t want to be.”
I withdraw, stung, and my eyes drop to my lap, the sudden urge to bolt overcoming me. Ouch. I try to fight it, I really do. But I’m wasting time. I’ll never win. “Excuse me,” I say, dropping from the stool and fleeing. But I didn’t grab my bag or coat in my haste, limiting where I can run to.
