Page 109 of Every Silent Lie
I don’t know no Camryn.
“What happened to your cheek?”
I raise my hand to it, drawing a blank. She noticed? I got mugged. Wait, no, I was attacked. Jumped? Some random believed I looked like the perfect person to rob? “I had an argument with a filing cabinet.”
She frowns, confused. “Why would you have an argument with a filing cabinet?”
“I didn’t mean to.” I look at Deirdre, as if for encouragement or reassurance. Am I doing this right? I’ve completely forgotten amid the endless distress of her rejections how to handle this. “Oh, shepherd’s pie,” I chime, distracting her. That’s it. Distraction.
“Too many carrots,” she says. “They know I don’t like carrots. They’re taking my money too.” Suspicion is rife on her face, her expression cutting on Deirdre.
“I have your money, Mum,” I say, lowering to the chair and taking her hand as Deirdre removes the blood pressure band from around her arm. “I put it all in the bank for you.” There is no money. This place soon swallowed it up, hence my brother paying the eight-thousand-pound monthly fee. And he doesn’t let me forget it.
Mum moves her glassy eyes back onto me. They’re not completely empty today, and although she’s not refuted it when I’ve called her Mum, she also hasn’t acknowledged I’m right. She’s my mum. I feel a bit needy wanting her to see me. Call me by my name. Please see me.
Then her cutting look drops like a rock. “Your face,” she murmurs, lifting her arm. No name. But this? I inch forward, allowing her to reach my cheek. “What happened?”
“I walked into a door, Mum.”
“Well, that was silly, wasn’t it? Why’d you do that for?”
“I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
She huffs. “Too busy, aren’t you? Always in a rush, darting here and there, getting Noah to school, yourself to work, back to school, to whatever playdate or after-school club he has to go to. All these clubs! Guitar, gymnastics, football, drama, dance. He should pick one and focus on that.”
I stare at her. Just stare at her. She used to say this to me often, because she cared about our well-being. Never judgy. Just kind. Supportive. “Yes, he should do that.”
She smiles, happy I’m agreeing. “Where is he today then? Football?”
Sundays are for football. She knows it’s Sunday. She knows it’s me. “Yeah, Mum,” I say, taking her hand from my face and squeezing. “He’s at football.”
“Oh, yes. It must be Sunday.” Her eyes narrow, as if contemplating that. “Tell me what’s going on in your world. I can’t keep up.”
I sit forward, relishing the rare interaction. “I think I’ve found someone really special, Mum.”
“It’s about time. You need to settle down, buttercup. Have a family. You’re not getting any younger.”
I swallow. “I know. You tell me all the time.” Until about twelve years ago when I met Dominic, got engaged within a year, married the following year, and had Noah the year after that. But that’s okay. She knows who I am.
Even if she doesn’t.
* * *
I have to take a breath when I step outside her room. For the first time in as long as I can remember, it’s not because I’m hurting. Suffocating. Today was a good day. Deirdre follows me out, closing the door lightly so not to wake her. “The carols concert is on Thursday,” she says, casually. “Weather depending, of course.”
I cast her a knowing smile. She knows what she’s doing—catching me on a better day.
“Did you manage to move things around?”
I drop my bags to between my feet and pull on my coat. “I did,” I say, seeing her trying hard not to grin her delight. “You’ll cancel if it’s too bad?”
“No, not cancel. It’ll just be a bit thin on the ground with relatives. I know you’re not shy of a bit of snow.”
I nod, but say no more, slipping my hat and gloves on. “I’ll see you,” I say, collecting up my bags, taking a leisurely walk down the corridor rather than scurrying along as fast as I can. The walls aren’t closing in.
I hear the door click to release as I approach and laugh to myself at the irony. The one day I don’t need to escape, the door is opened before I make it there. I hurry my pace and push my weight into it and nearly fall through it when someone on the other side pulls it open.
I stagger forward a few paces into a man. “Shit, I’m sorry.” I look up. Realise who it is. Step back. “Graham.”
