40 Things I Want to Tell You (9 page)

“Who?”

“Xavier,” I heard her sigh. “I wish I had someone. You know, for Christmas.”

I giggled. “A man is for life, not just for Christmas.”

“I mean it. I wish I had someone adorable to drive around in my new car.”

“You are so lucky. A
car.
You can drive me around if you like.”

She said, “True. A boyfriend would be better, though.”

“Where’s all this wanting a boyfriend coming from?” I asked. “Xavier isn’t really, you know, boyfriend material—especially after your fight at the market. Wait for him to text you.”

“You’re right. I shouldn’t even be thinking about him. Don’t even mention his name. I’m just a romantic under this sexy exterior, that’s all. Are you seeing Griffin later?”

“Tonight, probably.”

“What did you get him?”

I glanced at myself in my mirror. I sucked in my belly; I was looking bloated. “A computer game. I definitely need to go on a diet after today.” My camera rested on my desk. I scooped it up with one hand, resting the phone between my ear and my cheek, and took a couple of shots of my body in the mirror, cutting off my head. I tended to avoid looking at myself too much in the mirror, finding that if I did I noticed all the things I’d like to work on—like tightening my abs, or doing more squats to tone up.

“Uh, hello, Bird, you still there?”

“Sorry, yes. I was just figuring out a photo I might want to take.” I put the camera down.

“So I met this guy yesterday—Ben.”

“Ben? Okay.”

“He’s a friend of Becca’s. He seemed interested.”

“Is he cute? How’s Becca?”

“He is cute, and don’t pretend you care about her.” She continued, “Yeah, he’s cute. Maybe I should text him instead.”

“Texting the next day … well, it seems a bit, you know, eager. ‘Specially on Christmas Day. Maybe stop thinking about boys to text. Have a fun day with your
new car.
Do you want to hang out tomorrow?”

“We could start diets together.”

“Like you need to diet, Cleo.”

“Did anyone write to your website today?”

“I haven’t checked yet. Probably. Lots of fights. Stress. Christmas. I won’t have time to answer, though—not with Dad and all his plans.”

“You haven’t been updating it at all recently. Your fans
need
you.”

I giggled. “You’re right. I’ve been neglecting the site. I’ll get back to it, I promise.”

“Okay, I should go. Mum wants to test-drive the car with me. I can’t believe I have to drive with her until I
pass
; it’s like they don’t trust me to be a superb driver.”

I remembered the day she drove over in the snow, and laughed.

She said, “Why don’t you come over here tomorrow?”

“A
car.
You lucky cow. Happy Christmas.”

I WANDERED ALONG DOWNSTAIRS, MY SLIPPERS PADDING ON THE
carpeted floor of the hallway. As I got closer to the living room, I overheard Dad say, “Do we have to talk about this now?”

Mum replied in a strained voice, “You haven’t helped with any of lunch. You worked until two in the morning and now you get to play Super Dad while I slave away. I’m sick of being in the background of your crazy life.”

“Don’t do this.”

She said, “You wanted me to stay for Christmas. So I am. Like you asked.”

Ice slid down my spine. What was
that
supposed to mean?

I tiptoed in, my cheeks flushed. She was on the loveseat, he was on the sofa and I was by the door. My dad broke the silence.

“Shall we get on with planning the game, Bird?”

“What do you mean
stay for Christmas
, Mum?” I asked.

Mum’s eyes glistened. “You shouldn’t have heard that,” she said.

“What’s going on?”

Her voice cracked and she dipped her head forward, speaking to her hands. “I can’t live like this. Not anymore.” Then she whispered, as if talking to herself, “We should tell her.”

I felt suddenly sick. “Tell me what?”

Dad stood. “Not now.”

“Yes now,” she said, leaning back on the seat, her face grey.

“What?” I repeated.

“Your mother is leaving me,” Dad said to me, then he turned to her. “There, happy?”

She shook her head. “You want to blame me, blame me.”

The floor felt like it was spinning. I put a hand out to balance myself. I wanted to throw up. “You’re leaving us? Why?”

“It’s Christmas Day,” Dad said.

“It’s too late,” Mum replied, closing her eyes.

“I don’t want this, Bird,” he said. “I can’t persuade her to stay. The business is nearly there, just another few months.”

“If I hear another word about your business,” burst out Mum, “I’ll go insane.”

He thundered past me, but he didn’t get out the room quick enough because I heard him choke on a sob.

“What are you doing, Mum?” I cried. “You
love
Dad.”

Her eyes were still closed, her head back on the couch. “I’m sorry, Bird.”

I stared at her, not understanding. Not wanting to understand.

She said, “Your dad will stay here—he can’t afford anything else and I’m not going to be cruel. But you—I want you to come with me.” She opened her eyes. “I’ve found a hotel for now—there’s a room for you, if you want, just until I get a place. Please.”

“It’s Christmas Day,” I said, echoing Dad.

She said, “I can’t pretend anymore. I’ve been pretending for so long.”

“Pretending what? Oh God, I can’t believe it. I think—” I put my hand up to my mouth to quell the rising nausea. “God, really, I’m going to be sick.” I ran to the toilet, pushed open the lid and fell on my knees, retching.

Mum came in and smoothed back my hair. “I’m sorry, Bird.” She sounded like she was crying.

“It’s just, I don’t know, I don’t understand.” I heaved again. “What about Dad? He can’t live without you.”

“He doesn’t even notice me. Neither of you does.”

I pushed her away, wiping my mouth with the back of my other hand. “Just leave me alone, would you? Give me some privacy.” As she got up to go, I regretted saying it. Because she was leaving. Leaving me and Dad. “No,” I said. “D-don’t go,” I stammered. “Please, Mum.”

She stood in the bathroom doorway. Tears dripped down her cheeks. With sudden clarity, I knew as I watched her standing there framed by the light behind that I was going to remember the moment forever: I could feel the image being etched into my aching head. I willed her to change her mind. Begged her with my eyes.

She said, “I want you to understand. I’m sorry. There was never going to be a good time to do this. I have to go.”

Answering questions like this made me feel as if the world made sense. Easy answers. Quick solutions. I posted my reply.

I looked out my window and Griffin was opening his curtains. I waved over, gesturing for him to come visit, and shut down the website. He arrived within ten minutes and I went downstairs to answer the door. The house was quiet, no coffee brewing, no radio playing in the kitchen. I noticed an empty space where Mum’s camera normally sat on the shelf by the cookbooks, and I shuddered.

Griffin came in and scooped me into a comfortable hug. I clung to him and took several shuddering breaths.

He said, “How’s your dad? How are you? I wish you’d let me come over yesterday.”

I mumbled into his chest, “I’m in shock. Mum was packing, everyone was crying. I don’t even want to think about it.”

He led me through to the kitchen and started fiddling with the coffee maker, replacing the filter and filling the machine with water. He said, “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe she’s really gone.”

I watched him and replayed the terrible Christmas we’d had—my aunt showed up, and my mum left with her, despite my dad’s pleas. Once they’d gone, he went after them, vanishing for hours, leaving me worried sick, watching the clock, and wanting to curl up and die. When he got home, he staggered straight up to bed. God.

Eventually, I said, “How’s
your
mum? I didn’t even ask.”

“She was good yesterday. Pretty good. Have you seen your dad yet today?” The coffee burbled and hissed as it filtered through the machine.

I said, “I hope he’s sleeping.” Just then, I heard a clattering on the stairs. Dad stumbled into the corridor, pausing to stare at us.

He said, “I wondered who was here. Has she called?” He wore an ancient tracksuit, the legs baggy and ill-fitting. Stubble had sprouted on his chin and his eyes were bloodshot.

I said, “Uh, we’re making coffee. Come and have some breakfast.”

“She hasn’t called, has she?”

I shook my head. “You need to eat, Dad.”

It was his turn to shake his head. “I’m, uh, I’m going back upstairs.” He held on to the banister. “If she calls, you come and get me.” With that he was gone.

Griffin wordlessly poured us coffees and stirred in milk. I cupped the mug in my hands and sat at the counter, unable to drink, unable to speak.

MUM TRIED TO PHONE ME EVERY DAY THAT WEEK, BUT I WOULDN’T
take her calls. Dad, on the other hand, only got off the couch to answer her. Most nights, I could hear him pleading with her to return. Cleo, who’d called me every day and been round a couple of times to cheer me up, wanted me to come to her house for New Year’s Eve, but so did Griffin. In the end, the three of us went to her house for a quiet night in.

I was so glad they weren’t making me do anything loud or busy. Kitty Moss was having a party, but Cleo swore she didn’t want to go—I knew she was only saying it because she figured I was too wiped out with looking after Dad to want to go myself.

We sat around in Cleo’s bedroom, watched a couple of movies and at ten seconds to twelve began the countdown.

Griffin squeezed my hand and kissed me full on the mouth as it turned midnight.

Cleo said, “Okay, that was the worst New Year ever. Next year, we’re going to be somewhere really good—promise?”

I said, “Like where?”

She grinned. “We’ll figure something out. How’s it sound? Jamaica this summer, then a great New Year—that’ll make up for exams and all the stuff with your parents.”

Griffin frowned. “What do you mean about Jamaica?”

I said, “Cleo and I were thinking of going this summer. I, uh, just didn’t tell you yet.”

He gave me a look but didn’t say anything else.

Cleo, perhaps sensing something was up, said, “Let’s just enjoy the first minutes of this year. It’s all bright and shiny and new—full of possibility.”

I said, “I’m sorry I’m so miserable, guys. This has really hit me. I think I just want to go home.”

Cleo brightened. “If you’re going home, I’m going out. No offence, Bird, but the night is young and Xavier will be at Kitty’s, perhaps.”

“Are you guys on or off? I can’t keep up.”

“We don’t have a name for it,” she said. I thought I saw a flicker of misery in her eyes, but it was quickly gone. “That’s what we both want.” She turned to Griffin. “Want to come to Kitty’s?”

He said, “I’ll go home, get Bird back safely. Have fun.” Cleo giggled. “I knew you’d say no.”

Griffin was quiet in the taxi back. I knew he was thinking about Jamaica and the fact I hadn’t told him, but I was too exhausted to talk about it. We kissed an awkward goodbye and I tiptoed into my house.

The bright, shiny new year was already going badly.

I WOKE UP ON NEW YEAR’S DAY AND FELT LIKE GOING BACK TO SLEEP.
I didn’t know how my life had become such a mess. I forced myself out of bed and went downstairs. Dad was slumped on the couch.

“I don’t feel good,” he mumbled.

When I kissed his cheek, the sharp smell of whisky was on his breath. A glass on the table next to him was sticky with alcohol. He must have drunk it as soon as he woke up—if he even went to bed.

“Let’s go out for breakfast,” I said. “You need to eat.”

He didn’t answer.

I made him a cup of coffee, setting it next to the whisky glass, but he didn’t even seem to see it.

“I love you, Dad. I won’t be long.”

THE SMALL CAFÉ—LYDIA’S—AT THE END OF MY ROAD BUZZED CHEERFULLY
inside. The smell of coffee and fat frying greeted me like an old friend. I ordered bacon, eggs, sausages, tomatoes, toast and a latte. A couple of strangers said “Happy New Year” as I went past on my way to sit down by a window. When my breakfast arrived, I had a nasty taste in my mouth and didn’t have the appetite I’d thought I had, so I left the food congealing to one side and turned my attention to my napkin, wielding my pen, ready for my yearly ritual of writing my New Year’s resolutions.

Bird’s New Year’s resolutions:

• To get fit. Go jogging.

• Eat five portions of fruit and veg a day.

• Avoid Pete.

• Do well in my exams.

• Work on the photo project Empty Streets.

• Look after poor Dad.

• Make my website even better.

• Get a job to earn some extra money. Jamaica, YAY! (Look round photography studios and see if anyone is hiring—perhaps I could help a photographer or something.)

I hovered the pen over the page, struggling to come up with anything more inspiring.

• I want to go in a hot air balloon and watch the birds go by. I wish flying could be a resolution …

I left the café and meandered homeward. As I passed Griffin’s house, he came out the door wearing jeans and a white polo shirt, and smiled at me. If he was still annoyed about Jamaica, he didn’t say so.

We were watching a movie at his house, my legs over his lap and the remote in his hand, when there was a sudden crash upstairs. We both jumped, and then Griffin leaped up, pushing my legs out the way.

“Mom?” he yelled.

Her voice came floating down the stairs. “The bed got jumpy.” A giggle like that of a small girl followed.

“I’m coming.” He shot a look at me, his blue eyes bright with worry. “I have to—”

“Do you want me to help?”

“No, I’ll call you later.”

“Griffin—let me help. I really don’t think you should be handling this on your own.”

He looked at me sharply. “It’s fine. I’ll call you later. Do
not
tell anyone. We’re fine. She’s much better than this most of the time. I promise.”

There was no way to help him if he wouldn’t let me. “Okay, okay. I won’t say anything. But if it gets worse, you should let someone know.”

As I left the house, my chest hurt with the guilt of what I’d done to poor Griffin, but it was a new year and time for a fresh start. I pushed the feeling aside and resolved to let the past stay where it belonged.

I decided to go for a jog, following my first resolution for the year. I started out okay but soon had to stop and bend over double because I was out of breath. Nausea rose right up and, suddenly, I vomited in the road.

SITTING IN THE LIVING ROOM WITH DAD A COUPLE DAYS LATER, I
heard the click of a key twisting in the lock of the front door. Mum. She came in, wearing black trousers and a knitted green top. Her curly hair was in a messy bun. Her eyes were puffy and I wondered if she’d been crying.

“Hi, Bird,” she said.

Dad leapt off the sofa like he’d been electrocuted and said, “You’re back.” Then, “Thank God.” In the quiet, he added, “I love you.”

She shook her head almost imperceptibly, looked at him and said, “Are you okay?”

I answered for him, “What do you think?”

“You don’t look well either, Bird.”

“I’m fine, just tired. Looking after Dad is tiring.”

“Why won’t you take my calls?” she asked.

I stayed silent.

“I need to talk to you about all this. I’m your mother.” Her bottom lip shuddered.

I said, “There’s nothing to talk about.”

There we were, the three of us in the living room, just as we had been on Christmas Day. Nothing had changed. Except this time, I walked out first.