I Unlove You (26 page)

“
I don
’
t know how to
do any of those things, like feed him and hold
him.
”

“
So?
”

“
And what about money, and a
house, and everything else?
”

“
None of it
matters.
”

I shake my head, chest racing out
of control.

“
Look,
”
he says, placing both
his hands around my cheeks.
“
Deep down, none of
that stuff matters. I promise. Besides, your mother and I are here
for you. Whenever you need us, we
’
re here. But believe
me, Dyl, you won
’
t need us.
You
’
ll learn. You
’
ll pick it up.
Before you know it, a crying baby waking you up at five in the
morning will feel like the most natural thing in the
world.
”

“
I know, but
—“

“
Look,
”
he interrupts.
“
Did I ever
tell you about the night I nearly left?
”

“
What are you talking
about?
”

“
I didn
’
t think I
did,
”
he says, sighing.

“
What night? What do you
mean?
”

He
sighs again, leaning on his left leg.
“
I
’
m not proud of it,
but when your mother was seven months pregnant, I lost
it.
”
He hangs his head.
“
I loved her so much,
but I was terrified everything would change. We were young and
free, and travelled when we wished, and I still
hadn
’
t figured out what I was going to do with my life.
Christ, your mother certainly hadn
’
t.
” 

He
laughs, but doesn
’
t look at me.
“
Not all
that different to you and
B
, to be
honest."

“
Anyway, one Tuesday evening I
looked out of our small flat's window as rain pounded the glass.
Your mother slept on the couch, but I couldn
’
t bring
myself to look at her, or her giant stomach. The stomach with you
inside, the little boy whose heartbeat I cried to. I did love you,
but
…

“
I was selfish. I
didn
’
t want to lose who I was, and I
didn
’
t want to lose what your mother and me had, and at
that moment I couldn
’
t imagine what
possible use I could be. Without even looking at your mother, I ran
into our bedroom, threw some clothes in a bag, and got into our
banged-up car.

“
I drove and drove. Rain lashed
down, and the wipers flung from left to right; I had no idea where
I was going. I didn
’
t care. I hated
myself. I detested everything about me, and the further I drove,
and the harder the rain fell, the more I hated
…
me
…
your
mother
…
life
…
everything.

“
So, I pulled over and turned
off the engine, staring at the water dripping down my windscreen. I
didn
’
t cry or shout. Silently, I sat and took one breath
after another, picturing you in your mother
’
s arms, the
hospital bed, nurses and doctors; but I couldn
’
t see
myself there with you, and that
’
s when I
cried.
”
Shaking his head, he looks at me.
“
No, I
didn
’
t cry, son. I sobbed. The thought of not being there
for you and your mother
…
the greatest pain
I
’
ve ever known. I said to myself,
“
Never
again.
””

Frozen, I stare at my father, the
happy guy with a forever positive outlook on life. A guy who not
only faltered, but failed. I picture Joey and imagine his mother
the day she left, and the thoughts racing through her head. Did she
think the same as my father? Did she nearly turn back? Had he not
thought about my mother and me in the hospital, would he have kept
going?

“
Does Mum
know?
”
I
ask.

He
nods, looking at the ground once more.
“
As soon as I got back
I woke her up and told her everything. Pleading for forgiveness, I
buried my face into her chest, tears streaming.
”

“
What did she
say?
”

“
Nothing. She held me, allowed
me to unravel and crumble to pieces. She just hushed and whispered
sweet nothings into my ear, and we never spoke of it again. Not
once.
”

“
Never?
”

“
No. We didn
’
t have
to. I knew I
’
d never feel like
that again. I
’
m not proud of
myself, but I needed to feel like that in order to
understand.
”

“
Understand
what?
”

“
Everything: fatherhood and
unconditional love, and the fact it
’
s not about ridding
yourself of worry, or being perfect, or listening to the books and
advice
…
but of being there and being yourself. All your son will
ever want from you is love - your love. You
’
ll never think
you
’
re good enough, but he doesn
’
t need
perfection. He just needs you.
”

Hesitating, he kisses my forehead
and walks away, wiping his hand across his face as he drifts out of
the toy section. Still frozen, I watch him disappear behind a row
of white shelves, my strong father who always stands firm and is in
control, giving in and falling short when my mother needed him the
most.

My mother, strong enough to hold
him and forgive him and stride forward without questioning
him.

Where Joey
’
s mother kept going,
he stopped the car and cried, turned it around and came home. He
nearly left, but didn
’
t. For a second, he
considered a life without me, but ever since, he
’
s been
there for me. He
’
s still there for
me.

Taking a deep breath, I pick up a
blue teddy bear and twist it in my hands. I have no idea how to be
a good father, but it begins by being here right now, and being
there for him, always.

AUGUST 25
^TH
- THE RUSH HOUR TRAIN:

Book in hand, beads of sweat drip
down my forehead and cheeks. Hot and heavy, the air consumes this
old train carriage, each long window open but offering little help
for me and my fellow helpless commuters.

Squeezing onto the train in Leeds,
I was unable to find a spare seat, but did manage to hoist myself
into the large shelf reserved for bags and suitcases. An ideal size
for two people, three of us squish into the tight opening, a tall,
blonde woman in a grey suit to my right, and a slim Asian man with
dark hair and a dark shirt to my left. Miserable, and in the
middle, The Graveyard rests on my lap, each bump of the train
forcing me into one or the other of my companions.

Unable to lose myself in Neil Gaiman
’
s
fictional land, I sink into a memory of
B
and me beneath a
waterfall in Italy a few years ago. Escaping for a few days to a
friend of my parents
’
woodland cabin, we explored the
local fauna and its many twists and turns. Stumbling across a small
waterhole one afternoon, we stripped bare and hid under the falling
water, our backs against the rock as the spray soothed our
faces.

The
memory cools me for a second, but like most daydreaming of late, it
doesn
’
t take long for my mind to wander off
track.

Will we be able to enjoy such
romantic getaways in the future?

If we do, and find a waterfall
nestled away in some luscious woodland, who will watch our
son?

Would he have to come with us? In
which case, how can we strip bare and kiss and grab one
another?

I
sigh, exhausted by my mind
’
s merry dance
between this thought and that. It
’
s easier today than
ever before, though. Each day, easier. Each day, lighter and
happier. It took me a while to digest my father
’
s
confession, the pair of us saying little the rest of the afternoon.
It hurt, but I took solace in his weakness and
confusion.

Weak times don
’
t make me, so long
as I don
’
t allow them to define me.

That moment doesn
’
t define my father
or mean he is any less of a man. That night, I lay in bed and
imagined a life without
B
, literally trying to
picture another woman. I couldn
’
t, and when I
finally slipped off into sleep, I dreamt about her, sobbing on the
end of her bed as I entered her bedroom.

“
We lost him,
”
she cried.
“
I
’
ve lost him, Aus.
He
’
s gone. I
’
m sorry, I
’
m sorry,
I
’
m
sorry.
”

Dashing towards her, I bundled her up in my arms and rocked
her from side to side.
“
It
’
s okay,
”
I whispered,
regaining my freedom and the life of a few months ago. The panic
and fear didn
’
t leave me, only
intensified as I detested it. I hated it. I no longer wanted it,
only desiring my little boy.

Opening my eyes in a start, I stared up to the
ceiling.
“
Come back,
”
I said, almost out of breath.
“
Come back.
Where are you?
”

Struggling to come to terms with where I was, I rolled over
and found
B
fidgeting in half-slumber. I placed my hand on her, and
then her tummy, desperate to find her bulge and our son.
“
It
’
s
okay,
”
I whispered, panting.
“
It
’
s okay, it
’
s okay.
It
’
s
a dream. It
’
s a dream.
”

I
didn
’
t sleep the rest of the night, watching
B
and
stroking her hair. I didn
’
t want to imagine a
life without her or without our son. I don
’
t want to. I
can
’
t. The questions and moments of panic remain, but
it
’
s easier. Each day it
’
s
easier
…
lighter
…
happier.

Slowing, the force of the train
pushes me into the blonde woman, the discomfort of touching another
person replacing my wayward memories of a few nights ago. The book
hops off my lap as the train comes to an eventual stop, the
grey-haired conductor opening the doors and bringing a wave of
fresh air with it.

As
a stream of passengers leave the train, a single woman climbs up
the steps, heaving a large blue stroller behind her. Settling in
the seats in front of me, she guides the stroller until
it
’
s flush against the wall, the little baby inside in
view for the first time. On his back, and in nothing but a blue
onesie with a pirate on the breast, he kicks his feet in the air
and flaps his arms, reaching for a small, red teddy just above
him.