I Unlove You (52 page)

“
Wonderful.
”

“
Teardrops. She was crying when
she wrote this.
”

“
Could be
rain.
”

“
It isn
’
t
raining.
”

“
So? What are you getting at,
Joe? Who cares if she was crying? You
’
re the one who said
I shouldn
’
t read or reply to these letters in the first
place, so what
’
s changed your
tune?
”

“
Nothing,
”
he sighs.
“
But she
wouldn
’
t just come here. I know she
’
s the
devil, but what if she
’
s in trouble? I
think
…
maybe you should read it.
”

“
Are you kidding
me?
”
I yell, pushing my fingers into my forehead.
“
You, of
all people, want me to read it? She
’
s crazy, Joe.
There
’
s always going to be another letter,
don
’
t you see? All she
’
ll do is play the
victim and make us feel sorry for her, because she
can
’
t stand the idea that we hate her, that I no longer
love her, that I
’
ve let go of her.
She won
’
t explain anything or apologise.
She
’
ll just keep me on her leash for as long as I let her,
and I
’
m fed up. I
’
m done. I refuse to
be her puppet any longer.
”

“
I know,
”
he says, perching
next to me.
“
I know. You
’
re right. I know
you
’
re right, but
—“

“
But nothing.
”

“
But what if
something
’
s wrong? Even after everything
she
’
s done, she remains
…
look, I
don
’
t know. I just couldn
’
t live with myself
if she was in trouble.
”

“
Then you read
it,
”
I say, running my hand through my knotted
hair.

He
unbuttons his top button and loosens his tie.
“
Maybe I
should.
”

“
You
’
re
unbelievable
…”
I
mumble.

“
Look,
”
he says, grasping my
arm.
“
A pregnant girl out in the cold like this. Nowhere to
turn
…”
he trails off.
“
I
couldn
’
t live with myself, and I know you. I know you.
You
’
d never forgive yourself, either.
”

“
Fuck,
”
I yell, clenching my bottle
tight.
“
When does this end? Every time I think things might be
getting back to normal, another one of these damn letters arrive.
At some point we have to let go.
”

“
I know. You
’
re right,
and everything you
’
re
saying
…
I get it. But something about this doesn
’
t seem
right. I
’
ll read it on my own, and if
it
’
s nothing but the usual crap, I
’
ll burn
it.
”

“
And what if it
isn
’
t okay? What if something is wrong?
”

“
We
’
ll deal with it.
Whatever it is, we
’
ll deal with it
together.
”

I say nothing, clinging to the
music and the gentle strumming of Eric Clapton.

“
Okay
…
just watch TV or
something,
”
he says, sitting on one of the kitchen stools surrounding
the granite countertop.

Hands shaking, I push my bottle to my lips, relishing the
alcohol
’
s taste as it trickles down my throat. I stare
into the distance, out of the window and at
Leeds
’
darkening sky. I focus on nothing in particular,
whatever is in front of me, a blur, as my mind thrusts from side to
side.

I
consider the platform and its icy chill, and the wise man with his
wise words who encouraged me to forgive,
because where there
’
s forgiveness
there
’
s an opportunity to forget
. I want so much to forget her and everything
she brought with her. I know there were good times, but I
don
’
t want them anymore. I wish to erase her completely:
the good, the bad, and the in-between.

I
can
’
t cling to the good times because
they
’
re tainted with lies and deception. I never knew her,
and I don
’
t want to know her. I spent years dedicating
myself to her in a bid to understand her, all of her. A new year
rests on the horizon, and with it, a new life with a new job, new
dreams and new unknowns. Eventually, a new girl. A real life. Love,
the kind of love my parents have, because I refuse to let her steal
that from me.

Fatherhood, because like she said herself, I will be a good
father. Not to
him
. Not now. But one day. To someone. Alongside someone
special and someone who isn
’
t
B
. Whatever exists on
that piece of paper doesn
’
t change
that.

I
’
m over her. I have to be over her.
I
’
m ready to be over her.

Taking a deep breath, I twist to face Joey, noticing his
tears in an instant. Sparkling under the lights, his cheeks
glisten. Pale and white, he
’
s fixated on the
page.

“
Joey,
”
I say.

Glancing to me, he closes his eyes
and wipes his face.

“
Joey.
”

“
I
’
m sorry,
brother.
”

“
What is it? Is the baby
okay?
”

He
says nothing, walking away from the counter to the huge room
window.
“
I
’
m sorry, Aus,
”
he whispers.
“
You have to read this
for yourself.
”

“
What is it?
”
I say, standing up
and striding towards him.
“
Joey,
what
’
s happened?
”

He
doesn
’
t look at me, instead bowing his head.
“
I
’
m sorry.
I need to grab some air.
”

Slumping off, he heads to the door and leaves without his
jacket. I
’
m frozen, glancing between the door and the
letter that rests neatly on the countertop. I edge closer to it,
cautious and wary, because I don
’
t know what to
expect. I
’
m over her. I have to be over her.
I
’
m ready to be over her, but
…

December
13
^th

In the coffee shop
downstairs

Dear Aus,

This is my last letter. I promise. Deep down, I hoped you
may reply and show some semblance of forgiveness, but I know that
was wrong. I appreciate it will never happen, and so I must let go,
not just for you, but for me, too, and the little boy
who
’
s oh-so close to life. I don
’
t think I can
let you go until I explain things to you. You deserve the truth,
and although I can
’
t share everything
with you, I can share enough.

I
thought I
’
d die with this secret. It
’
s haunted
me for so long I can barely accept it
’
s real. It feels
more like a dream, or an old movie I watched as a child with my
mother. I
’
m not sure how much I even remember, or how much
sense any of it will make. Every time it enters my mind, I push it
down. I let it devour me, eat me, and haunt me, but so long as
it
’
s down there, I
’
m
fine.

Only, I
’
m not fine.
I
’
ve never been fine, and I can
’
t push it down
any longer, but I don
’
t know who else to
turn to. You
’
re all
I
’
ve ever had. I have to tell someone, because tomorrow
I may wake up as a mother, and it terrifies me.
I
’
m terrified of the monster I am, and I think I finally
accept this, but cannot handle it.

I
don
’
t want to be a vacant, absent mess like my own mum. I
want to be a good mother. I don
’
t want him to know
how sad and empty his mummy is. Maybe if I tell you,
I
’
ll be able to finally move on, and maybe
you
’
ll understand enough to move on yourself. I know
you
’
ll hate me. You deserve to hate me. You need to hate
me, but above all, you need to forget me.

I
’
m sorry, sweetie. I really, truly
am.

When I used to go to school as a little girl, I noticed all
the happy mothers that dropped off their kids and picked them up a
few hours later. My friends would run to their mums and hug them,
and they
’
d walk off and hold hands and talk. I
couldn
’
t understand why my own mother
wasn
’
t like them, or why she was so sad.

I
could never please her. She
’
d smile for a second
- like when we used to watch old black and white movies together,
snuggled under a blanket - but it would slip away from her like
soap through fingers. I hated her for it because I
didn
’
t understand why she wasn
’
t happy.
Mothers and daughters are supposed to be happy, yet all I did was
make my mummy cry. I figured it was my fault, that I was a bad girl
and too naughty. I wanted to be good, but I
couldn
’
t figure out how.

When I was seven, I realised it wasn
’
t me who
made my mother cry. For the first time, I saw my father hit her,
and it aged me in a moment. One minute I was seven, the next, an
old woman. I didn
’
t understand it at
the time, or what he was doing, or why he was doing it. But I knew
it was bad. I knew it was wrong. I knew it was the reason my mummy
cried and always looked so sad.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she watched me stand in
the doorway, me screaming and crying out for her, but she
couldn
’
t move, or hold me or comfort me, because he had
his big, disgusting hand wrapped around her neck. He pinned her to
the wall, screaming in her face as she looked past him the entire
time, looking straight into me eyes as if to say,
“
it
’
s okay. I love
you.
”