Elisabeth Carpenter - Only a Mother

I know it’s as bad as him being cooped up in his bedroom, but I don’t think I can face the anxiety of today… wondering when they’ll be back – worried about how long Jason’ll stay.

‘Really?’ says Craig.

He’s frowning and swaying as he sits.

We’ve never used the dining room. It’s only tiny and it has my mother’s furniture in there. I still can’t look at her things. All those pieces she inherited from her own parents that meant so much to her. But they’re a heavy presence – taking over a whole room of the house that I never use. When she died, I gave all her clothes to the church. I didn’t even look at them individually; I couldn’t, without picturing her wearing them. It was too upsetting. Especially as I could have saved her.

Four-thirty in the morning and I can hear the television blaring from downstairs. I must have drifted off for an hour or so, but I keep thinking about those letters in Craig’s bag. I had only read snippets from one of the letters: I think about you all the time and I feel like we know each other inside and out. I didn’t want to think about the last sentence too much – not after what happened to Lucy. He must have written back for her to keep sending so many letters. Will his replies still be in her bedroom? Or perhaps her parents have put away her things – the pain of seeing them a constant reminder that she’s not coming home.

I jump as the front door slams shut. Jason must’ve left.

I go downstairs, but there’s no one in the living room. I grab the remote, flick off the television and my ears ring with the silence. Once in the hall, I notice that the light in the dining room is on, the door ajar. I push it fully open; it stops against a mahogany dresser, and I find Craig sitting near the back window in my mother’s old chair. It’s a tall wing-backed one; the fabric patchy, threadbare in places. He looks incongruous in it. His feet are on top of her occasional table. I’m surprised it takes the weight – it’s such a flimsy piece of furniture.

I shimmy my way past the white wicker laundry basket, two chests of drawers, and some cardboard boxes. It smells musty in here, like a garage: damp. Even though I leave the radiator running during the day so mould doesn’t breed.

Craig’s eyes are focused on the five pictures – ordinary nondescript landscapes, framed in various woods – that are leaning in a bundle against a small chaise longue. It’s surprising how much furniture can fit in such a tiny room.

‘Are you all right, love?’ I say. ‘Craig?’

Silence. Does he realise I’m standing in front of him? He’s wiggling a bottle of beer that he’s holding by its neck. They must’ve gone out for more drink after I went to bed.

‘I might as well be inside.’ His eyes quickly meet mine. ‘What’s the point of me being out, if I have to be home at a certain time like a bloody teenager?’

‘But it won’t be forever.’

‘I thought it would be different being free. That people – even if they thought I was guilty – could see that I’ve been punished. My life has been destroyed. I can’t be the person I want to be – there are too many rules I have to follow. How am I supposed to live a normal life when I’ve all that hanging over me? I was so naive to think I could be a personal trainer. God, what an idiot.’

He speaks so eloquently for someone who’s been drinking for almost twenty-four hours. He must’ve drunk himself sober, if there’s such a thing.

‘We could move, if you want.’ I say it quietly, slowly. I don’t want to let on that I’ve been dreaming of moving for so long.

He raises his eyebrows.

‘I’m nearly thirty-eight. I should be thinking about branching out, shouldn’t I? But the only job they’ll give me will pay a pittance. Is it really worth it? And I’ve got that ridiculous counselling session I have to go to. I must’ve had my blinkers on inside. They said it’d be hard, but I didn’t listen. My best mates are still in there… they’re the ones who know the real me. Not even Jason…’ He sits up straighter. ‘Did I tell you that one of them’ll be out in a couple of days?’

‘No. What’s he inside for?’

He shrugs. ‘The usual.’

‘What’s the usual?’

‘We didn’t really talk about the past. We talked about the future.’

‘OK.’ I fold my arms. It’s so cold in here. ‘What’s the counselling for, love?’

‘To help me settle,’ he says, almost shouting. He doesn’t even look at me.

‘Are you sure?’

I can’t tell him I was listening in, but why would his supervising officer say he needed to go if there was nothing wrong?

‘I wouldn’t lie to you, would I?’ he barks. ‘What would be the point in that?’ He leans back, takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes. I give him a moment to calm down. I wanted to ask him about the letters I found, but he’s in no mood for that. And he wouldn’t take too kindly to me snooping among his things.

‘They’ll put you in touch with organisations, won’t they? Somewhere you can feel useful.’

He opens his eyes, but he’s looking at the ceiling.

‘Useful?’ He gives a short laugh then sighs. ‘Yeah. I’ve always wanted to feel useful.’

Is he making fun of me?

The grandmother clock behind him suddenly begins to tick – for the first time in over thirty years. My mother loved that clock, but the sound of it used to make me so anxious. The house was rarely quiet, except for when Mother was in one of her moods. She could go from being cheerful to affronted in a second. Granted, I was a little clumsy as a child – always knocking cups of tea over. She recovered as quickly, though. Always apologetic, but during her silence all I could hear was the ticking of that stupid thing.

‘Did you wind that clock up?’ I say.

He shrugs. ‘No one ever believed me when I said I could never have done those things to Lucy,’ he says quietly, ‘but you did, didn’t you, Mum?’

His eyes are glazed and won’t meet mine. He must’ve taken something; this can’t be just from the drink. I can’t predict his mood from one second to the next.

Tick, tick, tick. I want to smash that thing with a hammer.

‘I never thought you were capable of doing something like that.’

The clock is taunting me.

He brings his head level again and his eyes meet mine.

‘Why won’t you tell me who my father is?’

I unfold my arms and rest my hands on my hips.

‘What?’ I say. ‘Where did that come from?’

He finally lowers his head and meets my gaze.

‘I’ve had a lot of time to think about things,’ he says, tilting his head to the side. He’s almost too calm now. ‘I didn’t want to bring it up during our visits – wanted to keep them nice and light for you… well, most of the time. I was ignorant at the start – unseasoned, you might say. But I’ve always wondered about my father. How could I not? Did you think I’d just forget about him?’

I can hear my pulse pounding in my ears.

‘I… I’ve nothing else to tell you. I don’t know his name.’

‘You’ve said that before, but you’re not like that… you were never one of those women.’

‘What sort of women? There aren’t those women.’

He shrugs again.

‘He gave me the wrong name,’ I say. ‘I tried looking him up in the phone book when I was expecting you. He wasn’t listed.’

‘And he wasn’t local?’

I shake my head. ‘No.’

‘Does Denise know who it is? Did she meet him?’

‘How could you bring her name up in this house – after what she did?’

‘For fuck’s sake, Mum!’ he shouts. He leans towards me and I startle, taking a step back. ‘Stop changing the subject all the fucking time!’