Renée Knight - Disclaimer

Seeing her leave like that reminds him of when he was little and she used to go away for work. It never bothered him. When she got home she’d fuss around him, like she’d missed him so much. He used to ignore her — it never felt real, like she was putting it on. He could keep it up for days, not talking to her. She’d come back with presents — Sandy the dog was one of them. She probably bought it at the airport anyway, but he loved it, used to sleep with it every night. When she was home she was always the one who put him to bed and read to him. He’d lie there with his eyes shut pretending to be asleep, but she’d carry on and he’d listen to the sound of her voice until eventually he did fall asleep. He’d hurt her when he told her he didn’t want to keep Sandy. For fuck’s sake, why would he?

If it was the other way round, she’d never have invited him to stay in their nice new home. Dad’s soft though, but it’ll drive Nicholas mad if he keeps up the cheery banter: constant fucking chat about what they’re going to eat. Even watching him pick away at the cellophane on their meal for two made Nicholas’s skin itch; he couldn’t wait to get upstairs. Still, it’s good to have a few home comforts but will he be able to stand being round his dad if he’s like this the whole time? Yes, because he needs the cash. He’ll sublet his room, no need for Dad to know — there’s money to be made. Poor old Mum, the last thing she wants is him messing up their spanking-new spare room.

He hangs over the side of the bed and drags his bag towards him, taking out his washbag. He’s brought his toothbrush but no soap, no shampoo; no need. He’s back “home.” Mum would have a fit if she knew he’d brought drugs into the house. She’d think he was “ losing control” ; “ not on top of things ”; worried he was going to “ slip off the edge” again. Of course he won’t. Steady job. Suit. What more do they want? It’s like old times — his parents knowing fuck all about what’s going on. Something’s going on with them though, but he can’t be arsed to find out what. They can keep their secrets, he has his. Still, generous of the old man to offer to help out with a holiday. With his girlfriend. He cringes at the memory of his lie. He doesn’t have a girlfriend but it’s what his dad wanted to hear.

From where he’s lying he can see the tops of the trees in the garden. They fill the frame of the window. Just like the old house, only smaller. It’s even in the same neighbourhood, a spit from where he grew up. His dad was pleased when he said he had a girlfriend but Nicholas doesn’t want the hassle of a girlfriend — too much fucking bother. He’d like the money though, so he’ll have to spin it out a bit longer — or maybe he’ll say he’s decided to go away with friends instead. Dad’ll still cough up — he’ll find it hard to back down after saying he’d help out. He laughs when he thinks what his dad would make of his friends.

Nicholas hates that word, “friends.” What does it mean? Muckers? Mates? Companions? They’re just people he hangs out with. They don’t waste time getting to know each other. It’s like being part of a shoal of fish, slipping in, dropping out, different faces all the time but all swimming in the same direction, keeping formation. Just floating along. The money for a holiday could keep him afloat for a whole week: close his eyes and disappear; a little break and then back to work. He rolls a joint and sticks it in his mouth, unlit. Don’t want the old man to worry. Work/life balance, that’s what it’s called, isn’t it? And Nicholas is managing that very well: just a little something now and again to soften the edges, but never too much.

“Supper’s ready,” his dad calls up. Nick rolls his eyes and doesn’t answer. Not answering. It used to drive them mad. Supper’s ready. No answer. Then one of them would have to come up and get him. Had he heard? They’d been shouting for ages. It’s getting cold. He rolls onto his side and buries his face in the pillow, taking in one more draught of his mother. They’ve never been close but, still, the smell of her nearly brings tears to his eyes.

The smell makes Catherine shrink further into herself: the smell of an old person’s home. Not urine, nothing as definable as that, but a very particular smell. What is it? Bins left a little too long before being taken out? Years of pets? Fur merged with fabric? Fake floral scents plugged in to try and disguise all of the above?

“Hello, darling.” Her mother stands up in welcome, unsteady on her thin legs. Catherine puts down her case and moves into her arms, careful of her fragile bones as she puts her arm across her back. A gentle pat. A mother’s pat, but from her, the daughter who wants to be mothered but fears she is past it.

“Thanks, Mum, for letting me stay. It’s such a mess with the builders and Robert’s away so…” She banks on her mother not remembering that the builders left weeks ago and Robert hasn’t travelled for work for years.

“Is he in America again?” Catherine nods, not wanting to lie to her mother more than she has to.

“Can I get you anything, darling?” It’s seven o’clock and Catherine hasn’t eaten but all she wants to do is lie down in a dark room and go to sleep. She feels sick and her head is throbbing.

“Actually, Mum, I think I’ve got a migraine coming on. Do you mind if I lie down? I’m sure it’ll go in a bit.”

Her mother cocks her head and her smile morphs into sympathy.

“I used to get headaches at your age,” she says.

Catherine walks into the only bedroom in the flat, and puts her case by the bed her father once slept in. Two single beds pushed together. Then Catherine remembers her mother now sleeps in her father’s bed, nearer the door, nearer the loo, so she takes her mother’s old bed. There’s a dirty, dark patch at the end of the quilt, where the cat has been sleeping. She undresses down to her underwear, gets into bed, and closes her eyes. She just needs to sleep. If she can sleep she might be able to think more clearly and then she might be able to start making sense of what is happening to her life.

She hears the slow shuffle of her mother’s slippers on the carpet coming closer. She hears a glass of water being put down on the bedside table, and the click of plastic and tinfoil. She opens her eyes and sees her mother standing over her, two pills in her outstretched hand. She might not know what day of the week it is, but she hasn’t forgotten the impulse to care for a poorly child.

“Thanks, Mum,” Catherine whispers, and swallows the pills, closing her eyes again.

For hours Catherine lies in the dark listening to her mother’s loneliness: a small supper being prepared then eaten on a tray in front of the TV, which talks to itself. And then her mother’s voice answering the phone, suddenly bright and cheerful, putting on its own show.

“Oh, I’m absolutely fine. Catherine’s here. Lovely surprise, yes. Robert’s away. Yes, he’s in America again…” All plausible until Catherine hears her tell the caller that Nicholas is fine, at home with the nanny. “Such a lovely girl…”

Oh, we’re all so good at covering up. Pretending everything’s absolutely lovely and just how we want it. Her mother’s just not as agile at it anymore, slipping in and out of time frames, giving herself away.

Catherine drifts into sleep, the television chirruping away in the next room. She wakes to silence and darkness and turns over to look at the mound of her mother’s body in the next bed. She is lying on her back with her mouth open, the skin falling back from her bones. It is how she will look when she is dead. Catherine studies her, overwhelmed with a sadness of things lost: her childhood, her child’s childhood; her mother’s strength and her belief, once, that her mother’s love had given her the strength to overcome anything. Her belief that she had absorbed that strength into her bones — an armour. She needs to talk, she needs to tell someone. It is too much to hold in anymore.