All We Have Lost (21 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

On my way home, I call in to Mum to share the news.

She sweeps me into a hug. Then she pulls back abruptly.

‘You’ll need new outfits!’

‘Damn. I hadn’t thought of that.’

‘My treat.’

‘No!’

‘Yes!’ She grows serious. ‘It’s my way of saying sorry. You were right, Kim. We
are
different people and you must do what’s right for you. I’m sorry for not seeing that. I’m sorry for putting the children before you.’ She starts to get emotional. ‘We shouldn’t argue. I’m going to stop nagging. I promise.’

‘Good.’ I smile.

‘Let’s have a glass of sherry to celebrate.’

‘Ooooh. Sherry before noon? That Charles is a bad influence.’

She giggles then produces the goods.

We sit on the patio and toast Fonsie. The sun breaks through. I put my face to it. It feels like it’s warming my bones, right through to the marrow.

‘I shouldn’t have told you about Dad when you had so much on your plate. I wanted to show you another way.’

‘It’s OK,’ I say to cut her off.

‘And I’m sorry I hid it from you all this time; I wanted you to go on adoring him the way you always have.’

I turn from the sun to look at her. ‘I’m glad you told me. I don’t want to be under any illusions. Ever again.’

She reaches out and grips my hand. ‘I’m sorry for saying you always put yourself first. It’s simply not true.’ She is starting to tear up.

‘Mum. Forget it. Seriously.’

‘I can’t. You’re great.’

‘Please don’t cry. You were right to tell me. And you were right to do what you did – with Dad. I’m getting used to the idea, really I am.’ OK, so that’s a lie.

‘I was so happy to see Ian in the kitchen,’ she says dabbing her eyes and giving her nose a quick honk. ‘Did you see how much it meant to Chloe that he was there?’

I just nod.

‘And it wasn’t
so
bad for you, was it?’

‘I’ve told him that he can see the children as much as he likes. So far, it’s going OK.’

‘Oh, that’s marvellous.’

I give her a look.

‘I’ll keep my nose out of it. I promise. So…’ She claps her hands. ‘How are the newly-weds?
I’m still in shock.’

‘You’re not the only one.’

‘I’m glad Connor has settled down, though. I used to think he liked you. I sometimes wondered if Ian picked up on it.’

Will she continue to surprise me for the rest of my life?

‘They’re fine, as far as I know,’ I manage.

‘Anyway, it’s good that they’ve found each other.’

‘Yeah.’

One week later, on a warm September day, I become an official employee. I underestimated how good it would feel to dress up and go into town, to have a purpose of my own, a world of my own and to have my opinion sought, listened to, acted on.

We move things around. Contact the new artist I like and arrange for him to bring in more of his work. Hours pass like seconds. I ask Fonsie if he’d like me to work on a PR proposal for Orange.

‘Absolutely.’

‘First we’d have to sit down and go through the gallery’s strengths and weaknesses as well as the opportunities and threats that are out there. We’d look at target audiences and what you want to say.’

‘
We
want to say.’

I smile.

‘Let’s start now. I’ll make the coffee.’

I leave Orange on a high, my mind buzzing with ideas. I’m almost at the school when, stopped at lights, I remember to turn on my phone. There are messages from Connor, Sarah, Ian and the school all asking me to call them. It’s the one from the school I worry about.

I hurry into the yard. The bell has just gone and the children are coming out. I see Chloe, all in one piece and smiling. I breathe again.

‘Everything all right?’ I ask.

‘Yep, have you got my drink?’

I hand it to her. ‘Did anything happen today?’

‘A boy had a nosebleed. It was
disgusting
.’

‘OK, we have to go inside for a minute.’ I take her hand.

Chloe brings me to her classroom where her teacher is tidying up.

I introduce myself. We shake hands.

‘Is everything OK?’ I ask.

‘Yes, yes, nothing urgent. The principal would like a word.’

‘The
principal
?’

She smiles. ‘It’s nothing serious; she just wants a chat.’

Chats are always serious.

‘I’ll just pop in and see if she’s free. Would you mind holding on here for a minute?’

‘Well, I have to collect my son….’

‘Won’t be long.’

I smile down at Chloe.

‘What does she want?’ she asks.

‘Just a chat.’

‘About what?’

‘School probably.’

And that is a good enough answer for a four-year-old.

The teacher is back. And smiling. ‘Ms Dempsey will see you now. Chloe why don’t you stay here with me? You can do some colouring while I tidy up.’

Chloe and I look at each other, neither of us wanting to separate. What do they have to say that she can’t hear?

I wink at her. ‘See you in a minute, dude. Dying to see what you draw.’

‘It’s just colouring in,’ she says glumly.

‘So use good colours.’ I smile brightly. ‘Back in a sec.’

The blonde, leopard-skin-clad principal, (yes, really), introduces herself and tells me to take a seat. Then she gets straight to the point.

‘Mrs Kavanagh, Chloe has head lice.’

A few instant reactions:

One: I am
not
Mrs Kavanagh.

Two: my daughter does not have head lice; it must be a mistake.

My third reaction is the one I stick with: Yuck.

‘Are you sure? I wash her hair very regularly.’

‘But do you check it regularly?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Do you fine-comb it, once a week?’

‘Well, not lately,’ meaning, not ever. ‘But I will of course from now on. And I’ll take her to buy a lotion immediately.’

‘She must have had them for quite a while for us to notice them. We don’t take it upon ourselves to hunt for head lice. We leave it up to the parents.’

Christ.

‘But in Chloe’s case, well, they were pretty obvious.’

How didn’t I see them? Someone point me in the direction of the nearest hole so I can crawl in.

‘Sorry. I’m stunned. Thank you for letting me know. I’ll take care of it.’

‘Is everything all right on the home front?’ she asks cheerily.

Who the hell does she think she is? ‘Everything’s fine.’

‘It’s not just the lice, you see. Chloe seems withdrawn. Preoccupied. Lost in her own thoughts. She doesn’t concentrate in class...’

‘She’s just started school. Surely there’s an adjustment period?’

‘Absolutely. That could be it. Just thought I’d mention it seeing as I had you here. It might be an idea to discuss things with her, see how she feels about starting school, that kind of thing.’

‘I will. Thank you
for bringing this to my attention.’ I stand up. Because: enough.

‘Super.’ She stands and shakes my hand. Another parent dealt with.

I walk up the corridor feeling like a child again, having been sent to the principal.  Am I neglecting my children? Maybe I haven’t been listening, noticing things I should have. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken the job.

‘I
love
it,’ I say when I see Chloe’s page of colour and complete disregard for the lines. I pick her up and hold her close. ‘Let’s go, sweetie.’ 

We rush to collect Sam. Then it’s straight to the pharmacy for the most powerful head-lice lotion on the market. I get two bottles, just in case. Everyone’s getting a dose.

As soon as we’re home, I run the bath, fill it with toys – and two children.

When I smell the stuff, I know I won’t get away with clandestine dosing. So a new game, ‘zapping the enemy’, is invented.

After the bath, one by one, I sit them by the window and go through their hair with the special comb. Oh. My. God. These have to be the ugliest, most grotesque creatures in existence. And they both have them.

‘Can I be finished now, Mum?’ Chloe asks as I slide a nit off a hair.

‘No pet. We gotta get these guys out. They’re tough. But we’re tougher.’

‘K.’ 

God, my hair is so itchy. I feel like I’m crawling.

As soon as the kids are done, I cover my head in the stuff and wait for it to do its magic. Eyes smarting from the fumes, I wonder who else needs treatment. Mum. And Ian. There’s a strong temptation to let Ian harvest a crop. The only problem is, he’d spread them back to the kids.

With Sam occupied with an episode of
Thomas The Tank Engine
, I suggest to Chloe that we draw for a while, real pictures, not colouring in. I’m hoping that, while we work, she might open up.

We’re almost finished our pictures – of head lice – when she finally starts to talk.

‘Did Dad go away ’cause I was bold?’ she asks, without looking up from her picture.

‘No, sweetheart, of course not. Anyway, you’re not bold. You’re a very good girl.’

She looks up. ‘Was it because I was fighting with Sam?’

‘No! It has absolutely nothing to do with you or Sam.’

‘Mum, Dad doesn’t love me any more.’

‘Yes, he does!
Of course
he does. Come here.’

I pop her up on my lap and stroke her cheek with my finger. ‘He loves you so, so much. And I love you. We both love you.’

‘Then why doesn’t he come home?’

‘He comes to see you every day.’

‘But he doesn’t come to see you.’

‘It’s just that I’m very busy at the moment.’

She stares straight into my eyes, right in, right to the back. ‘Why don’t you smile any more, Mum?’

‘I do. See?’

‘I mean a real one. And what’s wrong with your voice?’

‘Nothing.’

‘It’s sad. All the time.’

Is it? Jesus. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to be. I’m not sad. Will I tell you a joke?’

‘No.’ She usually loves my jokes. And I love hers – mainly because they’re not funny, which makes them hilarious.

‘I’m sorry, Chloe. I’ll be more fun, I promise.’

‘Will you laugh?’

‘Definitely.’

‘Will you play with us?’

‘Don’t I?’

‘Not anymore.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.’

‘Will you do family things with us when Dad comes?’

God. ‘We’ll see.’

She gives me that look again.

‘If I’m not busy, OK?’

‘Don’t be busy, Mum.’

‘Thomas is over,’ says Sam, padding into the kitchen in the cutest bare feet in the world. ‘Will you remind it?’

I will never correct him on remind and rewind. Never.

‘I’ve a better idea,’ I say. ‘Why don’t we have some ice cream and a game of chasing?’

Chloe drops her crayon. ‘Yaay!’

‘And I was thinking,’ I say to her. ‘Would you like to invite any new friends from school to play?’ Lice-free ones, preferably.

‘That’s a great idea,’ she says. ‘Let me think about who.’

‘Take your time. You don’t have to come up with someone straight away. Maybe decide when you’re in school tomorrow.’

‘OK!’

We sit on a rug in the back garden, having an ice cream picnic.

‘What does “my heart’s bruised” mean?’ asks Chloe.

‘Where did you hear that?’ I ask, alarmed.

‘It’s in that song. You know. The one we like.’

‘“Out of Reach”?’

She nods.

‘OK. My heart’s bruised means, well; sometimes when people are talking about love they talk about their heart being in love. And the girl in the song is saying that her heart is bruised because her boyfriend has just gone off with another girl and she’s upset about it.’

‘Oh.’ She’s quiet for a moment and then says, ‘He should have told her, shouldn’t he?’

‘He should have told her what?’

‘That he was going off with the other girl. Then it would have been OK, wouldn’t it?’

‘Well, no.’

‘Why not? They could have all gone off together.’

‘I don’t think that would have worked.’

‘Why? It’s OK for two girls to love the same boy, isn’t it?’