I Unlove You (13 page)

“
Sure do,
”
says
B
, glancing
at me.
“
He
’
s just like his dad, so needs a little
guidance.
”

“
Charming,
”
he says,
B
replying with a wink,
continuing her never-ending flirtation with my
father.

“
He looks just like Richard
Gere,
”
she used to say.
“
That grey
hair
…
my oh
my
…”

This all seems normal, like any other meal. I keep
forgetting a little person grows within her, not just now, but
throughout the day. We
’
re two barely-adults
figuring life out, but it
’
s fine because we
have an entire lifetime to discover who we are. Then I do remember
the tiny little person growing in her tummy, not just someone
I
’
ll soon have to care for, but a real person made up of
parts from me and parts from
B
. This
isn
’
t a normal meal, because I
’
ll soon change
my parents
’
lives forever.

I
drift off, losing focus of what I
’
m doing and drop my
fork, the clatter of metal on pottery ringing around the
table.

“
You okay?
”
asks my father, eyeing my plate. My
mother stares as
B
smiles, holding back a laugh, no doubt reading
the thoughts bombarding my brain.

“
Yeah,
”
I say.

“
You sure? You look a tad
lost.
”

Glancing to
B
, she holds my hand; helping me and guiding me
like she always does.
“
It
’
s okay,
”
she whispers.

“
What
’
s
wrong?
”
says my mum, placing her knife and fork down and edging her
chair closer to the table.
“
What
’
s
happened?
”

“
It
’
s fine.
Nothing
’
s happened,
”
I say.
“
Well
…”

I
look away from my mother because all I foresee is her face after
Joey and me flooded the girls
’
bathroom when we
were ten; sitting in the head teacher
’
s office whilst he
ran through our wrong-doings. Not angry, but disappointed, an empty
stare that seemed to suggest I lost part of my mother that
day.

She
’
s terrible at hiding her emotions, and I
can
’
t stand the thought of letting her down
again.

“
We have some pretty big
news,
”
I say to my father. Hesitating, and looking to my plate of
half-eaten vegetables and lamb, I sigh.
“
B
’
s
pregnant.
”
Two words sneak through my lips, a near whisper
I
’
m certain they both hear as loud as a
shout.

B
squeezes my hand and places her
other on my thigh, and I know she looks at me in the hope
I
’
ll lift my head, but I can
’
t. All I see is
my mother
’
s face as we left the school that afternoon, her
silence enough to shame me as she pursed her lips and remained a
few feet in front.

“
I see,
”
says my father,
breaking the silence. Slow. Calm. In control.
“
Well, that is big
news. I suppose it shouldn
’
t be a huge
surprise, though, considering the two of you have been together
forever. Still, it
’
s big.
”
Taking a drink of
water, I raise my chin and focus on his own.
“
But a baby
’
s a blessing,
and I
’
m glad you told us.
”
He turns his
attention to
B
.
“
How do you feel?
”

“
I
’
m good. Thank
you.
”
She tightens her grip, edging closer to my chair.
“
It
’
s still a
shock, but we
’
re
adjusting.
”

I
nod because I
’
m unsure of what
else to do or say. I
’
m the idiotic,
frightened boy from two weeks ago, trembling from
B
’
s
news, but this time it isn
’
t our baby that
shakes my insides, rather the do-or-don
’
t temptation to
sneak a glance at my mother.

I
know she loves the idea of being a grandma, as I
’
m sure
most mothers do. But not now. Not today. She
’
ll adjust
and come around, but I know she shares my fear because
I
’
m sure it
’
s from her I get it.
A carefree soul who drifts without worry until her anxieties and
worries decide to drown her in the moment.

Like I drown.
Like I
’
m drowning right now, scared to face my
mother
’
s disappointment.

“
You okay, dear?
”
asks my father,
facing my mother and taking her hand. I follow her arm up to her
face, unable to fight the curiosity consuming me.

I
used to lose myself in her long flowing hair. A memory of me
twisting her auburn locks in my fingers pops into my head, sitting
on her lap as she reads fairytales from the same book her mother
read to her. Another glimmer of yesteryear, the sun shining through
her hair, lightening its tone; we
’
re on some beach
holiday, maybe, or enjoying a particular sunny Yorkshire afternoon
as we sit in the garden together.

There
’
s this one picture
in the hallway; a young twenty-something version of my mother back
in Austin,
‘
hippified
’
, in a tie-dye shirt
and flowing skirt. It
’
s taken by my
father, although it
’
s hard to decipher
how they found one another; he, an English writer obsessed with Bob
Dylan, decked in tweed and sensible sweater-vests; she, a carefree
American from an unmarried beatnik couple, a professional wanderer
and full time daydreamer.

So
beautiful, and my father, so normal and predictable, just like me.
She
’
s older now, and a tad more plump with a lived-in
appearance, but that hair remains the same now as in the picture.
It
’
s still auburn. Still flowy and wavy and a perfect
state of messy. It
’
s still the first
thing she grabs when worried or disappointed, or anxious in some
way.

Just like in the school office all
those years ago. Just like now.

Nodding, she remains silent, no doubt tackling her thoughts
and worries that I
’
m sure replicate my
own. A cobbled-together boy made up of my father
’
s bland
appearance and my mother
’
s crippling,
merciless anxiety. Where I mutter random facts, she curls her hair;
we
’
re both unable to hide our emotion, disappointment and
fears when they decide to uproot our foundations.

“
I
’
m not sure what to
say,
”
she replies, her tone soft.
“
But your
father
’
s right. A baby is a blessing. Even when they
come as a surprise.
”

Continuing to curl her hair in tiny circles, she attempts a
smile. But I know she
’
s forcing it, like I
no doubt did when
B
needed me the most. As I slump under the weight
of her disappointment, I
’
m angry at her but
mainly at myself, because this was me as I gaped at
B
.
Pretending. Forcing. Too selfish and scared to see past
it.

I
turn my attention back to my father, her pale and lifeless face too
much to handle.
“
Thanks,
”
I mutter.
“
I know this must be a shock, and I
’
m
sorry
—“

“
Stop right there,
son,
”
he says, standing up and straightening the blue tie hiding
beneath his sweater.
“
We have a lot to talk about.
”
He pauses, and looks
at
B
.
“
All four
of us. As a family. But right now, let
’
s toast to our
future grandchild.
”

He guides my mother to get up and
join him. She looks at the table for a few seconds before nodding,
forcing and fighting through a smile, a smile borne from fear and
worry, like my own has these last few days.

My
father and
B
, so strong and brave. My mother and me, so timid and weak.
I know she
’
ll adjust. I know I
will, too. Soon this will feel normal, and meals like these will be
normal once again. People like my mother and me find strength in
those stronger around us. I just need time. She just needs
time.

My
father
’
s right, there
’
s much to discuss,
but not now. There are plenty of books to read and details to
learn, but not now. I stand and join my parents, holding
B
’
s
hand whilst she remains seated. I glance down to her,
staring at the plates and dishes and glasses on the table, a soft
smile spread across her lips.

“
I think that
’
s a good
idea,
”
she says, joining us and lifting her
glass.

“
Cheers,
”
says my
father.

“
Cheers,
”
I say.

“
Cheers,
”
says my mother
softly.

Then the room settles into
silence.

JUNE 3
^RD
- THE COFFEE SHOP:

The
rich aroma of coffee saunters around the table and drifts up my
nose. Inhaling a deep breath, I savour every bit of
caffeine-tainted air possible, its strong aftertaste clinging to my
throat. Opposite me, in an old comfy chair that droops nearly to
the floor,
B
cups her mug of hot chocolate and
pouts.

“
I miss
coffee,
”
she says, sipping from her cup and sliding it on to the
table.
“
It smells so good.
”

I
hesitate, holding my own mug inches from my lips, its taste
practically on my tongue.
“
Should I get something
else?
”

“
No,
”
she sighs, settling back into her
favourite chair.
“
There
’
s no reason for us
both to suffer.
”

“
Sure?
”