Now You See Me (13 page)

She spent the next hour cleaning the empty house in a rage of efficiency. Then she made a coffee and put a Janis Joplin disc on, loudly. She sat outside and tried to think her way calmly through what she was feeling. It’s partly resentment, she thought, as if she were explaining it to someone, Fran perhaps. Never once has he suggested we might all go up to Mick’s sister’s place for a weekend. I didn’t even know Mick had a sister, let alone nephews and nieces. In fact, we never see any of the old crowd except at the annual picnic, or for dinner occasionally. It’s as if Tom’s had this secret world, this network he can tap into whenever he needs it, but it hasn’t been there for me, too. Or not for us together.

She sat staring at the blue and white hyacinths by the back steps. ‘It’s malice, too,’ she was aware she was speaking aloud. ‘I have to be honest. I want him to be suffering. I want him to have a terrible time on these weekend visits with the kids, to live out the cliché of the single father. I want him to miss me and the family so that his heart nearly breaks, like mine has. I want him to yearn for us, so that whatever else it is he’s got on his mind just recedes, becomes unimportant. I want him to know what he’s lost. I want him to want it back.’ She hurled her cooling drink into the garden. ‘And I want the power to decide whether he comes back or not. I want some power. I am powerless and bereft and he is coping. That’s why I’m furious.’

For a moment she felt lightened, pleased that she had been able to analyse her reactions, then her mind abruptly emptied and she felt only desolation.

She went back inside and wandered through the clean, unpeopled rooms, humming along with ‘Me and Bobby McGee’. She had made no plans for herself this weekend; she hadn’t thought beyond the moment of seeing Tom, as if time would stop or go back then, or everything would magically transform itself
.
‘Nothin
g
lef
t
t
o
los
e,’
she muttered to herself, and dialled Carly’s number. Two could play at the old mates to the rescue game. And he would hate it that she turned to Carly.

‘Hi, it’s Rosa,’ she said to the answering machine. ‘I’m at a loose end and wondered if you were, too. Ring me back if you are. I’ll be at home all day.’

She loaded the player with discs, rock and roll of the fifties and sixties, and set it to pound them all out at random. Then she lay on the couch and closed her eyes tightly against the sliding tears.

M
y
parent
s
die
d
whe
n
I
wa
s
quit
e
youn
g,
i
n
m
y
earl
y
teen
s.
Yo
u
kno
w
tha
t,
alread
y
. Such a terrible thing, something so terrible that you might never get over it
,
yo
u
sai
d.
Yo
u
neve
r
believe
d
i
n
fals
e
comfor
t,
empt
y
optimis
m.
Yo
u
spen
t
al
l
you
r
energie
s
tryin
g
t
o
eras
e
m
y
sel
f-
blam
e
ove
r
thei
r
death
s.
Yo
u
warne
d
m
e
I
woul
d
hav
e
t
o
dea
l
wit
h
lastin
g
guil
t,
especiall
y
a
s
they’
d
treate
d
m
e
th
e
wa
y
the
y
ha
d.
Yo
u
tol
d
m
e
ove
r
an
d
ove
r
tha
t
I
wa
s
no
t
t
o
blam
e—
no
t
fo
r
thei
r
sadis
m,
no
r
fo
r
thei
r
death
s.
Yo
u
tol
d
m
e
th
e
onl
y
wa
y
t
o
mak
e
a
decen
t
lif
e
fo
r
mysel
f
woul
d
h
e
t
o
forgiv
e
the
m
th
e
damag
e
the
y
di
d
m
e;
t
o
confron
t
i
t
an
d
describ
e
i
t
an
d
pu
t
i
t
behin
d
m
e.I
nodde
d,
an
d
tol
d
yo
u
wha
t
yo
u
wante
d
t
o
hea
r
.

W
e
constructe
d
a
scenari
o
tha
t
cam
e
clos
e
t
o
explainin
g
the
m,
th
e
wa
y
the
y
behave
d
t
o
m
e
. To explain is to understand: to understand is halfway to forgiving
.
Yo
u
ha
d
a
fun
d
o
f
cliché
s.I
neve
r
hav
e
explaine
d
m
y
parent
s,
o
r
understoo
d
the
m.
O
r
forgive
n
the
m.
Th
e
storie
s
I
tol
d
you wer
e
al
l
fals
e;
th
e
historie
s
I
gav
e
the
m—
m
y
fathe
r
th
e
chil
d
o
f
Germa
n
immigrant
s,
beate
n
an
d
cowe
d
b
y
the
m,a
narro
w
unimaginativ
e
ma
n
wh
o
havin
g
bee
n
a
victi
m
coul
d
onl
y
victimis
e
i
n
hi
s
tur
n.
M
y
mothe
r
th
e
sam
e.
Fro
m
a
wil
d
hom
e
o
f
drunkard
s
an
d
sem
i-
criminal
s,
almos
t
cretin
s
i
n
thei
r
lac
k
o
f
educatio
n
o
r
knowledg
e
o
f
th
e
worl
d
outsid
e
thei
r
famil
y.
N
o
wonde
r,
w
e
agree
d,
tha
t
sh
e
s
o
seldo
m
spok
e,
tha
t
sh
e
ha
d
acquiesce
d
i
n
everythin
g
m
y
fathe
r
di
d
.

Th
e
trut
h
i
s,I
hardl
y
kno
w
anythin
g
abou
t
thei
r
background
s.I
believ
e
m
y
father’
s
ancestr
y
wa
s
Yugoslavia
n,
bu
t
i
t
ma
y
hav
e
bee
n
Polis
h.
M
y
mother’
s
famil
y
coul
d
hav
e
bee
n
anythin
g.
Sh
e
coul
d
hav
e
sprun
g
full
y
forme
d
fro
m
on
e
o
f
th
e
bog
s
o
r
marshe
s
i
n
th
e
hill
s
behin
d
ou
r
hous
e:a
han
k
o
f
hai
r
an
d
a
splinte
r
o
f
bon
e
combine
d
wit
h
foeti
d
mu
d
an
d
gras
s,
a
n
evi
l
incantatio
n
o
r
tw
o,
th
e
injectio
n
o
f
a
semblanc
e
o
f
languag
e
an
d
though
t,
designe
d
a
s
a
mat
e
fo
r
m
y
fathe
r
onl
y.
Bu
t
tha
t
i
s
bein
g
to
o
compassionat
e.
Create
d
lik
e
tha
t
sh
e
woul
d
hardl
y
b
e
responsibl
e
fo
r
hersel
f,
an
d
sh
e
wa
s
responsibl
e.
Everythin
g
sh
e
di
d,
th
e
fe
w
thing
s
sh
e
sai
d,
wer
e
al
l
deliberat
e
an
d
don
e
wit
h
maliciou
s
inten
t.I
hav
e
neve
r
believe
d
tha
t
ignoranc
e
i
s
an
y
excus
e,
anywa
y
.