I shrug. “I don’t know what to say.” What are you allowed to say? “My dad’s undoubtedly a product of his generation and upbringing. He doesn’t talk much; he’s … I mean, he was, just naturally reserved and private, even with his children. We weren’t really a close family; we each did our own thing; in a way, we were all just housemates.” I look at Nia and suddenly say, “We had a lot of trouble with money when I was growing up. Before we sold the house.”
Nia tilts her head. “You did? You always had money, though!”
“No, I just always looked after my money. My mum first went to Ghana when I was twelve and after a while I would tell you guys at school that she was coming back and forth regularly, but she’d be there for up to a year.” Nia’s face doesn’t hint at judgment or surprise. She’s just listening. “I used to wish she’d return in winter, for Christmas and my birthday, but it was rare that she’d make it back in time. My mum’s not good with the cold, you know?”
Nia nods.
“It’s not even that I minded her not being home,” I continue. “I liked doing my own thing and I was used to it, but I would think, Miss my birthday again, fine, but Christmas? Let’s at least pretend.” I don’t know where I’m going with these disjointed confessions, but there’s so much to tell Nia, so much that no one outside my family knows and I want to get through it all, to finally share this piece of myself. As I do, I realize a part of me has always wanted to tell Nia these things. “My parents were together, but not. My dad wasn’t very good at looking after us, so my brother relied on his friends and I sort of looked after myself. Mum would send me money to live on when Dad could only cope with paying the bills, and I’d buy cheap ingredients, pads instead of tampons, clothes from charity shops, and saved where I could, just in case.”
“In case of what?”
I shrug. “Once, I was in a lecture at uni and Mum called me in tears because bailiffs were at the door threatening to take the TV. We had arrears of just under a grand. I’d gotten paid that day—from my bookseller job—and had to hand it all over with a bit more from my student loan. I remember the relief in my mum’s voice when I gave my card details over the phone to the collector.”
Nia frowns and leans forward. “Mads, are you serious?”
I nod. “Mum left bills to my dad and he wasn’t very good at paying them. That’s why we had to sell the house in Battersea and move, not because my mum ‘wanted a change of scene’—sorry for lying about that, by the way.”
Nia takes my hand and squeezes.
“Then Dad got sick,” I tell her. “But … you know, the worse he got, the happier he was to see me.” I sniff. “I know that sounds weird, but he’d just always smile at me. Even if he saw me two minutes ago, he’d smile again! The first time I remember Dad saying he loved me was when I was about fourteen and he was a little drunk. The second time was before I moved out. I said, ‘You do?’ and it was so strange because the look on his face … he looked at me like, Maddie, of course I do.” I copy the confused frown he wore at that moment. “Now I think, maybe he just couldn’t get it out before,” I say, “before the drugs made him forget old habits. Whenever I’d say it to him, he’d say ‘thank you,’ but I watched his internal struggle; it was like he didn’t know those three words or like he was trying to say it in a language he hadn’t mastered or maybe didn’t understand. I wonder if his dad ever said it to him.” I look at Nia. “I just…” I clear my throat. “I just really don’t want my dad to be dead. That’s all.”
She rubs my arm before handing me a tissue.
“What for?” I ask.
She smiles sadly and when I sniff again, my cheeks are wet and my nose is running. I stare at the tissue and my hand is shaking.
“I can’t…” My voice cracks. “I just…” I close my eyes and tears spill out. “Why didn’t I get to see him one last time?”
I cry on Nia’s shoulder for the rest of the morning.
* * *
I finally go home in the afternoon. My chest is uncomfortably tight and there doesn’t seem to be enough air in the world.
On the train, I put on headphones that inhale and swallow any outside noise and I count the stops until I reach Thornton Heath station.
James is home. He gives me a hug and my face squashes against his chest. James is tall and well set, thanks to weights at the gym and protein powders in his shakes. His hair is still in plaits, but he has a cap on. He asks how I’m doing. I experience a flicker of annoyance, and it’s nice to feel another emotion for a moment. When was the last time I saw James in person? When was the last time he came to this house? I pull away and say, “I’m fine.”
Upstairs, Mum immediately hugs me and starts to cry and I begin to cry because she smells like my mum and the last time I smelled her my dad was downstairs in his chair.
I remain upstairs; I don’t go into the living room or his bedroom once. Mum tells me again what happened. I lie on her bed and stare at the ceiling as she gets phone calls from well-wishers and tertiary grievers and I have to listen to her tell the story over and over again.
When Mum was in Ghana, I thought about moving into this room; it’s much bigger than mine, but it didn’t feel right. I could have used the space, though.
Mum’s shouting now because one of her friends said that she should stop crying; I think it came from a sympathetic place, but Mum hangs up on her.
“How can she say stop crying?” Mum looks at me, wiping away her tears. “How can she say that? I was the one who saw him. I remember the body bag they put him in! So how can I stop, eh?”
Most daughters—I’d bet at least 90 percent of them—would react to their mother crying, hold her, comfort her, but the sight of mine in this state puts me on edge. I sit in the corner and watch the small TV. Whenever Mum leaves the room, I whisper, “I’m not really here. I’m not really here. Everything is fine because I’m not really here.”
Mum’s Pentecostal pastor calls her and asks to speak to me. I wonder if he holds a grudge against me for choosing another church or if all pastors are happy so long as you attend one. He asks how I’m doing. Fine. He’s here if I need anything. Thanks. God is with me. Sure.
Mum only takes calls on loudspeaker so when it’s her turn, she cries again and, like the friend she hung up on, I wish she’d give it a rest. Pastor tells her to stay strong because her children need her.
When has that ever meant anything to Mum?
What a cruel thing to think, Maddie.
“You need to eat,” he says to her, “even if you’re not hungry. Please eat something, make sure you do.” He prays over the line, and says he’ll call again later. I wonder how supportive he’d be if he knew of the man in Mum’s phone whose unsaved number begins with +233.
Mum goes downstairs to make lunch; I hear her and James talking in the kitchen. It’s not a civilized conversation, but you can assume by now that it rarely is. It’s funny, really, because what my mum dislikes in my brother is what my brother dislikes in my mum, but neither of them can see they’re arguing with themselves.