I could say something soothing, but I don’t have anything to offer. I’ve run out of lies. Dad’s gone and the chance to help him has gone with him. I could say it’s fine and that it no longer matters, but that won’t negate how much it did matter at the time. I decide not to say anything at all.
One day we’ll be orphans; one day I’ll be faced with the question of: who am I without my parents? I know I will never live at home again; that home as I know it may cease to exist. Mum will likely sell the house, and in a few months, she’ll go back to Ghana. James will continue to be reachable only after the second call. Then there will be me. Maddie. Madeleine Baaba Wright, twenty-five. Nothing else about me as definitive as those facts.
“What’s your job, Mads?” James asks.
“Huh? I’m an editorial assistant.”
“And that’s what you want to do, in life, I mean?”
“I think so. Why do you ask?”
He shrugs. “I didn’t know. I knew it was something to do with books but didn’t know what exactly.”
“Oh, I should have specified.”
“Nah, I should have asked.” He speaks quietly, squeezing my shoulder. “I never thought I needed to check up on you. I’m sorry we’re not the family you deserve, Mads,” he suddenly says. “Dad’s gone and Mum’s just not very maternal in that way. I know you want her to be, every kid does, but not every mum is that mum. When I was at school, I’d be wishing she’d act like the other mums, pick me up from school, make me dinner, help with homework, and sometimes it looked like she’d changed, but it never lasted ’cos you can’t pretend to be someone you’re not for very long. So don’t waste your time wishing for it, because it’s not anything you’re doing wrong, yeah?” James sighs. “Mum and I really just left you from young and I think about that a lot now. The family and our house would have collapsed years ago if it weren’t for you looking after Dad and paying the bills, and you did all that from the heart, ’cos I know we didn’t act grateful. I could never; I don’t have that in me, man. I’m thankful for you, Mads, and I’m sorry, for … for a lot of things. For everything. But Dad loved you, you know.”
“You were barely there,” I say. “How can you be sure?”
“It’s like you said—he always smiled at you. When it was just me and him, he was cool, but he’d always ask, ‘Is Maddie home?’ and then not say a lot after. You made him feel safe, maybe—I don’t know. More than I did, anyway.”
Hearing James say it like this makes me feel proud, comforted. All the years I spent at home weren’t for nothing. I made Dad happy in a world that likely didn’t make much sense to him.
“I hope I can do better for you now, when you need help,” James says.
“Help with what?”
“Anything,” he says, undeterred. “See what comes up.” There’s one more pause before, “Mum told me about you going to therapy and I think it’s great, Mads. Please keep going. Especially since it’s free.” One more shoulder squeeze, then he looks at his shoes. “I … I love you, yeah?”
My lip wobbles and I have to swallow to keep my voice steady. “I love you, too.”
* * *
When the grave is filled, we put our flowers on top. James lifts the heavy ones and won’t leave until they’re all positioned well on the uneven ground.
I’m the last in the line to leave and I turn round for one more look at the mound of flower-adorned earth. “Bye, Dad,” I say. “I love you, okay?”
* * *
Auntie Mabel calls hours later in the evening when I’m lying on Mum’s bed alone.
“What you have to remember, Baaba, is who looked after him when Mum was in Ghana and James was never in the house?”
I answer, “Me.”
“That’s right,” she says, “and he was grateful. No parent wants to rely on their children, but your father was so grateful to have you. Whenever I mentioned your name, I did not even finish my sentence before he would smile. You were so true about that. It is a sad day, but never forget what I said, do you hear?”
“Thank you.”
* * *
In the living room, I trail a black bin bag alongside me, emptying plates straight into it. I can’t wait to get into bed and fall asleep. The funeral was the hardest part and now that it’s over, things will get better from here, I’m sure.
I walk into the kitchen and Mum’s washing dishes, her wrists deep in soapy water. She turns to look at me. “Hello, darling. How are you doing?”
“Fine,” I answer. “What about you?”
She nods. “Also fine.”
I’m clearing the countertop when she says, “I overheard you and James at the cemetery. And I want to say it again—I’m sorry that I was not here more.” Her eyes seem to search the gray water. I don’t think there’s anything left in the sink to wash, but she keeps her hands submerged. “Maybe things would have been different, if I were here. But I would come back and see how well you were doing without me and it was easier to stay where I had a purpose, in Ghana. I have my own life there now, and you have yours here.”
Tears race down her cheeks. “I have made many failures in raising you children,” she says, still not meeting my eyes. “I am better than most mothers, but I should have done better by you, at least. You, Maddie, are special. God is in you. And everything you do, you do without being hounded to do so. You have a selfless heart and sometimes James and I, well, we are not so different, that’s all.”
As she sniffs in desperate attempts to control herself, my mother looks incredibly vulnerable, even more so than she did at my flat, or at the coffee shop. She’s always been stubborn and self-assured but, right now, she looks tired and just plain human. I look around the kitchen and realize that after signing the forms at the funeral directors, I’ve done nothing else to prepare for today. The order of service, the invitations, the food, the house prep, even my mourning dress … none of it was me and I doubt it was James.
I feel an overwhelming surge of love for my imperfect mother. I place a shaking hand on her back and submerge the other into the sink. Mine rests on top of hers and we stare into the blurry water together.
“It’s done now,” I whisper. “You’re right. Your life is in Ghana and mine is here. But just because it’s done, doesn’t mean it’s over.”
“I am here, though,” Mum says. “For you. I don’t show it well and that is my failing, but I am your mother always, and I will always do my best, okay?”
I kiss her cheek. “Okay.”
“Before, when you were asking about your grandad—I see now that I expected you to take on all that responsibility alone, without complaint, because that is what I had to do, but the lives of my children were meant to be easier than mine. I forget that. Your boss, Krissyline—”
“Kris.”
“It is the same. On the phone, she told me about the counseling—that you go regularly.”
I did wonder when this would come up. “Yes, I do.”