‘I’m sorry. I don’t like to talk about it. About her.’
It is the only thing I can think of to say against that flinching shoulder, and the taste of blood on my tongue.
Mr Jackson is still staring ahead. He speaks as if we hardly know each other.
‘That’s fine then, Alice. Have it your way.’
‘Okay.’
Okay.
It clearly isn’t okay, so I turn his head, kiss him hard, instead of asking about that eleven-year-old boy, and what he saw. I am aware my silence is like a hand over his mouth, but I cannot give him what he needs from me tonight. There are ways to lose yourself; there are ways for the body to briefly forget what it knows. Mr Jackson was supposed to be this kind of forgetting, and I want to cling to this version of him for as long as I can.
Thinking back, he probably thinks I never did understand what it meant. To lose the person you loved the most.
When something so large has been said out loud, it sits and waits for you to address it, no matter how hard you work at ignoring it. I once read that a single cloud can weigh as much as a hundred elephants. It’s not something you can see, this weight pressing down, but the heaviness is there, all the same. This is how it is with Mr Jackson and me. I sat for him yesterday, and for the first time I felt he was not seeing me, not really looking at me, as he shifted an arm or leg more carelessly than I’ve gotten used to. I think he might be angry with me, and I’m trying to apologise with my body, because once again I don’t have the words to say how sorry I am. Last night, he was asleep before I came back from the bathroom, or at least he pretended to be, even when I ran a hand down his back, and rested my fingers on his hip bone. I wanted to say, against his back—Tell me. Tell me about your mother. But my own mother danced too close to the surface, set my cheeks on fire. So I removed my hand and, for the first time, we slept back to back.
This morning, I followed him into the shower. I shivered so much, he pulled me into him, wrapped his arms tight around me, and we stood under the stream of hot water together. But he left as soon as we dried ourselves off, said ‘Have a nice day,’ and never told me where he was going. It’s been hours since he left, and I’ve been sitting on the small couch, staring at his crates of books this whole time. I feel inundated with memories, swamped by them. The only thing to do is stay still. No noise, no light. If I concentrate hard enough, I can push the thoughts out, away. It’s dusk now, I’ve made it through the daylight, the jarring bright of it, my flashbacks reduced to skimming stones, darting across the surface of my thoughts. My hand on the door, the yellow of the kitchen, the blood red on the floor, half of that beautiful face missing. No single image stays for long if I remain steady, if I don’t move. I’m still there, staring at the wall, when Mr Jackson finally comes home. He immediately flicks on the lights, making me jump.
‘Alice? Are you okay?’
I try to nod, but instead, the tears come. Fat, crumple-face tears that haven’t been let out in this way since it happened.
‘Where did you go?’ It comes out as a wail. ‘You didn’t tell me. Where did you go and why did you leave me?’
And now I’m sobbing, the paralysis of the day giving over to the exhaustion of holding everything back. He stands there for a moment, watching me cry, then comes to sit down beside me. Arms go around me, and I fold into him.
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’
I apologise over and over as I cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, trying to crawl under his skin, wanting to get closer. The separation of this day has terrified me.
Mr Jackson holds me tight until the sobbing stops. When I’m finally spent, drained, I feel the rocking. The way he is gently moving me, soothing me, as if I am a child.
‘I miss my mother so much.’
I immediately want to suck the words back in, but I push through the ache in my throat. It is a physical pain, knife-sharp, but the words keep coming. I do not want him to be angry at me.
‘We looked after each other. It was always just—us. I don’t even know who I am without her.’
Mr Jackson gently untangles himself from my arms.
‘You want a drink for this?’ he asks, and I nod.
‘The whole bottle, maybe.’
I wait for him to come back from the kitchen with the bourbon—somehow, I knew it would be bourbon. He hands me the bottle, and I take a swig, grimacing as I swallow.
‘Maybe not like that,’ he laughs softly. ‘Let’s get you a glass, amateur.’