Whoa, he says, his voice a whisper. You got me back.
I wasn’t trying to.
He’s silent. I don’t know what he’s thinking really. Another insult for me. I’m expecting anything. Relaxed about it though. I know it won’t come from a malicious place this time.
Did you get drunk last night because you were upset about yesterday, he asks, about what happened at the post office.
Probably.
My fault again, he says, annoyed at himself.
I don’t correct him, I don’t have the energy to keep soothing his ego and unravelling knotted sensitivities.
Who was the letter for that you ripped up, he asks.
I sigh. My mam.
He looks at me for more. Cornflower blue eyes. Pity he hides them beneath the manky cap.
I’ve never known her, I explain. She left as soon as I was born. Pops raised me. I’ve never missed her, not really thought about her. Well I did, but not in a way that made me want her. In the way where I’d taste Turkish delight and like it when everyone else hated it and think, I wonder if Mam likes it. Or watching a TV show I’d wonder if she’d like it too, was she watching it too at exactly the same time, are we seeing and hearing the same thing. Random stuff like that. But I never wanted her. I never needed her. Until suddenly I did. Want her.
Because of what I said about the five people, he asks.
No. Before that. She’s the reason I moved here. I came to meet her.
His eyes widen. She lives in Malahide.
Carmencita Casanova, I say. My heart beats faster at saying her name aloud. Admitting it. The family secret, out in the big bad world.
He frowns, I can see the name has triggered something.
Casanova, he says, the hair salon.
Yeah, that’s her. She owns it. But don’t ever say anything to her about me, she has no idea who I am. Who I really am. I’ve spoken to her three times, I explain. Once she said good morning, the second time she saw me checking her business permit and was worried something was wrong. She came out of the salon. I couldn’t breathe, I didn’t know what to say, made a fool of myself. I could barely string my sentence together.
I cringe at the memory of my mumbling.
And the third time, he asks.
The third time, she said, and I imitate her Spanish accent, A day for the ducks. I hear her tone clearly in my head. I hear it on wet days, over and over.
He smiles. Sweet, he says. How long have you been here.
Six months.
And she still doesn’t know who you are.
Don’t you start too. Everyone at home was asking me about her. My Pops, my friend, my ex.
Did he want you to come here, he asks.
My ex, no I broke up with him to move here. And now he’s fucking my best friend.
He laughs, then apologises. I meant your Pops.
Oh. Just before I left I asked him how he felt. If I was doing the right thing, and he said, Probably not.
So he’s your honest person.
He’s definitely that.
I’m glad you ripped up the letter to her, he says. I don’t know what you wrote but that won’t have been the best way to get her – you’ll never know if she opened it or if it was delivered, too many variables. So your hangover is not in vain. But I see what you were doing, you can’t just rock up to the salon and say, Hey, I’m your daughter. Okay, he drums his fingers on his Prada trainers, what’s the best way for us to do this.
I smile at the use of us.
He examines me, our faces are so close.
Do you look like her, he asks, and it’s as if he’s scanning me for comparisons to her as his eyes run over me. I feel goosebumps rise on my skin under his gaze. Do you not think she’d guess who you are, he asks. I’ve seen her a few times. I mean, you look Spanish. And your age.
I’m silent.
Say it, he says.
How do you know I’ve something to say, I ask in surprise.
When do you never have something to say, he says.
Okay. Some people see themselves in other people, how they’re similar, and some people only ever see their differences. I feel like she’s the type not to see herself in me. But because of that I thought she’d know me straight away. Because when I look at myself, I don’t see her, I see my Pops’ freckles.
Rooster babe, the door bursts open and Jazz rushes in. Hey, she looks at him and me on the couch, heads close, lips even closer, not actually doing anything but it doesn’t look good. We’re having an intimate chat about how I approach my long-lost mother, there’s bound to be a mood. I couldn’t give a fuck, especially as she has just called him babe and it’s a confirmation they’re together, which is so predictable and annoying. She’s shit at her job but she’s hot. Why else would she be here. He sits forward, as if he’s been caught doing something. He’s made it look worse than it is.