I remember watching her in the sunshine in the garden when she was little, running in and out of the sprinkler on a hot day. The sunlight caught her hair and I thought how lucky she was to have that shade. Not like mine. Flat brown. Boring brown.
I can feel tears pricking my eyes again but fight hard to stop them.
‘I’m angry with your father for telling so many lies. But the truth is I’m a complete hypocrite, darling. And a terrible coward too.’
I’m aware that I’m only saying this because I know she can’t hear me – the words an empty echo in my head – wondering when I will find the courage to tell them both the whole truth. Out loud. No headphones.
That my father was a drunk. That he beat my mother and I have always been terribly ashamed of that. It’s the wrong reaction; I do see that now. I should be angry, not embarrassed, but I’ve never worked it out properly in my head. I was the one who caused the biggest showdown – over the tea bags in my sandwiches. When she had to call the police and we had to leave. We can’t take all your things, Rachel. Just your favourites. Get your bear and your pyjamas . . .
And so I closed it down and pretended I had a different childhood. And I’ve tried to gift that childhood to Gemma. The better version. The perfect version. The version with no rows. No conflict at all.
Only I’ve stuffed it up, haven’t I? Because nothing’s ever perfect, is it? And all I’ve done is push her away from me. Been a mother she can’t even talk to.
I’m losing the fight against the tears as the door clicks open. I can smell the coffee but turn away to wipe my face before I look at him.
‘I’m still struggling to believe it.’ He hands me my cup. It’s very hot and he’s forgotten the cardboard holder so I put it on the floor, not wanting it next to the laptop on the bedside cabinet. I need to keep that safe. Read what else she has to say.
‘You actually hired a private detective. To see if I was having an affair?’
‘I’ve already said I’m sorry. I wish I could take it back.’ I look up at him and then at Gemma, wishing I could take everything back. And to my great surprise, I find that I’ve simply had enough.
Mum would never cope . . . I just can’t talk to her about this kind of thing . . .
It’s like stepping on a twig and making a noise when you’re trying not to be seen. I can’t help it. The noise is out there and I simply don’t have the energy any more to hold in all the lies.
‘My father was an alcoholic, Ed. And violent too. The version of my childhood I told you was a complete lie. I didn’t push you about Canada or what happened there because I didn’t want you to push me about my past.’
When I turn to him, the shock on Ed’s face is all-consuming. It’s like he’s looking at someone he doesn’t even recognise.
He opens his mouth to speak but then changes his mind and just puts his coffee down on the floor too. For a moment, I’m afraid he’s either going to storm off or try to hug me. I don’t honestly know which would be worse but I do know that I don’t want to be touched.
In the end he stays in the chair and his gaze moves around the room and then back at me. ‘Did he hurt you? Your father?’
‘Not me physically but he beat my mother. Many times. And quite badly the final time.’
‘He beat her?’
‘I don’t know why I couldn’t tell you. I didn’t tell anyone. I was actually quite ashamed. And as a child, I thought it was my fault. So I just kind of pushed it down.’ I find that I am touching my stomach for some reason. I feel this knot of familiar anxiety and recognise the matching desire to deal with it. Stop it. To go into the kitchen to bake something lovely. To smooth things over with cakes and flapjacks and the warm smell of home-made jam. But here, trapped in this room with the machines and the bleeps and the smell only of sanitiser and bad coffee, all I can do is reach across to check the iPad to make sure that Gemma’s headphones are still playing the sounds of the sea. Waves and seagulls. I need to at least be sure that none of this is seeping through to her.
Ed reaches up to put his hand on his forehead as if processing. Thinking.
‘So that’s why you can’t bear arguments. Won’t work things out. Why you won’t—’ His voice trails away and he sits up straighter. ‘But I don’t understand. Why the change these past months? Why the sudden questions about Canada after all these years? Why the suspicion? Why did you start to doubt me?’