Mack texted me again today; it came through as I ate my sandwich on the boulder on Wailing Hill. I go up there most days now, sandwich and a flask of coffee in hand. I guess you could say I’m communing with the island, grounding myself in a way that feels, I don’t know, spiritual? I make noises too, deep exhales that turn into moans or chants, and I get louder until I eventually stand up and scream. And you know what? It feels amazing. Like a purge. I mean, I always double-and triple-check there’s no one else around because I’m self-aware enough to know I look as if I’ve completely lost the plot, but I haven’t. I’ve found it.
He did the three things again. Or five, in actual fact, which I’m taking as an indication of how rubbish he’s feeling. I texted him back, hoping it would be a bright spot, even though his days are so different to mine it’s as if he skipped planets rather than countries.
One – I saw the dolphins at dawn this morning, the sea was a proper witches’ cauldron.
Two – I’m writing like a crazy woman. Words are seeping out of me as if I’m one of those pink sea sponges in the rock pools down on the beach.
Three – I’m sitting on Wailing Hill （of course!）。 Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve started to actually wail when I’m up here. I’m turning into a regular old hippie, Mack.
Three A （don’t blame me, you went over too） – I don’t regret you. How could I? You unlocked something in me, or maybe something in me unlocked because of you. Either way, you were the key, and I’m a freer woman because of it. Told you – hippie. Take care of you, and special care of that sliver of my heart x
I thought more about what I’d said after pressing send. What I actually think is that he unlocked something around me, an invisible cage constructed of all the props I thought necessary in my life. London. My job. My friend Ruby, even. Sitting on top of Wailing Hill this afternoon, I breathed in fresh air all the way to the pit of my stomach. Diamonds in, fool’s gold out.
Mack
16 November
Boston
THE DAD WHO WASN’T THERE
The too-small wooden school chairs force Susie and me to sit closer than we’ve been in months, sardines in the middle of a sea of smiling parents at Nate’s class assembly. Everyone knows we’re not together any more. We’re last year’s gossip, no doubt superseded by some other poor souls whose life took an unexpected nosedive. Susie knows them all by name whereas I’m such an infrequent visitor that the teacher almost handed me the wrong kid a couple of months back. I laughed it off, but it’s the kind of incident that perfectly illustrates Susie’s point, I guess. Thank God she wasn’t there to witness it and record it for future reference. Things between us are a little glacial right now, to say the least. We haven’t spoken properly since I told her about Cleo. She’s ramrod straight beside me, making herself as small as possible in an attempt to not touch me.
‘Good morning, parents!’
Nate’s teacher is sing-song happy as she greets us, the kids cross-legged on the floor behind her in various costumes and states of fidgety anticipation. They each got to pick what they wanted to be today; for reasons known only to himself, Nate’s inside a full fish suit, a lurid blue-padded all-in-one, with just his blue painted face and skinny arms poking out the sides. He catches sight of us and leans around the teacher to wave, his fin poking the kid beside him in the eye. There’s something different about his face, besides the fact it’s blue.
I lean in and whisper to Susie. ‘Did he lose a tooth?’
She sighs without looking at me, her hands tight in her lap. ‘Last night. He’s a kid, Mack, it happens.’
‘Right.’
I get that. He is a kid, it does happen and I don’t expect Susie to let me know every little thing. It’s just hard to get used to not being there to put the dollar under his pillow.
‘You missed a lot of teeth over the years,’ she hisses out of the side of her mouth.
A woman in front throws us a look over her shoulder, probably doesn’t want our argument as the backdrop to the recording of her Harry Potter son.
‘I guess it didn’t cut so deep when I knew there’d be a next time,’ I say, trying to explain, probably making it worse. Definitely worse for the snarky woman in front of us.
We’re saved from making any more of a scene by Nate standing up, a wriggly blue fish, trying to hold a piece of paper between his too-far-apart hands. My heart melts for this kid, even more so when he shoots us a quick, nervous glance before he reads his speech.