Wretched. Wretched, wretched, wretched.
Godson arrives on Saturday, early evening, tumbles off the train at King's Cross and we make our slow way home. He talks, a continuous stream in my ear as we hang off tube poles, crammed in between tourists, and I watch the walls of the tunnel blur past, in between wondering how much he's grown and what the fuck has happened to his hair in the last four months. About his friends, about his exams, about classes and his show and how great it was, all the way back to the apartment. I apologize for not having put anything in his room that even vaguely resembles furniture. He leaves his bags in the main bedroom and wanders about, drinking milk from the carton. I wait, need to get the boy a haircut, Jesus, when did I become his Mother? Still. Haircut. He bins the milk carton. 'You've got rid of everything' we're almost eye to eye now, his eyes are green, his Mother's, disconcerting. 'Yes, yes, most of it.' He's chewing his bottom lip, frowning. 'Was it her stuff?' Lena's. The sense of her filled this apartment for months. It still does, for me. 'Yes. And David's, and some from my brother and sister.' He looks down, takes his shoes off by the door. Christ, listed like that it seems like I know more ghosts than living people. 'I'm sleeping in your bed.' The door's closed before I say 'oh, ok, yes, fine, no problem.' It's 1700 and I cancelled a not-date to spend the evening with him.
After an hour of work I call, reinstate the not-date, a bar near the apartment, won't be gone long. He won't even notice. What's the harm? Write him a note with my number, leave a key on it, brush the sawdust out of my hair and leave. I lock the door, warm under my hand, hot day for London, still daylight at 2130. It takes me half an hour to walk around the corner, spot the Banker stepping out of a cab. Infernally well-dressed, makes me feel like a bumbling fool. Look down at myself, just to confirm I look like shit. I do. Jeans, work boots, badly fitting t-shirt - is that glue, on it? - plaid shirt, ah. Reflection in the bar window, still some sawdust in my hair, and he looks as though he stepped out of a catalogue. Splendid. His palm is smooth against mine, smell of his cologne and scratch of my cheek against his lips 'you smell wonderful' he says, 'sawdust. Shall we go in?' We do. And drink entirely too many bottles of white wine with clinking cubes of ice and twining of condensation-wet hands, cool fingertips on my arm and the brush of his knee against mine. I was tipsy before I left home, by the time we make our incautious way outside at midnight, I am ratted. It's small comfort that so is he. I offer coffee. At least, I listen to myself say the words while the caged, sober part of my brain is shrieking ineffectually and rattling the bars. What the fuck am I doing? There's a fourteen year old boy asleep in my apartment and really? When has coffee ever meant coffee?
I meant coffee, so I make coffee. Pour it into him and fend off his warm fingertips and dodge the brush of his knee. I shush him in that too-loud drunk way, which makes more noise than it silences. Call him a cab and get him upright and downstairs, can't find my keys, leave the apartment door open, front door open, stand under the buzzing porchlight. It's rained, the railing is wet under my hand. I've left my cane upstairs, bugger, how drunk am I? I think, horrified. Bloody drunk. Shit. He's kissing me. He's bloody kissing me and he wouldn't be doing that if he was sober. I wouldn't be letting him. God. I haven't been kissed like this in seven months. The scratch of stubble and smell of his cologne in the rain doesn't make it any less terrifying. It's different, odd. I haven't moved. Close your eyes you fool. I do. And in a flash it's her, a last chance, a last desperate chance to say goodbye. I close my hand on his arm, wait...it's not...the taste of white wine and scratch of his lip make the hollow of my chest clench viciously, it's not her. It's not her. She's gone. I push him towards the cab and lean on the doorframe for a second. Just in time to catch Godson's heels disappearing into the apartment. Shit. Bugger. Fuck. I have to catch him. But she's gone. She's gone and...no. Catch him.
He's in the kitchen, clenching his jaw and shredding my note into angry confetti scattered over the floor and counter. 'I'm sorry, I just...went out, for a bit.' He shouts at me, thought I was gone, thought I'd left him, thought I didn't give a fuck and then, on the doorstep, proof that I did not give a fuck. I went out to get fucked on his first night back? Had I forgotten her? Had I? What the fuck was wrong with me? And he was in the next room! I don't shout, I over-share instead; telling him that in my head I was kissing her, kissing her, the last time, please, stop. He winds down, slamming his fist into my chest over and over and over until I clench his wrists in my hand, hold them against his chest, he struggles until we're on the floor, leaning back against the couch. Panting, red-faced, his streaked with tears. I'm a bastard. He loves me, he says. In this context it seems odd. He really loves me, he's insistant. I don't know what to say. I need to tell him I love him but he's up and spitting words down at me before I can open my mouth. Tells me that I never fucking say anything, no matter what he says, I never speak and it's no wonder people leave me when I meet the next person before the previous one has even left my bed. That's it. At last, the final straw. I grab his calf, the nearest thing to me, and dig my fingers in to stop him leaving. I hate him, right then, I hate him more than anything. I raise my voice, for the first time in years; they didn't leave me, they're dead, they're fucking dead, my wife, my family, they're gone. And what the fuck does he know about that? I'm sobbing, by the end of it, drop my hand from his leg and rest my head on my knees. Haven't cried since Hong Kong, since the hospital. Since they told me. I cry myself sick in a way I'd almost forgotten, it's been a decade since I cried like that. Uncontrollably, in heaving, gasping sobs. He leaves me there and at some point I creep down to the basement to lick my wounds.
The Banker has called twice since then. I haven't answered. Ivan has avoided me. I haven't been the bigger person and initiated the conversation. I will today. He's here until September; we can't continue in silence and we certainly can't continue if he reacts this way every time I go out with someone. It happened in April, a much watered down version in which he slightly over-reacted to me having a date. This, this was positively apocalyptic.
I shouted. And cried.
Apparently I am still human.
Godson arrives on Saturday, early evening, tumbles off the train at King's Cross and we make our slow way home. He talks, a continuous stream in my ear as we hang off tube poles, crammed in between tourists, and I watch the walls of the tunnel blur past, in between wondering how much he's grown and what the fuck has happened to his hair in the last four months. About his friends, about his exams, about classes and his show and how great it was, all the way back to the apartment. I apologize for not having put anything in his room that even vaguely resembles furniture. He leaves his bags in the main bedroom and wanders about, drinking milk from the carton. I wait, need to get the boy a haircut, Jesus, when did I become his Mother? Still. Haircut. He bins the milk carton. 'You've got rid of everything' we're almost eye to eye now, his eyes are green, his Mother's, disconcerting. 'Yes, yes, most of it.' He's chewing his bottom lip, frowning. 'Was it her stuff?' Lena's. The sense of her filled this apartment for months. It still does, for me. 'Yes. And David's, and some from my brother and sister.' He looks down, takes his shoes off by the door. Christ, listed like that it seems like I know more ghosts than living people. 'I'm sleeping in your bed.' The door's closed before I say 'oh, ok, yes, fine, no problem.' It's 1700 and I cancelled a not-date to spend the evening with him.
After an hour of work I call, reinstate the not-date, a bar near the apartment, won't be gone long. He won't even notice. What's the harm? Write him a note with my number, leave a key on it, brush the sawdust out of my hair and leave. I lock the door, warm under my hand, hot day for London, still daylight at 2130. It takes me half an hour to walk around the corner, spot the Banker stepping out of a cab. Infernally well-dressed, makes me feel like a bumbling fool. Look down at myself, just to confirm I look like shit. I do. Jeans, work boots, badly fitting t-shirt - is that glue, on it? - plaid shirt, ah. Reflection in the bar window, still some sawdust in my hair, and he looks as though he stepped out of a catalogue. Splendid. His palm is smooth against mine, smell of his cologne and scratch of my cheek against his lips 'you smell wonderful' he says, 'sawdust. Shall we go in?' We do. And drink entirely too many bottles of white wine with clinking cubes of ice and twining of condensation-wet hands, cool fingertips on my arm and the brush of his knee against mine. I was tipsy before I left home, by the time we make our incautious way outside at midnight, I am ratted. It's small comfort that so is he. I offer coffee. At least, I listen to myself say the words while the caged, sober part of my brain is shrieking ineffectually and rattling the bars. What the fuck am I doing? There's a fourteen year old boy asleep in my apartment and really? When has coffee ever meant coffee?
I meant coffee, so I make coffee. Pour it into him and fend off his warm fingertips and dodge the brush of his knee. I shush him in that too-loud drunk way, which makes more noise than it silences. Call him a cab and get him upright and downstairs, can't find my keys, leave the apartment door open, front door open, stand under the buzzing porchlight. It's rained, the railing is wet under my hand. I've left my cane upstairs, bugger, how drunk am I? I think, horrified. Bloody drunk. Shit. He's kissing me. He's bloody kissing me and he wouldn't be doing that if he was sober. I wouldn't be letting him. God. I haven't been kissed like this in seven months. The scratch of stubble and smell of his cologne in the rain doesn't make it any less terrifying. It's different, odd. I haven't moved. Close your eyes you fool. I do. And in a flash it's her, a last chance, a last desperate chance to say goodbye. I close my hand on his arm, wait...it's not...the taste of white wine and scratch of his lip make the hollow of my chest clench viciously, it's not her. It's not her. She's gone. I push him towards the cab and lean on the doorframe for a second. Just in time to catch Godson's heels disappearing into the apartment. Shit. Bugger. Fuck. I have to catch him. But she's gone. She's gone and...no. Catch him.
He's in the kitchen, clenching his jaw and shredding my note into angry confetti scattered over the floor and counter. 'I'm sorry, I just...went out, for a bit.' He shouts at me, thought I was gone, thought I'd left him, thought I didn't give a fuck and then, on the doorstep, proof that I did not give a fuck. I went out to get fucked on his first night back? Had I forgotten her? Had I? What the fuck was wrong with me? And he was in the next room! I don't shout, I over-share instead; telling him that in my head I was kissing her, kissing her, the last time, please, stop. He winds down, slamming his fist into my chest over and over and over until I clench his wrists in my hand, hold them against his chest, he struggles until we're on the floor, leaning back against the couch. Panting, red-faced, his streaked with tears. I'm a bastard. He loves me, he says. In this context it seems odd. He really loves me, he's insistant. I don't know what to say. I need to tell him I love him but he's up and spitting words down at me before I can open my mouth. Tells me that I never fucking say anything, no matter what he says, I never speak and it's no wonder people leave me when I meet the next person before the previous one has even left my bed. That's it. At last, the final straw. I grab his calf, the nearest thing to me, and dig my fingers in to stop him leaving. I hate him, right then, I hate him more than anything. I raise my voice, for the first time in years; they didn't leave me, they're dead, they're fucking dead, my wife, my family, they're gone. And what the fuck does he know about that? I'm sobbing, by the end of it, drop my hand from his leg and rest my head on my knees. Haven't cried since Hong Kong, since the hospital. Since they told me. I cry myself sick in a way I'd almost forgotten, it's been a decade since I cried like that. Uncontrollably, in heaving, gasping sobs. He leaves me there and at some point I creep down to the basement to lick my wounds.
The Banker has called twice since then. I haven't answered. Ivan has avoided me. I haven't been the bigger person and initiated the conversation. I will today. He's here until September; we can't continue in silence and we certainly can't continue if he reacts this way every time I go out with someone. It happened in April, a much watered down version in which he slightly over-reacted to me having a date. This, this was positively apocalyptic.
I shouted. And cried.
Apparently I am still human.
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