Page 65 of What It's Like in Words
(the “sparky” piece)
He pulled me close to him and said that it was freezing. Shall we go in? I told him that I just wanted to sit here.
(the “independent” piece)
He got out his vape, and the mint wafted toward me. He told me that he was doing better at quitting this time. Who’s the candle on the table from?
My mum.
(the “dishonest” piece)
He accepted the story, which meant that he didn’t understand the damage between me and Mum. Which was my fault. But this truce between me and him lasted only as long as we kept everything sweet. Nothing real could survive.
He kissed my neck. So, anything else you’d like for your birthday?
I looked at the night sky and imagined all the comets and stars that existed above the layers of pollution.
RUTH,EMILY,ANDIlay on the corner sofa. Ruth was nursing eggnog with the consistency of rice pudding that she had made herself. Emily was drinking tea, and I had one of each drink. A tree by the upright piano filled the room with the warm, spicy smell of pine.
I loved Christmas here: the cake Catherine made months ago that Jon complained never contained enough cherries; the pillowcase stockings; the card games when Ruth cheated and Emily stormed off. Growing up, Catherine hosted a holiday party during which Emily would wear something straight off the mannequin in the Oxford Street Topshop window and Ruth and I made cocktails from the dregs of drinks. My grandparents referred to Ruth’s family as “bohemian,” which they never had a real answer for, but it was clear what they meant.
How is the relationship going? Emily asked.
I answered that he was being lovely but that something felt off. Perhaps you’re realizing that you don’t love him, said Ruth.
How doyoufeel? asked Emily, as if to accuse Ruth of speaking for me. Which she wasn’t, but my position as middle sister precluded me from taking sides. I said that I didn’t know how to be without him, but I didn’t know how to be with him anymore either. Emily laughed and said that our generation was so dramatic.
Ruth rolled her eyes. We are the same generation, Em.
Ruth, my two children are downstairs doing a jigsaw with my husband. You live in a warehouse with eight other people. We arenotthe same generation.
The door to the kitchen opened, and we could hear potatoes sizzling and smell the hot goose fat. I took a sip of eggnog, and Ruth nudged me. How is it?
Delicious. Is itmeantto curdle? I said without swallowing. Ruth giggled.
Relationships take work, Emily continued. You have to persevere if you want something to last.
Ignore her, Enola. She’s talking to me, said Ruth.
Excuse me? snapped Emily.
You’ve not met him, Em. He’s not one of Samson’s accountant friends. He’s notnormal.
Catherine shouted from the kitchen: Emily, Ruth,Enola… dinner’s ready!
AFTER DINNER,IHELPEDCatherine clear while everyone watched a film. I rinsed the plates, and she put them in the dishwasher. There, all done, she said, passing me the towel. I went to leave, but she told me to wait. I have something for you. She took a photo from the miscellany drawer and pressed it to her chest.
I didn’t want to give you this in front of everyone in case it upset you, but… well, you never are upset, are you, sweetheart? You’re always so strong.
She handed me a photo of my dad.
My dad.
My legs grew weak, and the lights appeared brighter.
We were standing under a tree in the garden. My body was bent to his, and my lips were curled under in a cheeky grin. Dad looked younger than I remembered him, in beige shorts and a beige shirt. Behind us the table was set for Christmas.
Catherine said that it was the Christmas we spent together with some friends. I doubt you’ll remember them—Brian and Debbie, I think? They had a boy Emily’s age.
