Page 96 of What It's Like in Words
My brain races to process everything.Dad was going to be fired?
“Fine,” I continue, like a barrister conceding a point to make a larger one, “we had to leave and you’re not responsible for Louise. But what about me? Why did you leave me? What did I do wrong?” As soon as I articulate that, my lower lip trembles.
“Don’t be histrionic, Enola, I didn’tleaveyou.”
“I’m not being histrionic!You got on a plane! I was fourteen. Dad died and you got on a plane!That’show much you hated being with me.”
“Don’t be silly. There was nothing for us in Nairobi after your father died and after a few years in England, back at my parents’, and, quite frankly, scrambling to pick back up a career that I had thrown away four years prior, I realized that there wasn’t anything there for me either.”
“There was me.”
I pick at the books on my little bookshelf. Like in the living room, I’ve ordered them by color. I’ve arranged them as perfectly as I can, but close up the colors are all different shades.
“Enola, school in England was always the plan. Even if your dad stayed for work, we were always going to send you to England—god knows that the education system in Nairobi wasn’t up to much and it wasn’thome…”She takes a deep breath. “Maybe I shouldhave waited until you were at university to go to France, but… well, Paul was an old friend from drama school and, after your father… Look, I needed a new start…Ineeded it… forme… and I don’t expect you to understand, but that’s just the way that it was. And I know that you’re thirty now, you’re a woman, but you’ve always been such a young soul. I suppose that’s a miracle really, all things considered.”
“Okay,” I say, “but then why didn’t you want me to come with you to France?”
“I did!”
“You did?”
“Of course I did. But everyone told me not to uproot you again and they were right. You had Granny and Grandpa and Ruth not too far away. You were starting your first big exam year. You were finally starting to thrive academically—you were very behind when you started. I wasn’t about to move you to another country where you didn’t know the language. You were just starting to be happy again. Staying in England was what you needed.”
“What Ineededwas my mother.”
“Well, I’m sorry for that, but I did my best and that’s really all I can say about that.”
“Your best? Your best was a cursory phone call every Wednesday? Like I was a task you didn’t want to do, like taking the bins out?”
“It was the advice that I was given at the time. Therapists, teachers, they all told me to give you some normality. God knows you had been through enough. Structure was important. The only things that seemed to be working for you at the time were timetables and boundaries.”
I remember that. Strict mealtimes. Time for my homework. Time to watch television or call Ruth.
“But if that was the case, then why do westillspeak every Wednesday?”
“We don’t, actually,” Mum snaps. “We speak onsomeWednesdays,whenever you happen to feel like it. You’re an adult now, Enola—as you’re keen to remind me—which means that you share responsibility. And to be quite honest, if we didn’t still have the timetable in place, I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t hear from you at all.”
Is that how she sees it? I’m the ungrateful, selfish daughter. Is that what Paul thinks? Do they all complain about me around the big table on holidays?
“Fine, Mum. I could be better at sticking to our routine, but this isn’t the point.”
“What’s the point then, Enola?” she says, exhausted.
“Thepointis why have we never spoken about any of this?”
“We have, actually. But like I said, you got very upset and, in the end, it was easier to move forward. I’m sorry that you have unanswered questions, but to be fair to me, I didn’t realize that you had them until this evening. At the time, you didn’t want to hear the details. You just wanted your dad and that was something I couldn’t give you.”
“I did try, though. I did!”
“And I gave you the answers I had.”
I close my eyes and picture his face, but it’s nebulous. I listen for his voice, but it’s static. I don’t remember Dad anymore.
Mum continues, softer: “I do know that I’m not always the best at these things, Enola, but they weren’t exactly handing out instructions for how to deal with what your father put us through.”
I can’t hear this. He isn’t here to defend himself. Mum is still the problem. She is still the problem. He is still dead.
“I hate the way that you talk about him.”
