Page 94 of What It's Like in Words
I can’t hear background movement or the television. Is she actually listening?
“For the love of god, Enola, what is it?”
“I want to talk about…”
“Yes?”
For a moment, I’m not sure what I want to talk about or even why I called. It felt as much an impulse as when I hit that girl at school with my hockey stick. But then the reason comes to me and I know that I can’t exist another minute without the answers.
“Dad.”
There is a pause while my words hang in the air, and I feel like I’ve said something that I shouldn’t have. Mum shuffles and then: “Gosh, Enola, you are catching me a little off guard.”
“Well, we never talk about him, so it’s always going to catch one of us off guard.”
“And I suppose that’s because of me, is it?”
“Well, you don’t bring him up, Mum. Twenty years went by last year without a mention. We never commemorate him. There’s no grave. I don’t even know the actual day that he died.”
She laughs a small titter, like birdsong. “Why on earth would you want to know something like that?”
“Because that’s what people do, Mum!”
“We moved on, Enola.That’swhat people do.”
“I haven’t!”
“Don’t be silly. Of course you have. You’ve got your writing and your relationships in London.”
“My writing? Not that you care.”
“I care, Enola.”
“No, you think that I’m never going to make it as a writer, you keep telling me how hard it is to get published, that’s why you like Virinder. You want me to be with someone who can take care of me.”
Her tone turns sharp. “Oh, Enola, itishard to get published. Paul found these statistics the other day about writers and, well, it’s statistically very unlikely. But I think you’re perfectly capable. And I prefer Virinder, as you put it, because quite frankly he seemed more stable than that other man you were seeing. Catherine told me that he was quite tricky.”
Bloody hell, Catherine.
“Okay, fine. I don’t even care about any of that. None of that matters. I’m just so sick of not talking about the elephant in the room.”
“And what’s the elephant in the room?”
“Dad, Mum. Dad is the elephant in the room.”
“I hardly think he’s an elephant in the room.”
“No, you’re right. He’s not an elephant, he’s a body. A dead body on the kitchen floor and I can’t breathe or move orthinkwhile he’s lying there.”
“Christ, Enola. Do you have to be so maudlin?” She stops, but I hold my ground and force her to continue. “Why you’re calling to talk about something that happened over twenty years ago is beyond me.”
“Dad wasn’t just something thathappened.”
She inhales quickly and immediately exhales the same way. “I’m not going to go over this now.”
“When then? We never go over anything!”
“Well, I don’t like to upset you. You won’t remember it, but you would get very upset.”
