Page 95 of What It's Like in Words
I do remember.
“But I was a child, Mum. You can’t claim that you don’t talk about Dad because of how I was as a child.”
She makes a series of small noises. “Enola, let’s talk about this another time.”
“No! It can’t be another time. It has to be now! Please, Mum.”
“Goodness, you’re always so dramatic. That’s something that you got from him.”
“See? That’s what I’m talking about! Tell me why you hated him.”
I wonder if she’s hung up because she is silent, but then she speaks like she’s trying not to be heard: “Enola, I loved your father.”
I wasn’t expecting those words. Photographs were burned in a bin in the garden. I had watched from my bedroom window and she had told me off for crying.
“You hated him, you hated Kenya, and you hated being a mother.”
Mum makes a noise like a whimper, or a laugh. Then I wonder if it was the squeak of a glass. “That’s not true. I liked Kenya—”
“No, you didn’t, you—”
She interrupts me brusquely. “You’ve asked me a question. Let me finish.”
I wonder then, am I looking for answers or am I just a toddler throwing down in a supermarket, kicking my legs?
She continues: “I liked Kenya but the reality, as with most things, was different to the idea. Your dad was working all the time. And the truth was that I was very isolated there by myself with a baby.”
“With a baby? You mean me. Because you never really wanted me.”
“Not wanting a baby and not wanting you—my daughter—are different things. You’ll understand that when you’re older.”
“No, Mum. That line won’t work anymore. I’m thirty now. I am older!”
“Well, then, you’re old enough to understand that your father was a difficult man. I know that you have him somewhat on a pedestal but he was—”
“You just didn’t understand him. He needed you and you didn’t understand him.”
I walk up and down by the bed. I knew my dad.Iknew him.
“I didn’t understand him? Oh, I see.” She hums like she is nodding. “Thisis why I didn’t want you talking to Louise. You should never have seen her when you went to Kenya.”
I stop by the wardrobe and catch my reflection. “How did you know that I saw her?”
“Because she told me, Enola.”
“You’re in contact with Louise?”
“Occasionally. Louise is someone who needs careful handling. She always has.”
My skin heats up.What else don’t I know?
“Or maybe she’s just angry and hurt. Dad was all she had.”
“Jesus, you sound just like her.” Mum sighs loudly, covers thephone, and says something I can’t make out, then restarts with vigor: “We were always going to leave Kenya, Enola. Even before he died.”
“Yes, because you hated it—”
“Becauseit wasn’t working out for him at work. I’m not sure of the ins and outs, but his days had been numbered for a while. And Louise? Jesus, no one forced her to come out and no one forced her to stay. She used our house like her own personal hotel and spent most of her recreation time berating me. I cannot and will not be responsible for that woman anymore. We left as quickly as we needed to. I didn’t want to start you any later in a new school year and the house belonged to the office. In terms of what happened—look, your dad left us with loose ends and I had to tie them.”
