Page 97 of What It's Like in Words
“Enola, if you want to talk about your father, then you have to actually talk about him.”
“He was amazing.”
“Yes, sometimes. But he also drank too much and didn’t think anything through. He was like Louise in that way. And it’s not his fault—heaven knows the stories about his own parents were ghastly. But there were some days when I was scared to leave you alone withhim in case he took you for a drive without any water or a spare tire. And his temper? His temper was getting worse.”
“No,” I say, “that’s not how I remember it. Dad was always… He was the one who did everything. He was the one who played with me, who cooked, who—”
She interrupts me. “Your dad didn’t cook.”
“Not all the time but on Sundays! He cooked!”
“I cooked on Sundays, Enola. You were barely nine when your father died. I’m pleased that you have happy memories but you’re blaming me for things that were out of my control. They say that people always blame the parent who stays.”
How dare she… how dare she! The blood rushes to my head, and I start ripping the books from the bookshelf. All the greens and reds and blacks and yellows.
“But you didn’t stay, Mum, you left, just like he did!”
I call her a liar. I shout that she was selfish to move to France and that the price of prioritizing my education is that I am now broken and it’s all her fault. I shout that she treated Dad the way she treated Milton the turtle and that’s why both of them are dead.
“Are you quite finished, Enola?”
“Stop it! You’re acting like you’re the one who… Don’t put this on… If you had been there for him…”
Something drips onto my lip.
“That’s enough now, Enola. I’m not listening to this anymore. It’s time to grow up and remember things as they happened.”
Her tone is harsh, but there is a vibrato that betrays her, and I have a gust of a memory.She is handing me a glass of water and placing a cool hand on my forehead.
I wipe my nose on the back of my hand.
“I do remember things as they happened. Dad was the one who… He was the one who…”
But as soon as I say them, I realize my words are wrong. My body turns cold. Because I remember: the shades of truth that I buried. That the face behind my own in the mirror that day wasn’t mymum’s, it was my dad’s. It was the last time he tended to my bites. The last time he looked after me like that. The last time she let him? I remember the beer on his breath. I remember how she looked when she asked how I got the bruise.
My hand is smeared with blood.
“Yes. Fine. Enola, you’re right. Your dad loved you and I’m sorry that I wasn’t the mother you needed me to be. Now, Paul has just finished making dinner and so I’ll speak to you next Wednesday. Okay?”
Oh my god.
“Enola?”
“Yes.”
“Goodbye.”
She hangs up the phone.
What have I done?
CHAPTER 33
I run to the bathroom and press toilet paper to my nose. Blood is smeared down my chin. I think I might be sick, but it passes. I hold on to the side of the bath. Are all my memories wrong? Dad watched the stars. Dad ran to the sea. Dad told stories. Those memories are still true. Mum was detached. Mum was cold. Mum’s voice sailed above his in arguments. But was that because she was crying? No, Mum wouldn’t cry. She didn’t even cry when he died. Yes, he could be reckless, and yes, he occasionally drank too much, but he wasn’t a bad person.
I replace the red tissue with fresh sheets.
And she’s speaking to me like I’m this child, like I don’t know anything, but I’m the one who was with him that day! I may have rewritten smaller details, but I never rewrote that. If anyone deserves to be angry…
