Page 98 of Burning Embers
I groan and then call out, “up here.”
She pulls the curtains, and the room fills with too much light. I cover my eyes with my arm. “Olly, I’ve been worried. You haven’t answered your phone. Rachel came by,” she says.
I peek out from my arm. “What?”
“She dropped off your key.”
I swallow down my shame and shift so I’m sitting up.
“What happened? She wouldn’t say, but I know something was wrong.”
Buster comes into the room, wagging his tail, and sits at my mum’s feet expectantly. “Have you fed him?” she asks.
“Of course, I have, but he’s always hungry.”
She nods and takes my hand in hers. “Let me make you something to eat, and you can tell me what’s going on.”
I don’t have a chance to argue because she’s already on her way out of my room to head back downstairs. I force myself out of bed and take a quick shower before joining her in the kitchen.
“Well?” she asks and points to one of my breakfast stools.
I take a seat and shrug.
“Oliver?”
“We disagreed, and I told her to leave,” I grumble.
“What?” Her back is to me as she finishes making the sandwiches, and I don’t need to see her face to hear the disappointment in her voice.
“It’s complicated.”
She slides me over a plate and a bottle of water before joining me. “I think I can keep up.”
“Fine, I may have suggested she work things out with Marcus.” I take a bite of my sandwich, hoping it saves me from her barrage of questions.
“You silly man. I saw how upset she was over you being in surgery. She’s in love with you. Why would you do something so stupid?”
I push my plate away and fold my arms over the table. “Do you want to know the truth?” It’s a stupid question, of course, she does, this woman—my saviour has never suffered fools gladly. “I’m no better than Marcus. I sit there on my high horse, telling her how he should be a better father, and yet, I’m no better than he is. I’m worse.”
Her eyes soften, and I think I prefer it when she’s angry with me. “And why do you believe you are worse?”
I pick off a piece of crust from my sandwich and toss it in the air for Buster to catch. “Because I’m a monster.”
She shakes her head and leans over, reaching for my hand. “You are not a monster. You’re not your father.”
“There’s something about the night of the fire you don’t know—things no one knows,” I say, but the words get caught in my throat, and my lungs become tight with the effort to breathe.
“Then tell me.”
I take a deep breath and try to fill my lungs. Everything comes flooding back, the smell, the pain—all of it. “The fire was my fault.”
My mum gets to her feet to round the counter and sit on the stool beside me. “No, it wasn’t. It was a cigarette which caused the fire.”
I shake my head. “But it was because of me.”
My father had been drinking more than usual, and he’d hit Lottie. It was mostly Mum who took the brunt of his anger, or me, but never Lottie. I was so angry, I wanted to kill him. But he was too big, too strong. I swung at him, and he pushed me over like I was nothing. And I got a backhander for my trouble.
I felt worthless. I hated him, and my mum had become numb to it all. She’d polish off a bottle of wine, then go sleep it off while he’d sat up, smoking and drinking until he passed out in the front room.
