Page 58 of The Edge of Always

‘Yes, I saw that. What’s up, has something happened?’ I come from a generation genetically programmed to believe that if someone calls you, it’s because there’s been a death. Unless it’s Mae, who knows no boundaries, personal, digital, or otherwise. It’ll be Clive. The guy’s ancient. He still has the most impressive eyebrows, though.

‘Is Clive okay?’ I ask. The signal is patchy and I can hardly hear what Mum is saying. It doesn’t sound like she’s saying that Eyebrow Clive has died. I think she’d be happier if he did. She once said that it’ll be nice not to have to argue over the TV remote when he goes.

‘Clive is fine, Luna. But listen, you need to come home right now.’

I lose her a little at the end. But I got the ‘come home’.

‘Friday, I’m home Friday,’ I tell her as we pass under an ornate bridge.

‘No, Luna. You must come back.’

‘Why?’ I ask her. ‘Has something happened?’ I’m a little confused.

‘Think of your health, Luna.’ For one short minute, I’d like to not think of my health, actually. But never mind.

‘Dr Dave okayed the trip. I could get back quickly if I needed to. Don’t worry. And I messaged about Art Therapy. They were happy for me.’ It’s the truth. Hospices are much more about living than dying, after all. If anyone would know that, it’s me.

‘Except I do worry, Luna. Because I’m your mother.’

Her worry has always felt like an obligation, a millstone around her neck forcing her to act in a certain way. It’s not dissimilar to how mothering was to her – it just doesn’t come naturally. And we’re long past the time where I did as she asked.

‘Well don’t. I’m having a nice time in Paris and I’ll be home on Friday.’

She goes to talk some more but we pass under another bridge and so I call down my phone, ‘Sorry, signal’s bad. Got to go, bye!’

As I hang up, I feel rattled by the call. Anyone who lives with illness knows that you can’t ever fully escape it. If you’re not thinking about it, then you know that you’re not thinking about it, which is still thinking about it, in a roundabout way. I know I can’t escape my illness in Paris, just like I couldn’t escape it if I went to the ends of the earth, but it was still nice to try for a moment.

I walk back to join Emmett. He has two hands on the railings and is studying the impressive façade of Notre Dame as we pass it on our left.

‘How is your mum?’ he asks as I slide my phone back in my bum bag, slotting it in between my meds and hoping that Emmett doesn’t see.

‘She’s okay. You know that she always was a lot, but she’s become an even more extreme version of herself as she’s got older.’ The boat comes to a stop and starts to turn around.

‘I didn’t think that was possible.’

‘Yep. And the age difference between her and Clive. He’s a really old man now – I don’t think she enjoys looking after him. But then she never was super maternal. Last Christmas she told Mae that having us was a mistake. Blamed Dad for making her have kids. She had been hitting the port hard, though.’

‘Still, that’s… not good.’

‘Nope.’

‘I don’t think I realised, back then, how tricky things were for you at home. I was so fucking selfish.’

‘You weren’t. And anyway, even if you were, that’s the teenage brain, isn’t it. Designed for self-involvement. I know mine was. It’s no one’s fault, how Mum and Dad were.’

Emmett looks at the water for a second and then nods.

‘How is your dad?’ Last time Emmett saw Dad was the summer we broke up, so of course, Emmett doesn’t know.

‘Oh, he died.’

Over the years I’ve trained myself not to sugarcoat delivering this news. I just don’t believe that it’s my responsibility to make the person I’m talking to feel more comfortable about the fact that my dad died.

Mae says that it’s my ‘heinous bitch’ move.

It happens before I even realise that it’s happening. Emmett wraps his arms around me, and at first, I’m struck by how much bigger his arms feel. I thought that at eighteen, Emmett was a man, but I see now that he wasn’t, not properly. Neither of us was an adult then. I think that, really, I should be pushing him away. It’s not conducive to living a nice, neutral life, being on the receiving end of hugs like this, where the colour is becoming dialled up. Hugs that are warm, tender and firm all at the same time. But it’s like my body refuses to stage any sort of resistance. Instead, I’m practically dissolving into the hug, letting Emmett take all of my weight. I’m a rag doll in his arms, and my bones are melting. I’m hanging on for dear life here.

‘I’m fine, honestly, it was ten years ago.’ I pull back from Emmett as a tear escapes from behind my sunglasses. My dad wasn’t really any sort of great man. He’s not in any of the history books. But I worry that no one thinks about him, that one day, there’ll be no one to remember that he ever existed.