Page 159 of Undefined Terms

Everything’s alright.

The results came back that Friday. Celyn’s text was all clear, then a second one a minute later, you? Mine said the same. We changed nothing, kept the foil in the drawer, kept the question. But it lived there now, the other thing, the way the second toothbrush lived in the cup, leaning against the first.

Mum gets the train, the 8:47 from Euston. I told her I’d pick her up at Piccadilly, but she said ‘I’ll find my own way, Ronan, I’m not ninety’ and then rang me three times from the platform asking which exit.

I’m stood outside when she comes through. The bag, the big one, the tapestry thing she’s had forever. The coat, too warm for May, but Mum packs for a different climate than the one she’s going to. Always has.

‘Ron.’ The arms. The hug. She’s smaller than I remember. Every time. I haven’t seen her since Christmas. The first visit was the wine and the one chair. On the phone she said ‘bring them’ and I didn’t, not yet, because the timing wasn’t, because I was scared. Of what it meant. That if she met Celyn then Celyn was real in the Sunday roast sense. And once that door opens there’s no going back.

It’s open. Been open since the phone call. The ‘they’ she chose before I asked. The cup of tea she left on the table and never took back.

‘You look thin,’ she says. I’m not thin. I’m the same. Mum says this like breathing.

‘I’m the same, Mum.’

‘You’re thin. Are you eating?’

‘I’m eating.’

‘Is Celyn feeding you up? Because they ought to be.’

‘Mum.’

She pulls back, looks at me. The look, not the assessing one. The other one. The one that sees the kid who broke his arm falling off a wall at nine and didn’t cry until she got to the hospital and then cried for an hour.

Celyn’s at mine. Offered to come to the station and I said no because. I don’t know. Something about needing Mum on home ground first, something about not doing it on a platform with the noise and the crowds and the announcement about the 9:15 to Leeds.

She’s been up before. Last time she had the bed and I took the sofa. This time she rang ahead to offer to book a hotel, not wanting to be in the way now Celyn’s on the scene, and I told her no, don’t be daft, you’re having my bed like before. Me and Celyn’ll go to Celyn’s.

The flat, the stairs.

I put the key in. The door, the hallway. The flat that’s. Ours. What I still think and don’t say and think again.

Celyn’s in the kitchen, the kettle’s on. Of course the kettle’s on and the mugs are out, three mugs, the good ones, not the chipped one, and there’s biscuits on a plate. Actual biscuits, on a plate. Like a person who has their life together, which neither of us does.

Celyn. Today.

The skirt, midi, dark green, the buttons down the front. The cream shirt, the collar open. Eyeliner, soft. A lip tint. The jaw shaved smooth, clean, no stubble today, because it’s my mum this time and Celyn’s dressed for it. Every version. Every time.

Celyn stands. The hands, the violet nails, on the counter behind. Steady, present.

Mum stops.

One second. Two. Mum’s eyes, the same brown as mine, move. Skirt, eyeliner, earring. The whole thing.

Three seconds.

‘You must be Celyn.’ The voice. The warm one. The one she uses at the door when the neighbours bring round a baby. ‘I’m Eileen. The kettle’s on. Good. Sit down, love, I’ll pour.’

She takes the kitchen, in four seconds. The mugs, the kettle, the milk, ‘where’s the milk, Ron, this fridge is a disgrace’, and Celyn sits and I sit and Mum pours and the kitchen is Mum’s now, like every kitchen is Mum’s within ninety seconds of her entering it.

‘Tea,’ she says. Puts the mug in front of Celyn. The mug. The one with the crack that I should’ve hidden.

‘Thank you,’ Celyn says. Voice. Vowels. Mum’s hearing them for the first time.

‘You’re Welsh,’ Mum says. Sits, her mug. The biscuit, she takes one without looking. ‘Where?’

‘Beddgelert. Snowdonia.’