Confrontation

I leave for New York on a wing and a prayer. I am twenty-three years old and, unlike The Girls who are flourishing in their personal and professional lives, I have no idea what I am doing in mine. Eimear works in shipping, undeniably a man’s world but she is forging her own path and holding her own. A bona fide ship broker with unstoppable ambition. She travels constantly for work and found Sean, her #dreamboatboyfriend, en route. Sean is sweet-natured and kind. And he makes a real effort with Eimear’s friends, which has earned him serious brownie points.

Kemi has landed her ideal job as Assistant Private Secretary to the Minister for Education. When she is not working her ‘PAYE’ job, Kemi works as a mentor to local children born on the wrong side of opportunity. She hates the word ‘underprivileged’. ‘Education is everything’, her mantra on repeat. Kemi’s energy levels, spin class attendance and permanently bright mood belie the fact that she has Addison’s disease. When I grow up, I want to be just like her. Farah? Farah has just qualified as a doctor. She works in A&E at St George’s Hospital and will soon train to be a surgeon. There is no time to have sex in the storage cupboard and she doesn’t work with anyone who looks like McDream, so it’s not exactly like Grey’s Anatomy but close enough, she indulges us. The hours are long and gruelling. Our pride knows no bounds; Farah saves lives.

The Girls are hard-working and formidable and trail-blazing. They think I am too, but we aren’t the same. I feel, but find it hard to explain, that everything I do is a struggle. From getting up in the morning to getting dressed to getting the train to work. Their affirmations, praise and encouragement cannot fix me. On Nursery Road, I search my pillow, my duvet and my mind for motivation to get out of bed every single day. Is that normal? Mornings are the hardest. Instead of sleep, my eyes fill with tears. Something is wrong with me.

 

The Langman Internship Programme – a ‘unique postgraduate experience’. I will work in the Events Department at the British Consulate in New York and study for a Diploma in International Business Practice, accredited by the University of Cambridge. A retrospective gift to myself. I go because there is no reason for me to stay. America: home of the brave, land of the free.

It is early September and I am overwhelmed. I direct Sol to Heathrow Terminal 1 instead of Terminal 3, in error. He promises that he will get me there on time – in his brand-new Audi sports car. He has explained his job to me several times but I still don’t have a clue what he does.

‘It sounds really complicated, Sol.’

We settle for buzzwords: data analysis. Algorithms. Optimisation. Something about Artificial Intelligence. His official title is Senior Engineer, Google Search Ads. He is on track to become a Principal Engineer before his thirtieth birthday. He works hard and plays hard. He is generously rewarded and generous.

My mum is fussing in the passenger seat. Rummaging through her bag for nothing in particular and checking the time every few minutes. She offers me her Bible and her wooden crucifix. ‘Thanks, Mum, I’m okay.’ She puts them back in her bag. She tells Sol to slow down and warns him that I will miss my flight in the same breath. Yes, I have my passport. My travel insurance is sorted but anything Addison’s related won’t be covered. Dr Gordon gave me enough medication for three months. And you can bring some more when you come to visit. Eimear is going to fly out at some point before spring for work. And Sol says he has a stag weekend in Miami at Easter. He will go home via New York. So, I think between you, Sol and Eimear, we will figure it out.

Sol takes the lead with 24kg of my life’s possessions, packed as neatly as possible, to the check-in desk. Easiest to access are the things I need to run. If this feeling flies with me, across the Atlantic Ocean, I will put on my trainers and run. To where, I don’t know. But if I stay on top of my medication, and my Addison’s does not betray me, that is what I will do.

 

‘Have you told Dad you are going?’

I have learned not to discuss my dad with Sol. Because we end up speaking, with raised voices, about two different people. I know my father’s wrath and his fury, his rage and his beatings. The damage that he can inflict with his hands and his words. Sol does not know that person. Sol knows a dad who bought him trainers so he could dance like Michael Jackson. A dad who took him to Crystal Palace matches every other weekend. A dad who taught him how to fix car tyres and dropped him to school every day. Sol does not know what it is to have hot water and palm oil and spinach poured over his head. Our father is an unholy trinity: father to me, dad to Sol, and the man who ruined my mum’s life.

For a brother who never once stuck up for me as a child or teenager, Sol has developed an incredible ability to advocate on behalf of my dad: I wasn’t the easiest daughter to parent. They had similar interests. He tried his best. He wanted to have a better relationship with me. I never let him in. Remember the time I held the knife in my hand? Sol is passionate in his new role of advocate. And incredulous. We have very different recollections of our childhood experience. And it is difficult for me to listen to his testimony. When Sol says he hates confrontation, I am not sure whether he is drawing an inference that I like it. In any event, the conversation is a painful visit to a past that very much lingers in our present.

I think of the fairy-tale figure that Sol has created and wonder if my dad would recognise himself described in my brother’s words. I try once over a birthday dinner, organised by Sol to celebrate my father’s fifty-four years. To explain. To my dad. How difficult it has been. For me to forge a relationship. With him. As an adult. He is so happy that I came. He wasn’t sure I would because I didn’t reply to his text. That I had tried. But struggled. He smiles from ear to ear, a view of the waterfront before him. I came. With hesitation. Thai Boat in Battersea at 7pm. Because of what he did to me. As a child. The power station gives me the courage to continue. It affected me. It affects me. Uncle Papafio directs his attention to his Chang beer as I speak. I wonder. What I would be. Who I would be. Battersea Power Station, rising one day from its ashes to become a millennial’s residential and cultural paradise. If—

Sol is caught off guard by my monologue. He declares that it is neither the time nor the place to have this kind of discussion. A tear escapes from my dad’s eye as my voice starts to crack. It is the first time I have ever seen him cry.

The waitress brings out a chocolate cake. Two candles, ‘5’ and ‘4’, centre the ‘Happy Birthday’ written in white icing on top. We sing a tuneless ‘Happy Birthday’ before Sol helps my dad to blow out the candles. My rendition is particularly monotonous and uninspired. Uncle Papafio says something about the waitress’s ‘Thai buns’ to bring us back to ourselves and our status quo. My dad and Sol laugh with Uncle Papafio as they cheers with Chang beer.. I look at the power plant in the distance and pour another glass of red wine to finish the bottle. And the evening. By myself. Sol gives the waitress his card when she brings the bill. Whatever the cost of the evening, his Amex card will absorb it.

‘Yes. I called him last weekend and told him.’

‘Good. That’s good, well done.’

 

I stand in front of the departure gate at Heathrow, Terminal 3. J-1 Visa and passport in one hand, fear in the other.

‘If you don’t like it, Stella, you can come back. You can always come back.’

My mum’s words encourage me through the gates. I look back with blurry eyes before we lose each other from sight.

‘Love you, Stella.’

‘Love you, Mum.’