Wednesday 16th March 2011
Jim. I relived it. The whole thing. From beginning to end. I feel weak now. Weak and horribly sick. But I’ll write it down. So it’s there. Maybe for you to understand me better. Or maybe for someone to read when I’m gone. I don’t mean to sound morbid, Jim, but I’m sixty-five. I’m not well. I’m not going to last forever, am I?
So, back to that day, that same day I hoovered his room, that I wondered if anyone apart from me would ever love him, the day before Easter.
He hadn’t come out of his room all day. That was normal. Normal for him, normal for a lot of teenage boys, I suppose. But it was the day before Easter and Megan was back. We were all having so much fun together, down in the kitchen, we were playing a game. Trivial Pursuit, I think. And there was wine and music and teasing and, oh, all that lovely family stuff. So I went up to try and tempt him down. I took him a bowl of sticky toffee pudding. I sat next to him on the bed. He looked so sad, Jim. I said, “What’s the matter, my darling boy? Why do you look so sad?” He just shrugged. He always just shrugged.
He was always my favorite, you know. Not in that OH MY GLORIOUS PERFECT CHILD way, just in that he was my baby. He’d been so small. The weight of him in my hands when they passed him to me, like a bag of air. He was my shadow, he followed me about. He was always looking to me, for guidance, for approval, for everything, long after the others had lost interest in me. Always looking at me, watching me with those sad, empty eyes.
I brought his head against my shoulder. I was a bit tipsy. He said, “Get off, you smell of wine.” But he was only joking, so I tapped him on the arm and said, “Hold your breath then, I want to hold my baby boy.”
He resisted at first. Struggled, in that way that children do when they think they’re too old for cuddles but still have this residual need to be held by Mummy. It was obvious to me he wanted the hug, he wanted the attention. I squeezed him hard and I felt him soften, I felt him allow it. And then, he was suddenly there, his face against my face and I thought it was a joke, that he was trying to smell my breath. I was about to say something like, “Okay, okay. I’ll get off you.” But then his mouth was on top of mine and I realized he was trying to kiss me! My God! My own son! My tiny little baby boy. His thin boy’s body pressed sharp up against mine.
Oh, Jim.
I pushed him off and he fell back against the wall. He stared ahead. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. I should have said something, Jim. I know I should have. I should have found a way to talk about it. My baby. I shouldn’t have just left him there. But I did. I ran from his room, as though running from a monster. I bumped into Beth coming out. I saw her look at me. Then look into Rhys’s room. She asked me if I was okay. I think I managed to squeak that I was.
We went downstairs and we finished the game. Nobody asked about Rhys. Nobody wondered why I’d come down without him. Nobody noticed.
I didn’t see him the next day, it was Easter day, we had guests. I wanted to talk it through with Colin, what had happened. I wanted to find the right moment. I wanted it to be right. It had to be right. And then there was Vicky, standing in my hallway with a bottle of Beaujolais, and I just thought, not yet. I can’t deal with this JUST YET. So we drank and we laughed and I put it off. I thought, TOMORROW. I’ll deal with this tomorrow. When Megan’s gone. When the house is quiet. And of course by then it was TOO FUCKING LATE.
So, darling, what do you think? Was it my fault? I’m so confused, Jim. He was my favorite. And I let him down. I let him down so horribly. Drinking wine when I could have been saving his soul. And can you see now, why I might have tried to avoid thinking about this? Talking about this? Because I can. I didn’t just lose a son, you see, I lost a sense of myself as a mother. And a mother was the only thing I’d ever really known how to be.
Oh, Jim. Write back soon. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I need you to tell me it was okay. PLEASE.
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Thursday 17th March 2011
Thank you, darling. Thank you. You are so insightful, Jim, so, what is it they say?—emotionally intelligent. I can’t believe I had never thought before of the parallels running through everything, the threads that connected it all together. Of course that is why I reacted so strongly to Beth’s affair with Bill, to Colin getting together with Kayleigh. And yes, even the man who raped my mother touching me the way he did. It’s all vaguely incestuous, isn’t it? It’s all just a shade away from natural. And you know something, Jim, you know something terribly, terribly sad? I never hugged my children properly again after that day. I’d give them a squeeze, you know, or an arm around a shoulder, but I never ever held them properly again. I was always ready to back off. Poor Beth, I think she suffered the most.
Well, my love, I’m too tired to type much more now. (This blasted, blasted chest infection. The antibiotics are making no difference at all and I honestly cannot face another trip to that awful place, surrounded by all those ghastly ill people and that woman’s beefy hands all over the place.)
I’ll type more later, darling, but for now, you have no idea how much better your thoughtful, loving and intelligent words have made me feel. About everything.
God, I love you.
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Friday 25th March 2011
Oh, God, Jim, don’t do this to me now, darling, please. I need you now, so much. I feel so raw, like someone’s peeled off all my skin and left me out on the beach. It’s been over a week since I heard from you. I can’t bear it. You’ve never gone this long before without writing. Oh, Christ, are you okay? You’re not hurt, are you, you’re not in trouble? I just can’t be on my own right now. I opened Pandora’s box, darling, I opened it for you, and I’m glad I did, it had to happen. But I’m not dealing with it very well. And I’m not well. I’m really not well. I can’t even think about making it to the doc’s. I can barely move.
Please, Jim, write to me. Anything. Even if it’s bad. PLEASE.
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So, is that it, then, Jim? Are we done? Did you finally tire of me? Oh, GOD, I don’t blame you. How could I? I mean, look at me! I’ve been wearing the same clothes for over a week. I smell, Jim. I know I do. Of illness and old hair and dehydration. I’m losing the plot, Jim. Where are you???????
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Wednesday 6th April 2011
I can’t be here anymore, I hate this house now I’ve let Rhys back into it. I’m tired and I’m cold and I’m dirty and I’m coming to see you. I’ll find my way to Gateshead, somehow. Please be there for me. I’ve lost my way. I’m half-gone. I’ll see you in a few hours. Don’t try and stop me.
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