Dad realized there was something wrong when I didn’t wolf my tea down. We both knew there was a DVD to follow, which was usually enough to get me past a plate of beans on toast in minutes. Spearing them individually must have said a lot.
‘You all right?’ Dad asked.
‘Yeah, course.’
‘I put chilli powder on them, the way you like it.’
‘Cheers.’ I skewered another one.
‘And Marmite on your toast too.’
‘I know. It’s perfect, ta.’
He studied me and I could feel his concern, but didn’t know what to do about it. Not without making him uncomfortable.
That’s how it worked every time I brought Mum up: he’d sweat, mumble and eventually get so fidgety that I’d let the subject drop. Usually, I couldn’t put him through it, as much as I needed to hear about her.
It was his reluctance that had forced me behind his back and into the loft. I’d been desperate to find something that pulled me a bit closer to her – photos, letters, anything. But I hadn’t expected to find the report from the hospital, a single piece of paper that turned everything on its head and pointed the finger directly at me.
The thought of it now made my arms prickle and pulse race, but as much as I wanted to burn the report or bin it, anything to deny its existence, I couldn’t. Instead it sat in my drawer, ready for the next time I needed to punish myself.
‘Daisy, are you listening to me?’ His hand on my scabbed arm pulled me back into the room and out of my chair. My sudden movement was enough to get him on his feet too. ‘What is wrong with you tonight?’
‘Nothing’s wrong. I’m just tired, that’s all.’
‘Has something happened at school?’
‘No, of course not. School’s fine.’
‘Is it something I’ve done, then?’
He looked so wounded before even hearing an answer that I shook my head.
‘Is it the film I chose? You know we don’t have to watch it tonight.’ His eyes sparked up. ‘We could go out. There’s a new comedy on at the Ritzy, the one you wanted to catch. Why don’t we go see that instead? A midweek treat.’
I couldn’t do the Ritzy, not after being there a couple of hours ago. What if someone recognized me, commented on me being back so soon?
Anyway, that wasn’t the point. I couldn’t do any film tonight. I didn’t want to escape. I wanted to talk about Mum for once, instead of pretending she’d never lived.
‘Do we have to?’
He clutched at his chest, feigning a heart attack, a desperate bid at humour. ‘What. Did. You. Say?’ he gasped, which made me testier than I should’ve been.
‘Jesus, Dad,’ I snapped. ‘Don’t make me out to be some kind of freak. I just don’t fancy it for once, that’s all. We could do something else, you know. Other people do.’
He tried to look confused, but I reckon he knew what I wanted to talk about. Walking to the kettle with his back to me confirmed it. He’d do anything he could to not chat about Mum, and for once I wasn’t prepared to let him.
‘You know what we could do?’ I said, too much steel in my voice to sound anything but antagonistic. ‘We could go up into the loft and dig out some photos of Mum. Find pictures we could put around the house.’
He didn’t turn as he stirred his tea mechanically. ‘We already have photos of her out.’
‘We have two, Dad,’ I yelled, ‘and one is by your bed! She’s hardly everywhere we look. Why can’t we spend an hour, thirty minutes even, choosing some pictures I could put in my room or in the lounge.’
I realized what my brain was doing. It was trying to force him up there, not to find photos, but for him to notice that the hospital report had gone and that I’d found it, to back him into a corner so he had to acknowledge what I’d done to her. I wanted him to get angry with me and shout at me, because then it would be out there and maybe in time he might forgive me. Perhaps then I could fight the fear away, maybe then I could stop hurting myself.
But he wasn’t going to give. I saw his shoulders slump as he turned to me, his brow creased deeper than ever before.
‘I can’t, Daisy. Not tonight.’
‘Then tomorrow maybe. Or the weekend. I don’t mind when it is.’
‘Stop HASSLING me!’
The volume blew a gust past my ears.
He never shouted. At anyone, never mind me. Part of me wanted to turn and throw a strop out of the room, to show him how upset I was, how much this meant. But I never got the chance, because he was through the door before me, each footstep on the stairs an avalanche.