“I’d ask how you are, but that would be a stupid question,” I say.
“I’ve been better.”
“You’ve looked better.”
She rubs her head, pale fingers touching her short hair. “Yes. I have.”
We’ve nothing to talk about. Reminiscing about the past can’t happen, and I’ve no interest in what she’s done with her life.
Life. Mum told me she had weeks left, the cancer breaking her body more readily than anybody broke her in the past. As I look at her, Jeremy hurts for his mum the way he once did. But Jem has to stay strong against the threatening tide. Since she contacted me out of the blue and ripped me back in time, the bottle, drugs, and void have called more loudly than in a long time. If Ruby wasn’t in my life and house, I reckon I would’ve slipped by now.
“I haven’t heard from you for years,” I say pointedly.
“You were clear that you didn’t want to see me about six years ago. I refused to be a relative of a famous person demanding money.”
“You needed money?”
“Everybody needs more money, Jem. After Paul left, things got harder.”
“Didn’t you find someone else? You always did,” I say coldly.
“No. I left him for a shelter. He hurt me badly. They helped me, and then I helped them. Other women.”
The woman who refused to help herself? “Oh.”
“I knew it was too late for us, Jeremy.”
“Was it? You didn’t try that hard to fix things.”
Mum rests back in her seat, her breathing laboured. “Would you have let me try? Look how long before you arranged to see me. It’s almost a month since I asked you to visit.”
“Probably not,” I say quietly.
Mum reaches out to her bedside table and takes the plastic tumbler, hands shaking. She sips, swallowing as if the water hurts her and my resolve wavers.
“But you’re here now.” She gives a weak smile. “I’m glad you came to see me before… well, before.”
Before she dies. Before time runs out and she can’t wipe away her guilt. So she can fuck me up one last time.
But as I look at Marie, I know that’s not her motive. I believe she thinks she’s doing this for me. For both of us.
“How long?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Weeks.”
My throat thickens. Why am I feeling? Where’s the wall gone? “Oh. Right. I’m not sure I can visit again.”
“I understand. But you’ll stay and talk to me this afternoon?”
“Yeah.”
Mum tells me about the work she’s done, with domestic violence victims like herself. Helping mums and kids stay together—how fucking ironic. Did this help her? She abandoned her own family; how many others did she need to save before she felt she’d atoned for that? I tell her things about Blue Phoenix, about the boys, but she never knew them. My mother was locked in her own world and her own pain—pain I had no comprehension of as a kid.
The conversation tires her, and Mum’s breathing becomes shallower and speech slower. “I’m proud of you,” she tells me.
“Proud of me?” I ask hoarsely.
“Look at what you’ve achieved. Things could’ve ended badly for you.”