Page 30 of Maybe
For a start, I wouldn’t have chosen to be dressed in my own shitty school uniform, my gums aching from too-tight braces. Ideally, I’d have been stoned after successfully rolling my first-ever joint, hanging out with the cool sixth-form boys and wearing a retro punk T-shirt and worn DMs. Or I’d be in my bedroom, strumming some shit I’d thrown together in my head and be overheard by the guy running Warner Records (who happened to be passing by the open window) and he’d offer me a deal. At least I could have gone out on a high.
With a bit of luck, I would have been so, so high, I wouldn’t have given a fuck discovering that my wanker of a part-time dad was dicking his pretty PA.
“I’ve found him,” I recall saying to my mum. What else could I do? I couldn't hide it from her— Janice, gathering her things together, was only seconds from spilling out the door. My dad,his PA-lover, their kids, and us would come face to face. The trip to Wagamama’s would have to wait for another day. I’d be hungry a while longer yet. “He’s in here. With Janice.”
My dad’s suit jacket hung, forgotten, on the back of his seat. A boring navy-blue wool blend, no different to any other, really. The same way my dad, Janice, the boy, and the toddlers were no different to any other family having a spot of tea and cake in a touristy tea shop. At least to a casual observer from out here on the pavement, anyhow.
But I wasn’t a casual observer. I knew, for example, that the jacket had a deep pink satin lining with a stain over the left side of his chest where his fountain pen had leaked. And, although Janice appeared to be his wife, she wasn’t, because his actual, lovely wife was next to me, peering through the window.
My mum turned deathly pale. Back then, I couldn’t say for sure who the kids belonged to, but from the familiar way my dad tucked one of the toddlers into the pushchair before taking the schoolboy’s hand in his, they were doing a decent impression of belonging to both.
“So he is.” My mum had that expression on her face that said now was not a good time to ask any difficult questions. A shiver ran through her, and she hugged her trench coat tighter around. “I’m not sure I feel like fighting the Tube home, do you, Ezra? Let’s treat ourselves to a taxi. Your dad will pay.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Sure.”
Sure.Such a dull, inconsequential word. One of those ordinary, throwaway, single syllables, the sort dribbling carelessly from your mouth, oozing apathy. If I’d known it would be the last word I ever spoke to her, I’d have chosen something more prosaic, more enthusiastic even. Likegladly, orcool, orfab, orI love you.
Ordon’t step in front of that bus.
But it was too late.
In her haste to escape the horror, my lovely mum turned so quickly she didn’t notice the number 205 double-decker bearing down on us. To be fair, neither did I. Not until after. Forsure,someone screamed. Forsurethe driver slammed on the brakes. If I shut my eyes, I can still hear the anguished squeal of them now, fifteen years later as I escape Isaac and all the shitty memories and hurt his twenty-seven years dragged up.
The anguished squeal of someone or something, forsure.
Looking back to that day, all the holes in the Swiss cheese lined up beautifully. An overdue dental appointment, rescheduled to suit my school timetable. A heavy burst of rainfall, unusual for the time of year. Not warning my father of our impromptu visit, then arriving at his consulting rooms early. A busy section of road, due to temporary traffic lights further down. Poor driving conditions as a consequence of the rain. A bus driver’s sleepless night, his blood pressure sky high thanks to a heated exchange, moments before, with a fare-dodging passenger.
If I’d needed my tooth filling, we may never have known about Henry Fitz-Henry’s double life. My mother might still be alive. I might have become a well-adjusted teen, like Isaac.
But I’d never know—no one would ever know, because all the holes lined up. With me at one end, peering through, and my father at the other. I saw him clearly, that afternoon, for the first time.
And now, back in the present, I’d flounced off. Again, like a dramatic spoiled child. And I shouldn’t have, because Isaac wasn’t to blame. He couldn’t help being my replacement, our father’s natural child. He was born that way, whereas I was some other bloke’s unwanted brat. The important difference being that I always felt like I had permission to hate my genetic father because he’d made it very clear he didn’t want me, fromthe second my mum told him she was pregnant. I’d never met him and never wanted to. But the guy who chose to adopt me? Then cast me out when I wasn’t perfect? How should I feel about him? Grateful he took me on? Angry at being rejected? Both? The latter kicked the former out of bed the second I discovered Henry Fitz-Henry and hisloyalsecretary making nice in that fucking coffee shop. And the second after that, my existence changed forever.
CHAPTER 12
ISAAC
Curt electronic correspondence informed me I failed the exam by two marks at eight a.m. precisely, the exact moment I should have been coming off my nightshift. Instead, a Tube strike had half the day shift team running late. Therefore, instead of self-pitying tears in the changing rooms, I plastered my game face on and showed interest in an ancient Polish man’s bleeding piles. According to his daughter’s patchy translation, he’d had them for twenty-two years, and they had improved over the last fortnight, thanks to an inflatable rubber ring.
My only source of comfort, as I finally slammed shut my locker and slunk out of the hospital back entrance, was that my dad wasn’t around. He'd be sure to remind me he’d won the college examination gold medal, scoring full marks. And then ask me if I’d booked in the resit.
Pleasant, lonely Polish men aside, the night had been hellish. The weather was giving extremely December/January energy, despite the calendar saying April, and neither our emergency department, nor the hospital at large, were ready for the sudden influx of elderly patients wheeled through the front door.
When I finally reached home, I found a man sheltering on my doorstep. One I hadn’t seen or heard from for over a week. A man with long thin legs clad in black denim, scrolling on his phone as if he’d sat there a while. I brushed past him. “I’m not in the mood, Ez. Seriously.”
I might as well have not spoken, seeing as he followed me in and up the stairs anyhow. Heading straight for the kitchen, I flicked on the kettle, aware of him a few feet behind me, quietly taking it all in.
“Nice place,” he commented. “Worth a few bob, I bet.”
“Yep. Still not in the mood.”
“I’ve come to say sorry. For buggering off.”
My patience, fraying like a worn thread since seeing my exam email, finally gave way. “Remind me which occasion? I’m losing count.”
My tone was sharp enough to cut, the weight of a fucking endless list of frustrations pressed behind it—the exam, my dad, my mum, nightshifts, weariness, no sex, and the biggest of the lot: Ezra himself.
“The last one.” He held his hands up, palms open. “Listen. I’m struggling with all this, too, okay? I’m churning things over, things I haven’t given thought to for years. And… and as you know, when stuff bothers me, I fuck off.” He threw me a cautious grin. “I’m working on it, okay?”
