Page 7 of Maybe
“So were you, Isaac! You were only… what, fourteen when he left? You were still at school!”
Saffy was correct, of course, but it didn’t help much.
“Have you spoken to Mum at all about the will?”
“Not yet. I haven’t found the right moment. The solicitor, Mr Trethowan, said he’d do it. I'll call her tonight before I go into work.” If I could squeeze it in, between a mock exam paper, the laundry, and a quick scoot around the supermarket. Some days felt as if I was jumping from rock to rock.
“You’ve been at work the last three nights, haven’t you?”
“Yep. Two more to go.”
“All work and no play make Jack a dull boy, Isaac,” warned Saffy.
“If only nightshifts were optional,” I answered sarcastically.
“Yes, but you’ll turn into Dad if you’re not careful.”
Wasn’t that the truth.
Her voice gentled. “Cardiac surgery is an enormous slog, though, Isaac. You’ve really got to want it, you know?”
“Why wouldn’t I want it?”
“I don’t know.” Saffy made a huffing sound. “Sometimes you sound like you’re a bit… daunted by it, that’s all.”
“I’m not daunted.” Even if sweat gathered under my armpits every time I contemplated it. “I’ll admit I’m enjoying other stuff, like working in the ED, but I’m only doing it to gain the experience. I love cardiac. It’s cool. So cool.”
“Okay, I was just checking. He’ll be digging his way out of the grave with a scalpel if you jack it all in for ED.” Saffy laughed. “He was always so proud of you. Far more than he ever was of us.”
“He didn’t always show it,” I felt obliged to point out.
“Nah,” Ed butted in. “But we will. We’re eternally grateful to you for stepping up as the Chosen One. Otherwise, me and Saff would have had to pull our fingers out. Instead, thanks to you, we can partayyy!”
He said the last bit in a screeching approximation of an American accent, followed by some truly atrocious beatboxing. I held the phone away from my ear until he finished. Another thing I admired about my siblings. Their persistent joyfulness, rooted in an inherent belief the world was their oyster. When anyone with an iota of experience knew it was nothing more than a poorly choreographed shitshow.
CHAPTER 3
ISAAC
Back in my father’s era, Oxford University was still an exclusive institution used by rich parents to house a bunch of overprivileged kids for a few years, until they matured sufficiently to be let loose to run the City, the military, or, in my father’s case, the surgical wards. And if they learned some law or politics or medicine in the meantime, as well as tying a Windsor knot and conquering Kloisters black runs, then that was a bonus.
Though maybe my cynicism was merely sour grapes, seeing as my application to study at my father’s alma mater was rejected.
Supposedly, Balliol College Chapel was one of the less ornate of the Oxford chapels. Regardless, it stunk of money, from the intricately patterned gleam of the chequerboard floor tiles slapping against the soles of my dress shoes to the polished panels blanketing every wall in sombre dark oak. All overseen by a monstrous, gilt-covered organ towering above, currently pounding outJerusalem. It was my father’s favourite hymn, according to those who knew him (a group that hadn’t includedhis children). Until the first chord struck, I hadn’t been aware he had a favourite hymn or did, in fact, know any hymns.
Half-cut, my mother swayed at my shoulder, cheerfully belting out the first verse. I could have done with a small shandy myself. I didn’t remember at what point in her marriage she slid into daytime drinking; certainly, no one ever alluded to it. I imagined it was around the same time she discovered she’d married a man more in love with himself, his job, and securing a knighthood than his wife and kids. Whatever. She stayed loyal to him, seeing as he came with a title and more wealth than she’d ever dreamed. Perhaps she felt obligated, given her existence literally contributed to death of another woman. Yet, while no means perfect—and who was?—the older I became, the more I realised she was exactly like the rest of us, getting through the day as best she could. If that meant a liquid lunch and absolving herself of the responsibility for her grown-up children, who was I to criticise? She could have done things differently with Ezra, perhaps, recognised the bereft child instead of berating the demon, but nonetheless, I had a protective fondness for her.
We were the only immediate family representatives. Ezra, of course, was wherever he’d disappeared to, though I maintained one hopeful eye on the chapel entrance pretty much throughout the service. Once the coroner released our father’s body, the twins graced us with a flying visit from the States for the private interment, but drew the line at returning again six weeks later, principally because they were having too much fun to waste an afternoon making small talk with old fogies while drinking sherry and pretending to mourn a father who’d spent most of their childhood posing for pictures with other people’s children. Successfully shoving two fingers in the face of convention, I envied them.
“Don’t cry because it’s over—smile because it happened,” began one of my father’s old colleagues from the pulpit.Stephen? Jeremy? Charles? I forgot who; one balding middle-aged man in a smart blazer and old school tie was very much like another. Every one to a man relished the sound of their own voices.
This bespectacled iteration launched into a vaguely humorous monologue enumerating my father’s many and varied professional successes. My mind floated in the direction it always did: Ezra. This time with his guitar loosely slung around his neck, and cross-legged on my bed. Hey, Isaac, have a go at that riff again, but like this, stretch your fingers wider.With the hint of a smile, he’d drop his head, his silky black hair falling across his eyes. His long fingers would wrap around the fret board like they were moulded to it and then, humming along, he’d strum the notes perfectly, as if penned with his nimble hands in mind.
Forever Mozart to my Salieri.
As a swotty, quiet, and lonely child, I’d battled a miserable adolescence. Ezra was the only bright spot, the first boy to cement gayness in my mind. I’d lived for Ezra’s sporadic trips home from boarding school. At unexpected moments, he’d appear around my bedroom door, like a creature from a faraway world, a darkly romantic foreign land full of exotic beings with painted nails and flowing black clothes. When our father wasn’t home, Ezra would make his eyes up with thick black liner. Once, he peeled down his skinny jeans to show me the tiny secret tattoo of an eagle stamped on his pale left hip bone, trusting me never to tell. We’d plotted the design and placement of his next one after he’d saved up the money.
Learn to fly. Fly away.
