Page 153 of Forever, Maybe
But they’d both fussed, urging him to eat the homemade muesli Chrissie had also prepared when he wasn’t hungry, running through checklists.Did he have his passport? Were his liquids under 100ml?
When Chrissie dashed off to find the pebble—the smooth, polished, almost-black stone she insisted brought her luck—Mikey turned to his father and asked one more time.
“Pops, is this okay? Are you sure you don’t mind? I can cancel.”
Alan Gordon—his once-luxuriant, reddy-brown hair now reduced to a thin halo of fuzz around the back and sides of his head—shook his head with a smile.
“Yes, of course, it’s okay. Chrissie found her real mum, and that worked out alright, didn’t it?”
Mikey gripped his father’s hands.
“She isn’t Chrissie’s real mum. And Nell’s not my real mum, either. Mum was, and always will be, my mum.”
His dad’s mouth twitched, the familiar Tourette-like sniff, the slight pull at the corners of his lips—the way it always did now when they spoke of Karen.
She and his father had adopted late in life, just skimming under the cut-off age when most social services deemed people too old to start raising children. And she had beenMum—his, Chrissie’s, in every way that mattered.
She had never hidden the truth. Adoption was a fact, openly acknowledged, but there had been an unspoken agreement—while she was alive, they wouldn’t seek out the women who had given birth to them, nor the men who had provided the sperm.
And he hadn’t been interested. Not really. Not until now.
“I’m fine, Pops,” he said now, and meant it. Chrissie’s teasing had settled him more than anything, though he should have managed to come up with a decent comeback.
From somewhere in the background, Chrissie’s voice rang out.
“She’ll love you, Mikey! I’ll pick you up from the airport on Friday!”
“Thanks.”
“Good luck, Mikey-mike,” Dad added. “I’ll be at the airport too.”
The flight was late taking off.
Mikey considered WhatsApping Nell to let her know he’d be delayed but hesitated. WhatsApp felt too personal, too familiar. He wasn’t ready for that yet. What if they met, he didn’t like her, and she started bombarding him with messages afterward?
He was in a window seat. He tucked his phone away as the trolley rattled down the aisle, air stewards gamely attempting to sell overpriced sandwiches and drinks. Chrissie’s foil-wrapped sandwiches were in his bag in the overhead locker. Despite Chrissie’s hearty breakfast, his stomach growled, but stupid self-consciousness (what if people thought he was a twat for eating salmon and avocado sandwiches?) stopped him rising from his seat and retrieving them.
“Can I have some Pringles?”
The steward nodded, handing over the small green-and-white tube.
The stag party from earlier was also on board, but aside from a lot of whispered deliberation over whether three small bottles of Prosecco or two miniatures of vodka was the better deal, they’d been surprisingly restrained.
The pilot’s voice crackled over the speaker, announcing their descent and the current weather in Glasgow—seven degrees and overcast.
Mikey peeled back the Pringles foil tab and watched as the land rose up to meet them.
Water. Endless green beyond it. Tree-covered hills. Then the city—tower blocks, stadiums, the strange hump-shaped building he’d heard was called the Armadillo, and, next to the river, the vast skeleton of a crane, standing stark against the grey sky.
The older woman next to him leant across, pointing to an area of housing. “There’s ma wee house in there somewhere! Are ye fae Glasgow, son?”
He struggled for a second or two to make sense of her accent before shaking his head.
“Visited it afore?”
He repeated the gesture.
“Ach, you’re in fae a treat. Mind ye go tae the Horseshoe Bar. And go tae the Stuffed! shop on St Vincent’s Street fae the best sandwiches in the city."
