Page 93 of One More Day
I drop my head and hold my temples, as I hear the crash of metal again. The scrapes, the screams.
‘Rose?’
‘I’m so sorry, Charlie,’ I whisper. I reach across the small kitchen table and squeeze his hand. ‘Poor Helena.’
He takes another moment before he continues.
‘Her life has never been the same since. Nurses, doctors, occupational therapists and then sheltered care when she needed her independence. But Mum changed even more than my sister did, if that’s even possible. It was like she couldn’t bear to be around Helena. She couldn’t cope with the change in her precious only daughter, and she hit the bottle big time to mask her pain. It was sad to be around. My father reacted in a similar vein, but I’ve no doubt they each loved both of us in their own way.’
I sip the white wine, feeling the coolness on my lips, and realising how easy it would have been for me to have gone down a similar route when it came to numbing my pain.
‘You’ve had it tough, Charlie, yet you still give so much,’ I tell him. ‘You’re a very kind person. And how are your mum and dad now?’
He smiles, but I can see the sadness behind it.
‘Well … just to add the final nail to the coffin of my sad story, pardon the pun, but we lost them a few years after Helena’s stroke. So, until Rebecca came along, Helena was my world. Every Christmas I make an almighty fuss over her with presents, the best food and a movie night sleepover at my house with Rebecca, but this year I just needed a break from it all. I needed headspace to get myself back into a positive place so that I can be the brother Helena deserves; the father Rebecca deserves. Does that make me selfish?’
‘God, no,’ I reply. ‘I just heard you with Helena. You’re the best brother she could wish for, so I’m sure one Christmas won’t change that. She adores you.’
He lights up when I say that and goes back to his food, deep in thought now. For two people who seem so entranced by each other, it’s strange to think this is the first time we’ve sat across from each other and had a proper, heartfelt conversation. With every word he speaks, I feel like I know him, and that I like him, just a little bit more.
‘I’ve had to work a lot on myself so I can do a better job of helping others,’ he tells me, having given this reply some thought. ‘Yes, that’s basically it in a nutshell. I’ve worked hard for a long time to get to where I am mentally, yet my daughter leaving the country has rocked my core. But I’m beginning to see things more clearly already about all of that, which is what I needed from this time out.’
He seems so strong, so self-assured and already a lot more at ease than the man I first met just a few days ago.
‘And then you ended up here with me.’
He stares at me intently, taking me in, as if what I just said was too good to be true.
The classical music in the background seems to get louder and I realise that I can hear my own pulse.
‘I wouldn’t change being here with you, not for a million,’ he tells me. ‘I wouldn’t change it for the world.’
Oh God.
There’s a table between us, my candlelit centrepiece and a hot cooked meal, but he finds my hand and squeezes it and it’s enough to send delicate shivers from my fingers to my toes.
‘So where were we before I launched into my sob story?’ he asks, his eyes cast downward, his long eyelashes blinking away the intensity of the moment we just shared.
‘You were telling me about … you were telling me about how you believe different people show love in different ways when I mentioned my relationship with my dad.’
‘Yes, that’s how I choose to look at my own family background, anyhow. Don’t get me wrong, I do sometimes have a moan about Helena’s phone calls and dependence, but only to myself, or Max if he’s listening.’
‘You’re incredibly loyal, then.’
He laughs.
‘Thank you. Though I have been very selfish on occasion, too.’
I shrug.
‘There’s no harm in needing your own space sometimes.’
‘You’re good.’
I put my knife and fork down slowly. I’ve gone to a huge effort this evening and hoped it would be perfect. So far, so good.
‘I’ve always felt like the black sheep in my family, but I don’t think I’ve ever said that out loud before,’ I tell him. ‘I was a rebel while my sister was pure as the driven snow. She still is.’
