Page 20 of The Perfect Son
“OK, I will. Thank you, Shelley.”
You died. It wasn’t you. I hold the thought in my mind as I pull out of Tesco and drive back to the village.
—
That evening Jamie and I played a game of Parcheesi and ate spaghetti Bolognese at the table with the hum of the radio in the background. I didn’t jump up and dance like a loon when a pop song came on like I used to, but it was progress. And after what happened in Tesco, I was pleased with myself.
Later, when I kissed Jamie good night, I said sorry for shouting at him over the spilled milk.
“Things will get better, I promise.”
I meant it too. Really meant it.
Was it Shelley? Her words of, not comfort, but understanding. The feeling that she gets me like you always did. Was it Jamie? The gnarling guilt of my outbursts that no longer seemed to upset him? Or was it the medication doing its job? A combination, I suppose, but either way I felt better. Not great. Not normal, but better.
Of course I didn’t know then that it was all for nothing. Friday rolled around and Denise from your office knocked on the door, and the two tablets I swallowed, the plans I made were all for nothing. I was right back at rock bottom.
CHAPTER 12
Friday, February 23
44 DAYS TO JAMIE’S BIRTHDAY
There’s been a whisper of spring in the air today. The wind blowing across the fields had lost the sting of bitterness on the walk home from school, and the sun has clung on for that bit longer. So it’s a while before I realize that the kitchen is shrouded in a dusky gloom. That darkness has won and I can barely make out Jamie across the dinner table. I stand up and flick on the light, scrunching my eyes shut against the sudden brightness. Jamie seems oblivious to the change.
“Not hungry?” I ask, looking at his plate.
He shakes his head.
I cooked too much pasta as usual, forgetting how it expands in the pan. It’s hard to see a dent in either of our plates. Eating has become a clinical process, a conscious step. The sauce and mince tasted of nothing and every mouthful I forced down now lies heavily on the grief. I guess Jamie feels the same way. I can’t remember the last time I saw him eat more than a few mouthfuls of anything.
“Right then. Toilet, teeth, and reading.” I clap my hands, forcing a normal I know neither of us feels.
Jamie stays in his seat, his head bent, staring at his hands. Tears are pooling in his eyes and there’s a wobble to his bottom lip. Seeing his hurt is a physical pain in my chest, and I wish I could take it away. I wish I could add it to my own and shield him from this grief we are living in.
“I miss Daddy too,” I whisper.
Tell him something, Tessie.
I think for a minute.
“Do you remember the time we took you to London to see the sharks at the aquarium?” I ask. “You were only four. It was the summer before you started school. We took you up on the train for a special day out. And we went on a double-decker bus.” I smile. “We climbed the stairs as it started pulling away and you were so desperate to sit at the front that you made Daddy ask the people sitting there to move. Then we went to... er...” The memory and my voice trail away. Gravel is crunching on our driveway. It’s not footsteps this time, but car wheels, then the unmistakable thud of a car door.
Jamie jerks his head up. The tears are gone, replaced with wide-eyed panic.
All the months we worked on coaxing Jamie out of his shell, Mark. The drama workshops he hated that we thought would build his confidence.
And didn’t.
He was getting better though, wasn’t he? Remember the Christmas assembly when he stood up in front of the entire school and all the parents, and read his poem? Mrs. Banbridge, the head teacher, gave him a gold star sticker.
Of course I remember, Tessie. You were bawling your eyes out next to me.
I was proud, that’s all. He never would’ve done that at his old school.
I told you it was a good idea to move.
Well, it was all for nothing now. Jamie’s shyness has returned worse than before, and I can’t bear to make it harder for him.
