Page 40 of The Perfect Son
The air is cold and there’s a freshness I haven’t felt in the house or the village before. But I wonder how much of that is to do with the sun and how much is to do with Shelley. From the moment she strode through the side door this morning, her energy has infected us both. Jamie has been brimming with it all day, skittering around Shelley’s feet and hanging off her every word. Always with a smile on his face, always big blue eyes wide, gazing at her. I’ve felt it too.
“Right, come on,” Shelley says as she marches along the downstairs hall, past the main staircase to the parlor.
“Can’t we sit in the garden and eat more cake instead?” I pull a face, half joking, half not.
Jamie gives a giggling squeal and Shelley laughs too. “Nope,” she says. “We’ve done quite enough cake eating for one day.” Shelley pats her flat stomach as she turns around and flashes me a grin. “At this rate I’ll be sinking in the pool tomorrow.”
It’s as if we’re off on an adventure, a bear hunt, a search for buried treasure. We’re not, of course, but Shelley is making it feel that way and even I smile as I follow after them with a roll of black bin bags in my hand. The last thing I want to do right now is go through the boxes in the second living room. It was your job—the unpacking and the sorting. Half our stuff, half your mother’s, dumped and forgotten since moving day. If I do it, then it’ll be one more reminder that you’re not here. I won’t be able to pretend that you’ve just put it off for another week.
I was happy sitting in the garden with our winter coats zipped up, watching Jamie charge around the garden with his football. I was happy drinking cups of tea and eating giant slabs of the lemon cake I made and talking about nothing and everything. I didn’t mention the phone call or the hang-ups though. I didn’t mention my fight with Jamie either. The thoughts were there, but the words never formed. Shelley makes my fears seem so distant, and I couldn’t bear to drag them to the surface.
It was Shelley’s idea to go in. “It can’t be doing you any good living in a house full of boxes,” she said. “Let’s make a start together now. It won’t feel like such a big job once we’ve started.”
I don’t know how, but I found myself nodding along.
“You take those ones,” she says as the three of us step into the parlor. She points Jamie toward a stack of boxes resting on your mother’s floral sofa. “And I’ll do these.” Shelley steps up to a box and pulls at the cardboard top. “We’ll make three piles. One over there”—Shelley points to the window where I stood last weekend waiting forthem to come home—“for things we think are valuable or want to keep. Things we’re not sure of can go over by that wall, and the third pile can be rubbish and go straight in the bin bags. OK?”
Jamie and I nod and we all get to work. I help Jamie lift out a vase. It’s chipped at the top and there’s green mold growing in the bottom where it hasn’t been cleaned properly. “Rubbish,” I say to Jamie and we share a smile.
We’re about halfway through the job when Shelley finds the photo albums. I watch her from across the room, the walls shrinking in as she opens the first one. She’s found the baby photos, I guess, by the look on her face. Tears shimmer in Shelley’s eyes and she touches her hand to the locket around her neck, like she always does when she is thinking of Dylan.
All at once the mood changes; the sun goes in and the gloom is back.
“Mark did them,” I whisper, hopping over the pile in the middle and reaching her side. I flick a glance over to Jamie. He’s stopped unpacking and is playing with a set of wooden Russian dolls, opening the middles and lining them up before putting them all back together again.
I count the albums. All eight of them are there. Each one labeled with Jamie’s age.Jamie 0–1 years oldis written on a white label on the album in Shelley’s hands.
I loved that about you, Mark. How you printed the photos we took every month and tucked them away in an album. You never forgot, never skipped a month. I wasn’t allowed to look until Jamie’s birthday.“A special present for Mummy,”you used to say to Jamie.“For being the best, most amazing mummy in the world.”
It’s another job I’ll have to do myself. Another reminder that you’re never coming back.
“They’re... they’re lovely,” Shelley whispers. “You all look so happy.” Shelley reaches for another album.Jamie 4–5 yearsis written on the label.
“I’d forgotten about them,” I say as Shelley opens the pages.
“I used to look at the albums of Dylan every day, but now they feel so distant from the boy he would be if he was here.”
I reach out and touch the dark blue cover, feeling suddenly protective over the contents. It isn’t just Jamie in these photos, it’s you as well, us.
Shelley sighs and places the album carefully in the box and shuts the lid. “You don’t have to look now.”
“It’s OK. I think... I think I’d like to look at them, but maybe later. I’ll put them upstairs for now.”
I scoop up the box, displacing a layer of dust, which floats in the air and tickles my nose. My mind is full of Shelley’s words and her own sadness over the death of her son. I’m halfway up the narrow back staircase when the phone rings. My body freezes mid-step, thoughts of Shelley forgotten. One ring, two rings, three rings and it stops.
I breathe and start moving again. I hate that it’s another hang-up but at least it wasn’t the man with his scratching tone. He hasn’t called back since the other night and if it wasn’t for the message still saved on the answerphone I’d wonder if it was a dream or a sick joke.
With the box tucked safely beside our bed, I head for the main stairs. Shelley’s voice carries through the house. It’s only when I reach the final step that I realize it’s not Jamie she’s talking to, but someone on the phone. The call wasn’t a hang-up. Shelley answered it.
She’s talking to someone in the dining room as I make my way down the main staircase.
“I’m sorry,” I hear Shelley say. “Tess is resting right now.”
There’s a pause and I imagine the caller asking a question.
“She’s doing brilliantly, all things considered. She’s having ups and downs, more downs at the moment.... I know, but she has your number and she’ll call you when she’s ready.”
It’s Ian, I guess, taking a step and catching sight of Jamie hovering in the doorway of the dining room, wobbling his tooth with his index finger and waiting for Shelley to finish.
