Page 54 of The Flowers of Bay C
‘I, um—’
‘It was actually this method I found on YouTube. And you see this centre bit, right, I just wanted it to be like unique or something, not like any old photo you can get off the internet, so I made the pattern myself then imported it as a bucket fill and, oh, you don’t need me to witter on about all this.’
‘I do.’ And I know I do. I need to hear all this stuff I don’t understand the slightest edges of, and he needs to tell me. ‘I do, actually.’
He reddens. ‘Okay, so, I did that and then I did kind of this thing for the background, I know your favourite colour is purple so I got all these different purple textures, see here, I did them all as layers and then blended them together, and then I thought, well I thought it sort of looked okay, actually.’
‘It looks more than okay. It’s brilliant, Jake. I love it.’
His flush deepens. ‘Well, it’s not Banksy or anything like that. But it was kind of fun. Nan lets me go on the computer more than you do so… so this.’
Mum probably does that to spite me. She’s done it at every turn, at every parenting decision, taking the opposite tack deliberately and sneakily, undermining me in the most insidious of ways so I couldn’t challenge her, not with Jake so precious and me so alone. I shove the thought away. That doesn’t matter right now.
‘I love you, Jake.’
‘I miss you.’
‘I miss you too.’
He leans towards me and circles me in his arms, carefully, like I’m made of china. I draw him in and hug him close, his cheek against mine like when he was small and he would press his face against mine and tell me he loved me mummy. I inhale the scent of him, chewing gum and stale curry and Lynx, and think about how I did this all alone. Okay, he’s not perfect. He’s annoying and rude and sometimes arrogant. He thinks the world exists for him alone at times and his room is like an antechamber to the underworld with plates and glasses culturing unusual species and clothes thrown in great piles together on the floor, dirty and clean all mixed up. He is messy and insensitive and ungrateful.
But he made me a card with an amazing piece of computer artwork on it.
I wish his dad could see him now, the baby he abandoned because he wanted to live his life and I had spoiled that for him. I wish he could have been the kind of dad who cuddled him as a tiny newborn smelling of baby oil, could have swung him in the air as a toddler and kicked a ball in the garden with him as a small boy with legs that never stayed still. I wish he could see him now as the young man on the cusp of adulthood, changing every day, his voice deepening and his legs lengthening, my skinny gentle giant who made me a card with a sunflower on it that looks like all the colours of day and night together. But his dad didn’t want to know. He’s the one who missed out.
He’s the one who left bruises that blossomed on the inside of my mind and my soul, as well as the other ones, the ones he hid so well. But I don’t want to think about those.
‘I thought it kind of looked like sunrise. Like the flowers are kind of the sun. Actually, that sounds lame.’ He shakes his head.
‘It doesn’t sound lame at all. I love it. It’s like the sunset with all the colours exploding in the sky and the sunflower is the dawn breaking through the night. I love it. You could do more of this stuff, you know. People would pay good money.’
Jake scowls. ‘Whatever.’ He fishes in his pocket and pulls out his phone, and in seconds he is lost to me, caught up in his online world. His eyelashes lie on his cheeks like they did when he was a baby, all full and fanned out and dark and heartbreaking. I remember holding him close through unsettled nights and days that seemed to last forever, no partner to come in and relieve the burden at the end of the day. I held him tight through the years, through tantrums and bleeding knees and bad behaviour and school reports that weren’t always complimentary. I held him tight when his first girlfriend dumped him because he wasn’t as cute as Alex James. He was a cuddly baby, a huggy child, a boy who always needed touch to sustain him, even through those difficult pre-teen years. He still needs me now, I realise, perhaps more than ever, in his uncouth, grunting, gentle and sweet way, he needs my love and my patience.
He needs me to be here and to not get even more sick.
I want to sink into the colours he created for me, to pretend that they are my colours after all, that I deserve them, or maybe even that I could be them.
I reach out my hand and stroke his face. He glances up at me for a second and rolls his eyes; I’m surprised they are not worn out from the copious rolling he puts them through every hour of every day. ‘Muuum,’ he says again, but he doesn’t ask me to stop. Insteadhe leans into my touch, his acne-puckered cheek rough against my hand, dark hair flopping forward.
I did this. I did this all alone. I recovered from abuse and I brought up this young man who made me a sunflower card.
‘I do love you, Mum.’
‘I love you too.’
‘Nan and Grandad love you too, you know, in their way. Grandad’s been on about coming in to see you.’
‘Has he?’
Jake nods, but his eyes reflect the doubt that burns in my own, and he looks down at his hands. He knows Dad could have come in to see me, any day, but he hasn’t. He never does.
I lean back into my pillows and watch Jake as he stabs at his phone, his thumbs working furiously as he battles some unknown monster.
Over in the opposite corner, Barbara is sitting up in her chair, wide awake. She’s watching Jake with a gaze full of longing. ‘Let’s go and chat to Barbara,’ I say to him. Surprisingly, he doesn’t complain, doesn’t make a murmur, just flings his phone down on the bed, drags two bucket chairs to her space and helps me over, holding onto my arm.
‘Hello, Barbara.’
She nods her head. ‘Yes. Hello, love. And you, lad.’
