Page 50 of Harvest of Sighs (Thornchapel 3)
“Your father could move the firm here,” she says. “Both of you could come back.”
Guilt gnaws at my anger. She’s lonely. I know she’s lonely. Her husband and only child have lived apart from her for almost two decades.
But.
“I don’t think that will happen,” I tell her. “London is where Daddy and I need to be.”
A pause. “Does he—has he been busy this week? He hasn’t called.”
This is almost worse than the casual bi-erasure, the stepping into the strange whirlpool of my parents’ marriage. At least I don’t have to lie. “He’s been commuting every day for a project in Wiltshire. He’s got a lot on his plate right now.”
“I see,” she says. She doesn’t sound like she sees at all. “And he is good? Healthy? Seeing friends?”
Another baited hook. Again, I’m grateful I don’t have to lie. “He’s healthy. No friends. He works and sleeps—no time for anything else.”
“He should relax more,” Ma murmurs, but I hear the relief in her voice, and suddenly, I’m just really fucking sad. I’m sad that my mother loves my father, and I’m sad that I’m not sure if he loves her back. I’m sad my mother is so lonely, but also that she makes being around her so difficult. I’m sad that I know for a fact that my father was unfaithful at least once, and I’m sad that I saw more raw longing in his eyes for the memory of David Markham than I’ve ever seen him have for his wife.
And I’m sad that while divorce is possible, it would never be easy, at least not for Ma. Her family would not make it easy on her. Hell, even my dad’s family wouldn’t make it easy. My father is giving Ma a gift, in a way, by staying married—economic comfort for her and her family, and freedom from scorn—and so maybe the gift outweighs the price. Who but her can say?
My watch buzzes gently against my wrist. “I have to go, Ma,” I say. “I have an appointment.”
“Tell your father I said hello. And to call me. And Becky?”
“Yes?”
She pauses. “I really am trying, you know. To understand.”
I wish I knew the right way to respond.
I wish I could tell her that if I can’t trust her with who I love, then I don’t know if I can trust her at all.
But I don’t want to fight. And I’m also very conscious that the reason her family and church are this way is the very place I’m standing in now. The country I’m reluctant to leave is the same country that sowed those seeds nearly two centuries ago. Colonizing, stealing, raping, converting—all of that came from here. From this cloudy city, from this damp island, and I don’t know what it means about myself that I’m choosing it anyway. I could say, well, I was born here, raised here, schooled here—but is that really enough?
I don’t know. I don’t know.
I’m supposed to be the smartest person in a family of doctors, lawyers, and architects, and I still don’t have the answer to this.
Anyway, I’m a coward, because I end up saying the easiest thing there is to say. “It’s okay, Ma. I know you love me.”
I don’t know that, actually, that’s the problem, but she seizes on it. “Yes, of course, Becky, of course I do. I love you more than anything, you know that. You and your father.”
I should be relieved when we say goodbye, but relief is very far from me as I start packing plans into my bag. In fact, my hands are shaking as I do it, even though they weren’t shaking on the call itself. Like my nervous system is finally catching up to what happened—there was no bear, no fire, no blizzard, there was only a mother, but here we are all the same, hands shaking, heart thumping, a trembling in my muscles like I’ve run a race.
Deep breaths, I remind myself. It’s not real. Just an outdated brain reacting to stimuli. Just old hardware taking a long time to boot up the new software.
I brace my hands on my desk and force myself to breathe.
I’m safe. No bear. No fire. Safe.
Just my mother. Just some words.
Funny, isn’t it. How words can feel like fire and teeth, and yet they’re nothing at all. Nothing but vibrations hanging in the air.
After a few minutes, the trembling stops. My pulse slows, and my hands steady. My thoughts return, finally, full and functioning, ordered in the way I like. I can lift my hands off the desk and finish packing my bag. I can turn off the lights in my office and make a polite goodbye to Shahil as I leave.
It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.
This is what happens.
