Page 12 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

CHAPTER EIGHT

Here is something interesting about my mother.

Her two greatest skills in life are attending to teeth, and cooking. A retired dentist who believes food cures everything – illness, grief, loneliness, anger, anxiety. And, most importantly, heartbreak.

When I left Dave, she called me every day. Texted by the hour. Left voicemails and voice notes, sent packages to the apartment door. And when I didn’t answer, because I couldn’t quite stomach it, she called Genevieve to ask how I was, make sure I was coping, pass on messages for me.

One day at a time.

Thinking of you.

Call me when you’re ready.

There I was, catatonic at the kitchen table, and my mother was making sure I knew how loved I was.

That I’d done the right thing. That she supported me.

Most of all, she made sure I was eating, because if there’s anything that terrifies my mother more than death, it’s one of her children adorning an emaciated frame.

She emailed recipes to me and Genevieve every single morning.

Always at eleven o’clock, with a tail-ended message noting what wine it’d pair best with.

They were meals with simple ingredients, easy to find at the grocery store.

Some nights it was a pasta, maybe with bruschetta.

A stew, or a curry. Something comfortable that she knew I’d love, and often meals she’d made for me and Naya when we were growing up.

Some of them, actually, were recipes our father used to cook before he died – French onion soup, bourguignons and roasted lamb shank.

It had been years since he left France, but he loved cooking meals from his home.

And every time Mum sent me one of his recipes, it made me feel like it wasn’t just one parent looking out for me, but both.

It became a routine for us – Genevieve, Bruce and me.

It was like a lucky dip, waiting to see what my mother emailed each morning.

What we’d need to buy from the store. How it might taste.

We couldn’t quite believe that, at seventy-two years old, my mother was taking the time to handwrite and email me recipes every single morning.

At first, Genevieve felt guilty. My mother was putting in all this work, and she and Bruce were reaping the benefits.

‘These recipes are not for us,’ she’d say.

And I’d correct her. ‘They are, though. They are for you, as well as me. This is Mum’s way of supporting me, but also thanking you for looking after me. For letting me sleep at your place. For keeping me sane. For keeping me company, when she can’t.’

It was never about eating, I remember that much.

In those first few weeks, Genevieve dragged me out of bed, forced a vegetable peeler into my hand and told me what to do.

Bruce followed the recipe, Genevieve managed the meat, and I prepared the vegetables.

Or the sides. Or the drinks. Whatever I had the energy to do that evening.

It kept me busy and my mind occupied. Helped pass the time.

And sometimes, on a bad day, when I felt the full weight of what I’d done, when I couldn’t get Dave out of my mind and all I could think about was how drastically I had overturned my life, I simply sat on one of the kitchen stools and watched as Genevieve and Bruce managed it all.

Let them fill the silence and talk to me about their day, their jobs, their families.

‘What about this place,’ I say now, leaning over the kitchen island, holding out my phone.

Genevieve, wrapped up in a linen dress and slippers, is slicing chicken breast into strips and coating in cumin powder.

Roasted chipotle and garlic chicken, one of my mother’s favourite recipes. ‘Three bedrooms and a small backyard.’

Looking up, she takes the phone from me, scrolling through the house listing. Then the photos. Her eyebrows rise, impressed. Her smile, widening.

Then she checks the address, and she deflates. ‘Charlie, it’s three hours south.’ She says my name like one might chastise a child.

‘Really?’ I snatch the phone back, convinced she’s wrong. Then clock my mistake. ‘Oh, shit, you’re right. Sorry. Been looking at too many, I think.’

She sighs. ‘I’ve stopped looking, it’s impossible. They’re all too expensive. Or far away. Or small. Or ugly.’

I switch to a different real estate website. ‘We’ll find somewhere. And in the meantime, I’m going to pay more rent.’

‘Stop saying that. No, you won’t.’

‘I will.’

‘We love having you here.’ She throws me a smile, her hands deep in raw chicken breast, turning it over in the oil and the spices. There’s a squelch sound as her fingers grasp the meat.

She may love having me here, but it’s certainly not easy having me here.

The apartment is not meant to house this many adults – doesn’t have the space or the storage or the layout for it.

It’s remarkable what she’s done to maximise the place, with floating shelving and trailing pot plants hung from the ceiling, furniture with in-built hidden storage.

We’re cramped but we’re cosy. Wooden baskets atop cabinets, vintage prints on the walls, mauve blankets over an olive-green sofa, floor lamps and trailing lights over the windows and scented candles on every surface. It’s warm, here.

But we’re constantly on top of each other, always waiting for someone to finish in the bathroom or squeezing onto a sofa that’s already squeezed into the living room, and I’m starting to wonder if they’re seeing too much of me.

Her phone pings, and it’s Bruce letting us know he’s running late. To eat without him. That he’ll heat up leftovers when he arrives.

We return to what we were doing. ‘There’s got to be something,’ I say, scrolling through pages and pages of real estate listings.

It’s remarkable how much is on offer and yet none of it is suitable.

Houses so old and broken, they’d need to be torn down.

Houses brand new but double the cost of what they’re worth.

Houses built in the backyard of another house.

Houses the size of this apartment. It’s all so defeating and yet I’m convinced there’ll be something.

Let me do this for them , I’m thinking. After weeks of them looking out for me, let me do this for them.

‘Charlie, I’m really tired. Maybe we can look tomorrow?’

‘If I move out, you’d have more space for the baby.’

‘I’ve already said no.’ She rolls her shoulders back, collects her thoughts. ‘Even if you moved out, it’s still not what we want long-term. I’d be surprised if the pram fit through the door.’

‘You bought a pram?’

She corrects my mistake. ‘Oh, no. I just mean when I do , where will it go?’

‘Oh. Right.’ It’s been one week and she still hasn’t revisited the baby superstore, hasn’t bought anything online.

In fact, if you look around this apartment, you’d have no clue a baby was on its way.

The only sign would be the slew of parenting brochures I gifted them, which sit on the coffee table collecting dust.

‘G,’ I say. ‘That baby is going to be happy and healthy and you and Bruce will find somewhere to live and one day we’ll look back on this and realise we were worrying for nothing—’

‘We might have to go for an apartment,’ she says, voice sharpening. ‘I’ve been doing the maths again and I just don’t think we’re going to be able to afford a house.’

Pause. ‘But you’ve always wanted a house.’

‘Yeah, well, things change.’ Her mouth twists.

Genevieve tells me it’s time for the next stage of the recipe, and I discard my phone.

Peel the sweet potatoes, slice the green beans and listen as she reads out the instructions for the rest of the salad – toast the walnuts, drain the cranberries, rinse the baby lettuce.

We rotate around the kitchen, doing our best not to bump into the other or knock something off the bench.

Only once does a pair of tongs slide off the counter and onto the floor.

‘Have you thought about asking your parents?’ I suggest. She’s pan-frying the chicken now, and my salad is complete. Tossed and coated and sitting in the middle of the kitchen table, ready for serving.

She looks defeated. ‘We both know they wouldn’t have enough.’

I’d suspected it but was hoping I was wrong. Most of their savings were spent on the IVF.

‘And I wouldn’t ask them, even if they did,’ she finishes. ‘I couldn’t let them do that. Again.’

I offer up another suggestion, something I’d already been thinking about. ‘Dave plans to stay in our apartment. He wants it, and I don’t. And he has the money to buy me out—’

‘ No .’ Her voice is sharp.

‘You don’t even know what I was going to say.’

She holds up a finger, silencing me. ‘We’re not taking your money.’

Okay, she knew what I was going to say.

‘I can’t be in debt to another person.’ Her forehead creases with her frown. ‘That’s absurd.’

‘Think of it as a loan.’

She says, ‘That’s what Mum said too.’ And then she looks over at me and I realise she’s on the verge of crying. Her eyes misty. ‘Don’t offer me your money again.’

‘Okay.’

‘I feel sick when I think of how much I borrowed from my parents. Physically ill.’ Hand to her chest, breathing heavy. ‘And I’ve tried to give it back, but they won’t take anything, and now they tell me they don’t expect it back, and somehow that makes it worse.’

I rise. ‘I’m going to get you some tissues—’

‘No, no, I’m fine.’ She uses her pinky finger to wipe the corners of her eyes, then fans her face and lets out a few deep breaths, as if resetting.

‘I’m just trying to help.’

‘I know,’ she says, reassuring me. ‘And I love you for it.’

‘I will find you somewhere. I promise. And if you won’t take my money, I’ll offer up my time. Help you pack boxes, wipe down the walls, clean skirting boards, whatever you need.’

She’s plating up, quiet again. Her eyes are downcast, her lips slightly pursed.

‘God, I’m sorry. I’m an arsehole, I shouldn’t have said anything.’