Page 13 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

‘We just can’t stay here,’ she says, taking a moment to glance around the apartment.

‘I thought we had time, but we need to get out. This place doesn’t work for a baby.

There’s no airflow, everything has a sharp corner, the gaps between the railings on the balcony are so big that, once the baby starts walking, I’m terrified it’ll slip through and fall over the edge.

And that teenager down the hall blasts his techno music until two in the morning. ’

‘I think he’s late twenties.’

‘I hate him, Charlie, and I do not want my baby around him.’ She clutches her forehead. ‘I wanted a house so our neighbours wouldn’t hear the screaming—’

‘Who cares about the neighbours?’

‘ I care, Charlie. I care. This is exhausting. And I don’t know if I have it in me to keep showing up at viewings every Saturday.’

She collects herself, placing her hands on her hips.

‘Oh G, I’m sorry.’

She nods.

‘Would it help if I murdered the teenager down the hall?’

She chokes out a laugh.

After dinner, I phone my mother. To thank her for the meal, to ask how she is, to give Genevieve some space. And because Naya said I should.

‘How are you?’ she says, voice soft and melodic. ‘And how is Genevieve?’

I watch her slip into her and Bruce’s bedroom – tea in hand – and close the door behind her. ‘She says hi. We just finished dinner. Delicious, as always.’

Mum drinks in the praise. ‘Oh good . That’s great.’

I’m grateful for the food, I am. But I feel that I don’t require it anymore, and that she’s spending all this time on me that she doesn’t need to. I’m better now. I’m good, Mum, there is no need to do this for me anymore.

But whenever a small part of me feels compelled to let her go, she cries retirement.

‘Gives me something to do,’ she says. ‘And I do enjoy it. You should see what I’ve got planned for next week. Something new.’

That bright voice, that excitement. I can’t stifle it. Can’t bring myself to dampen her enthusiasm to assist. ‘Can’t wait.’ There’s something about it that makes me feel a little sick, like I’m exploiting my mother.

She moves the conversation in an entirely new direction. ‘Been meaning to talk to you actually. Have you got a second?’

Here we go.

‘The anniversary.’ She pauses. ‘Is coming up.’

‘I know.’ Got the date of Dad’s death burnt into my memory. If I could remove it, forget about it, take some sort of pill that scrapes out that part of my brain, I’d take it immediately.

Twenty years. Has it really been that long? Part of me can barely remember him, and another part cannot stop thinking about him. How he’d dress in flannel, and how curly his hair would get if he went too long without a trim. Those faded loafers he’d wear, and the way he’d butter his bread.

‘And I want to celebrate it.’

‘Celebrate it? What does that mean?’

‘A dinner, I think. The whole family.’

Whole family. What a ridiculous phrase. When did we start referring to our unit as whole? We will never be whole, again.

‘And I’m telling you to fly home for it.’

‘You’re …’ I trail off, processing, ‘ telling me.’

‘Yes, I’m telling you.’ She holds steady.

‘I’ve never done anything for the anniversaries before, and I think that’s wrong.

I regret it. And it’s been twenty years and you’ve not been home in so long.

We can’t even get you here for Christmas!

And I was going to ask you to come home, but I’ve done that before and it didn’t make a difference. So, I’m telling you this time.’

This is the most assertive she’s ever been with me.

I fear I’m being disciplined, like I’m a child again.

And Christmas . I knew she was going to mention that.

I’ve told her I need to work through the holidays, but it’s not really a need .

Not a requirement from the station. I simply decided to do it.

To busy myself. Genevieve invited me to spend it with her family, but that’s not fair on Mum.

It’s home, or it’s the station. And I chose the station.

I stare at Genevieve’s closed bedroom door and desperately wish she’d resurface.

‘But I don’t want to come home for it,’ I say. ‘I think that’d make me far happier, if I stayed home and ignored the anniversary altogether.’

Mum is silent.

‘You’ve never visited,’ I say.

‘Sorry?’

‘You and Naya. I’ve been here ten years.’

‘We visited after you moved.’

‘ Once . You visited once .’

She ignores me, clears her throat. ‘I’m going to cook something he loved.’

Something French, then. Lots of butter, probably a red meat. Two baguettes. Even after twenty years, I remember how much he loved food from home.

Home .

That house holds so many memories and I’ve tried so hard to avoid them over the years. Moved across the country to avoid them. Never wanted to spend much time in that place, where he died. Where he lived. Where he loved us.

It’s not that I don’t want to see my family – I do. I miss Naya and the kids. I miss my mother and her mismatched outfits, the absurd ways she styles her hair.

But there’s something about being in that house, and in that town, that is too painful.

Even after all these years. I can still see Naya’s face when she told me he was dead, frozen in horror after trying to revive him.

Although I was not there when he died – did not see his body – Naya was.

She painted a picture for me that I’ve never forgotten, her tiny hands pounding on his chest again and again while our mother cried out.

‘You probably won’t even recognise me,’ Mum says. ‘It’s been that long.’

‘Mum.’

‘I’m serious. I’m seventy-two now. I fear the asteroid is on its way.’

‘ Mum .’

‘It really could happen at any moment. Look at poor Leonard. His body is falling apart. Bruises one day, sliced fingers the next. Sometimes I lie awake at night and think about Naya being a widow.’

‘Naya isn’t going to be a widow.’

She is instantly defiant. ‘I went to bed one night, sleeping husband next to me. I wake up the next morning and he’s not breathing! Dead, just like that. It could happen to anyone .’

I have to hold the phone away from me for a split second. How incredibly blasé to speak about Dad’s death like this. How easily it triggers something in me, even after all these years. A catastrophic, unforeseen heart attack and our lives changed forever.

‘What if I say no?’

Mum is silent, for so long I fear she’s hung up on me. But then she speaks. ‘Charlie, please .’ There’s a wobble in her voice, and I know I’ve hurt her. Two people tonight, I’ve made cry.

‘You can’t pretend he doesn’t—’ She stops herself. ‘I miss you. And I want to celebrate him. So I’m telling you.’