Page 68 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Later that afternoon, just as I’m about to phone her, Mum rings. Very spooky, the timing. It’s as if she knew. As if she had a sixth sense that I needed to speak with her.

Immediately, her voice booms through the phone. ‘I’ve just spoken with Naya, and I’m very upset with you.’

‘I’m upset with you .’

‘You didn’t tell me you were injured, Charlie.’

Immediately, I counter. ‘And you didn’t send through a recipe.’ I’m back at Dave’s, now, tidying the apartment. Collecting my things, getting ready to move out. And while I should be telling her about my fall, I feel the missing recipe is far more pressing.

‘When?’ Her voice softens, her anger halted.

‘This morning. I’ve checked three times.’

‘Well, that’s not right,’ she responds, confused. ‘I scheduled it. There must be an error. I’ll check it now and resend.’

‘No, don’t. I don’t need it.’ I don’t need it .

And with that, every ounce of my body that was helping hold in my emotions starts to splinter.

In one, tumultuous, dramatic moment, everything completely breaks apart.

I do not need my mother anymore, at least not in the same way.

I feel healed, like everything that has been weighing me down has been shed from my body and I can finally move on. It is both freeing and terrifying.

‘Are you crying? Oh no, Charlie. You’re crying. Is it the recipe?’

‘No.’ Then, a moment later, ‘Yes.’ Walking into the spare bedroom, I sit down on the edge of the bed. Let my forehead rest in my hand.

‘You want the recipe?’

‘I don’t need the recipe.’

‘Oh. Okay.’

‘I’m good. I’m okay without it. I gave them away today to someone who needed them and it felt good and then I saw there wasn’t a new one and now I’m crying and I feel stupid. Just, pretend I’m not crying.’

‘Okay.’

I hiccup, blink through a few tears. ‘Tell me about him. Please.’

‘About who?’

‘Dad. Tell me about him. I don’t remember what he sounded like. What he smelt like. I don’t remember what his favourite movie was, or his most annoying habits. I’ve forgotten so many things about him.’

‘Oh, Charlie.’

‘He was a good person, right? I didn’t just think that because I was young?’

‘He was a great person.’

‘He was happy?’

‘ So happy.’ Clearing her throat, she continues.

‘He loved making focaccia and pushing his fingers into the dough. When it rained, he’d stare out the window with a coffee and close his eyes, because he said it was one of his favourite sounds.

The first time he heard you laugh, he cried.

The first time he heard you cry, he smiled, because it meant you were healthy.

And if you’d asked him, he would’ve said he didn’t have a favourite movie.

Because it changed every week, depending on his mood.

’ She pauses, for a moment. ‘Charlie, I have so many of these. All you have to do is ask.’

‘Okay,’ I manage.

‘And Charlie,’ she starts.

‘Yeah?’

‘When we went to bed that night, he said he was a proud man.’

‘A proud man?’

‘Proud of you. And Naya. Proud of me. Happy, you know?’

‘Oh, that’s good. That’s really good. I like hearing that.’ I feel I might be glowing. I’m warm, and buzzy.

‘You’re going to be fine, Charlie.’

‘I fell down an escalator.’

‘I know.’

‘Raphi didn’t recognise me.’

‘Raphi eats chalk.’

I laugh. Wipe my nose with the back of my hand. ‘I miss you.’

‘That just means you need to come home more often. This place isn’t big enough for you, Charlie.’

I spent so many years avoiding home, and I’m exhausted by it all.

I barely know my own family, and it disgusts me.

Maybe I tried so hard to forget them because I felt guilty for leaving – for forging a career – or maybe it was guilt from not being home the night Dad died.

There is so much there to unravel, and I feel I’m only at the beginning.

‘I’ll be home more.’ And this time, when I say that, I actually mean it. ‘I’m good at surviving,’ I add.

‘You are,’ Mum says. ‘You know why?’

‘Because I get on with it?’

I am confident, in this moment, that she is smiling. ‘Yes, exactly. Because you get on with it.’