Page 17 of When We Were Young
Emily
My brain is swollen, it doesn’t fit in my head. I turn over in my bed and it thumps against the inside of my skull. My mouth is arid, my eyes raw. I feel like shit. What’s wrong with me?
Oh yes, I had some wine. An entire bottle. And some gin.
Then I remember.
Liv is gone.
A stab of anxiety twists in my stomach. I’ve pushed her away. I have failed at the one thing that was most important to me: being a mother.
Who am I kidding? I’ve failed at everything else too. Sticking at the same crap job, year after year. No friends (except Kay, but she’s more of a colleague). No relationships, no lovers. But I didn’t try at any of that. It didn’t matter. Motherhood mattered. I tried at that.
Obviously not hard enough.
What was that look on her face when she left?
Pity.
Even my fifteen-year-old daughter feels sorry for me. She shouldn’t be looking at me like that. The same way everyone has been looking at me since… Will died.
My throat aches, and fresh tears flow.
Scott’s words from yesterday ring in my ears. ‘She wants me to come and get her,’ he’d said on the phone.
‘She’s not moving in with you, Scott. That’s ridiculous.’
‘Why is it ridiculous?’
‘She can’t move house every time she disagrees with one of us.’
‘Look, why doesn’t she stay with me for a few days until we all calm down, then we can have a rational discussion about it?’
I sighed.
‘Emily, this is just the start. Accept it – she’s growing up. She loves you, but she needs independence. Cut her some slack.’
‘Teenagers need boundaries.’
‘She’ll be off to university in a couple of years,’ he said, sensing victory. ‘You need to start letting go. You need to live your own life.’
I haul myself out of bed, head pounding, and get in the shower. When I’m done, I turn the water to cold and let the icy stream cool my head.
Jesus, I hope he can behave himself in his bachelor pad while Liv’s there. And the exams, he’s got to make sure she’s revising, eating properly, and getting enough sleep. I catch myself. Am I being overprotective and controlling? The cold water is hurting, so I turn off the shower and get out.
Wrapped in a towel, shivering, I realise what Scott was trying to tell me.
Get a life, Emily.
Before I head downstairs, I hesitate on the landing.
Something draws me to the staircase up to Liv’s room.
Her room is unusually neat; things must be missing, but I’m not sure what – it doesn’t look empty, just strange.
Tears well up and threaten to spill over.
A flash of yellow catches my eye on her desk.
The moment I recognise the CD, my chest tightens.
I shouldn’t be surprised; I knew she was listening to Will’s music.
But why buy a CD when she has nothing to play it on?
She left it here on purpose, to tell me she knows.
I pick it up for a closer look. I’m torn between affection and hatred for it and drop it to the desk with a clatter.
Maybe she didn’t see my name in the small print. Nobody reads the small print.
Downstairs, everything is tidy. No cereal box left on the side, no Rice Krispies littered across the counter, no schoolbooks on the kitchen table. Just my phone. I usually charge it by my bedside. I must have forgotten last night. The screen shows an unread message.
FHD: Great – can’t wait.
What’s this?
I click on it and scroll back through the short message history. The first one is ‘ Whenever you’re ready ’. Florence Harding’s dad. I must have saved him as ‘FHD’ in my contacts last night.
Oh shit.
I messaged him after midnight. Drunk.
Me: Do you, by any chance, have a nickname? Perhaps your friends call you Liam or Bill? Maybe your mum calls you William?
Oh my God.
His reply a minute later: You don’t want to know what school kids do with a surname like Harding.
Then: I ’m only William when I’m in trouble. Why?
Me: Long story… Are you free Friday night for a drink (alcohol, not coffee)?
FHD: I would love to but I’m away for the Easter hols (taking Flo to my parents in Devon). Can do Friday the week after, though. How about Hemingways, 8pm?
Me: It’s in the diary. Looking forward to it.
Suddenly the word ‘online’ appears at the top of the screen, then morphs into the word ‘typing…’
Shit. He’s messaging me right now.
FHD: BTW you can call me anything ;)