‘You don’t say,’ is his reply as he leans back and takes a knowing sip of tea, which makes me laugh and nearly splutter on mine.
‘Will you tell Mum for me?’ I ask. My voice comes out a little wobbly. My dad’s smiling lips turn down in a frown. The creases in his brow deepen when he meets my gaze.
‘Oh, sweetheart, I think she’d appreciate it if you told her yourself. She will be home shortly,’ he informs me, and then his face forms a thoughtful expression. ‘Scar, I know sometimes your mum might come across a bit much, but she cares. If she hadn’t put her foot down at times when you were kids, I think the number of hospital visits you and Devon racked up would be triple digits. I wanted so much for you to fly and be all that you were, but someone had to teach you that jumping off scaffolding wasn’t always a wise idea. She meant well and she still does.’
I’m grateful for my dad’s words as I never really thought about it like that before. Someone had to teach me that if you touch fire it would burn you; someone had to teach me boundaries and respect for the world around me.
*
‘I can’t believe you, Scarlett Davis. What on earth do you think you were playing at? You can’t tie up the neighbour’s cat – it’s not kind, nor is it respectful and we take our shoes off when we enter someone’s home,’ my mum shouts as I go to step inside the house. My shoes are caked in mud, my hands are sticky from I don’t know what and my evening of playing out on the street with Devon has been cut short by my mum, who is currently livid and dragging me inside.
*
‘You know your mother has always known it was Devon for you too. She knew how much it hurt you when he left. I think she focused on putting on a brave face, but she hated seeing you hurt knowing that she couldn’t fix it,’ my dad adds when I don’t say anything, thinking back to all the times my mum shouted at me and realising that most of the tellings-off were warranted.
My ears prick up to rustling at the front door before it clicks, and my mum’s perfume mixed with the aroma of hairspray and all kinds of lotions and potions wafts through the hall.
‘Hi, honey, I’m in the kitchen,’ Dad calls out.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I call after him.
‘Scarlett, is that you?’ Mum shouts back and I resist the urge to say something sarcastic. ‘Is everything OK, darling?’ she asks as she walks into the kitchen. She goes straight over to my dad to give him a hug and a kiss and then repeats the same action with me.
‘I’ll get you a cuppa – you sit down,’ my dad says, standing up so my mum can take his place at the table.
Before I can back out, I take one giant breath and let it all out.
‘I’m sorry, Mum. I’m sorry that I haven’t been the most perfect little girl and that I spent most of my childhood giving you a heart attack with the all the hospital visits and mine and Devon’s crazy antics. I’m sorry I didn’t try harder at school. But I’m not that little girl anymore. I want us to try harder to fix our relationship and spend time together but you have to want to spend time with me, not some version of me that you see in your head, wearing pink and lace, pretending I don’t love drawing or constantly looking me up and down like I’m a disappointment.
‘I love you, for all your stubborn ways, neatness, cardigans and cooking, all the wonderful and odd things that make you you, but you have to be willing to do the same for me. Do you think you can do that?’ I can feel the tension build in my neck as I look at my mum to try and decipher the expression on her face, and if she took it well.
After a few moments and a brief distraction of my dad placing Mum’s tea on the table, she reaches out and takes my sweaty hands in her tidy manicured ones. She opens her mouth then closes it again as a tear falls down her cheek. My leg starts nervously twitching, anticipating her response.
‘Scarlett, of course I love you.’ She wipes at her wet face with the back of her hand. ‘All of you.’ She gives me a pointed glare and releases my hands. ‘Oh, honey, I’m sorry. When you were a child, I just wished for you to enjoy the things that I had loved as a little girl. I know I was wrong to try and push those things on you and I am sorry. But darling when Devon left you became so quiet and watching you just plod through school and college with no passion, well I didn’t mean to control you or push things on you, I just wanted you to have options. I wanted to see your face light up like it did when you were little – always excited and running around. And I do love your drawings, honey, maybe not the ones with those creepy villain things you would draw, but of course I see your talent. But you’ve never pushed for it and so I thought it best to try and give you different ideas.’ My mum leans back in her chair, releasing her hands and fiddling with her nails.
I feel my own eyes growing wet. I never looked at it like that. Have I really been going through life so unenthusiastically? I don’t know what to say.
‘I know you need to draw; you need to be creative. Oh, sweetheart, it’s a joy to see you at the Christmas fair each year; you do such a magnificent job of bringing people together. Maybe you could draw a happy comic book, fewer weapons and spooky monsters, some festive cheer,’ my mum suggests, her eyes sparkling with a little humour now, causing me to laugh.
‘A Christmas comic book? I think I like that idea, Mum,’ I say, rubbing at my eyes. Had my mum just given me a suggestion for a comic book? Hello, Santa? Where are you hiding?
‘Whatever it is, Scarlett, you’ve got to go for it. I promise to take a step back, as long as you give it all you’ve got. You don’t need my help, but I will give you some space,’ she says, taking my hands in hers once more.
‘And the clothes, Mum, will you stop buying me clothes?’ I plead, squeezing her hands in mine.
‘Oh, but you look so pretty in pastel colours and bows,’ she says, putting her gentle hand through my hair and sounding so sweet. I do not look pretty in pastel and bows.
‘Mum,’ I say more sternly.
‘Oh, all right, honey. I will try, but if I see something with your name on it, you can’t be mad at me,’ she says with a smile, as I cringe, hating to think what else has my name on it in her eyes.
‘Right. Now, Mum, don’t freak out, but I’m off to New York tomorrow morning to go and find Devon. I’ve got it all planned out so there’s no need to worry. I will be back on Christmas Eve, OK?’ I say calmly and matter-of-fact as I stand up. She does a wonderful impression of Eddie for a few moments before composing herself and forcing what I know is a fake grin, because my mum loves me and no matter how many times I tell her not to worry, she’s going to worry. This time instead of rolling my eyes, I retrieve something from my bag, step around the table and wrap my arms around her and give her a kiss on the cheek as I place my card on the table.
‘What’s this?’ she asks.
‘I made it for you when I was nine and then I think we had an argument over my not wanting to wear a bow for the school photos and so I never gave it to you,’ I explain as she picks up the card and gently traces her fingers over the unicorns and teddy bears I had drawn and decorated with sparkles, lace, buttons, and glitter. I had really been trying with the birthday cards and, after seeing her face year after year with all the goblins and ghouls, I had known what to do to make her happy but after the argument I didn’t want to give it to her and out of spite went back to my original designs from then on.