Again? I open my mouth to protest, only to snap it shut again. Over the last couple of years since Dad died, I’ve watched Sonny worm his way back into Mum’s life. When Mum first introduced him to me, about two months after Dad’s death, she said he was an old friend. Wasn’t quite sure I believed that. Too many times I’ve watched him watching her and that look on his face … Like he’s already nuts about her and is trying – and failing miserably – to hide it. No … actually, it’s more than that. Sonny is seriously hung up on Mum but, judging by his demeanour when he’s around her, it isn’t exactly making him happy.
‘That OK, love?’ says Mum. ‘About Sonny joining us?’
I shrug. ‘It’s your house too.’
She bursts out laughing. ‘Why, thank you!’ Her smile fades. ‘Troy, why don’t you like Sonny?’
‘Never said I didn’t,’ I reply.
‘You never said you did either.’
‘Don’t think about him one way or the other,’ I lie.
‘Troy, can’t you—?’
‘What?’
Mum sighs. ‘Never mind. Go change and do your homework before dinner.’
For once, I don’t argue. Appetite gone, I throw the barely touched apple in the bin before I leave the kitchen. After the crap day I’ve had at school, I really don’t need it to continue at home. The last thing I want is a row with Mum.
Sonny …
Dad was barely cold in his grave before Sonny came sniffing around, presenting himself as a friend who had not just one but two shoulders for Mum to cry on. Recently, during the last couple of months, Mum and Sonny have started having dinners out alone, just the two of them. I know Dad died over two years ago, but it’s too soon for Mum to be dating again. And if Sonny thinks he’s going to replace my dad …
Listen to me. Damn it! I feel like a selfish dickhead with a huge dollop of arsehole on the side. Shouldn’t I give Sonny more of a chance for Mum’s sake? He obviously loves Mum and is waiting patiently for her to see him as something more than a friend. And Mum deserves to be loved. But who am I trying to kid? I’ve tried – tried hard – over the last few months, yet I still haven’t warmed to Sonny. Would I feel the same about anyone trying to fill the gap left by my dad? Probably. But in this case it’s Sonny.
And I don’t know what to do about it.
ten. Libby
* * *
My heart thumps as I put the key in the front door. Home is where the heart is, but my heart isn’t here. I never relax when I open the door, never feel at peace. In fact it’s just the opposite. School, homework, being head girl, going to a good university, becoming a doctor, they’re all rungs on the ladder of escape to get me out of this house. Up or out, I don’t particularly care which, as long as it’s away from here. Away from her. I can’t afford to fail, yet sometimes my fear of failure cripples me. I’m scared of starting to get away, testing and tasting what it’s like on the other side, only to take a false step and be dragged back down into the mire Mum calls her life. Our life. No! Once I’m out of here, I won’t let her get hold of me. If I do, she won’t just drag me down, she’ll push me under and drown me.
I’m afraid of drowning.
Always have been. I love the sea – when I’m standing on a beach. I can put up with swimming if I’m in the shallow end of the pool and within an arm’s length of the side at all times, but I hate being in water. The thought of having my head submerged makes me break out in an icy sweat.
I don’t need a head doctor to tell me why either.
Mum’s little game when I was a toddler.
She used to hold me by my feet when I was in the bath and pull. She never pulled me all the way under the water, just till my chin was wet usually. Sometimes my bottom lip. Once or twice my top lip. Just enough for me to scream and panic and cry. Then just enough so I couldn’t scream. And afterwards the coughing and tears were always dismissed by Mum. After all, it was just a joke. Just for a laugh. Ha ha.
Where’s your sense of humour, Libby?
It drowned a long time ago.
I have showers now. Only showers. Always showers.
Mum has resigned herself to who and what she is. She hasn’t changed in all the years I’ve known her and she’s proud of the fact that she’ll never change. Her mind, her views, her attitudes, her few loves and many hatreds, they’ll be with her till the day she dies. And top of her hatred list is my dad. He found out she was pregnant and did a runner apparently. Mum hasn’t seen him since. And me? I know nothing about him and that’s fine by me. If he doesn’t want me, I don’t want him either. Most of Mum’s modelling and acting work dried up years ago, but we do OK, I guess. We have a roof over our heads and food in the fridge. And the bills get paid. I’m not sure how, when Mum only gets maybe one paid acting or modelling job a year as far as I can see, but somehow we get by. It’s probably thanks to the parade of boyfriends Mum has brought to the house over the years. So yeah, we manage.
But it’s not enough.
I push open the front door yet make no attempt to enter. Not yet. The smell of stale rubbish, even staler perfume and red wine hits me like a wrecking ball. The house stinks like a seedy wine bar.
‘Mum?’ I whisper.
No reply.
A deep breath. Louder this time. ‘Mum?’
No reply.
A sigh of relief. Huge and heartfelt. I shouldn’t feel this way, elated at being alone, reassured by the house being empty.
But an empty house is the only time this place feels even remotely like home.
Home means my music and my choice of food to eat without constant criticism.
Home means serenity and calm.
Home means the absence of fear.
A home without Mum means peace.
I glance down. A single envelope sits on the doormat. A letter addressed to me. Unusual. I never get letters. Frowning, I bend to pick it up. A white envelope, no address on the back. As I head upstairs to my bedroom, I tear open the letter and begin to read.
What I read stops me in my tracks midway up the stairs.
What I read sends shock waves cresting through my body.
Time stands still as my mind races. So many pieces of the puzzle of my life with Mum begin to fall into place. My expression set, I continue up, making for her bedroom.
I need to start digging. Mum has buried the truth and I need to find it. All of it.
eleven. Troy
* * *
It’s almost midnight. A single knock, then the door swings open. My sister, Callie, stands in the doorway, framed and posing. The only thing missing is a trumpet fanfare. God, she’s so extra! Callie swans into the room, barely glancing in my direction. Suppose I’d been doing something or watching something that required more than one knock’s notice? I close the lid of my laptop.
‘Hey, squirt,’ says my sister. ‘I was hoping you’d still be awake.’
‘If I wasn’t, I would be after that entrance. And my name is Troy. It’s one syllable for God’s sake. T-R-O-Y. Troy.’ Unbidden, Libby pops into my head, scowling at me as I call her Princess Petunia. The dog of hypocrisy starts nipping at my heels. I ignore it.