How We Remember Page 8

  Eleven

  After a shower I tidy the bed, glance at Shawn Mendes and say, ‘What the hell are you looking at?’ and decide to give him a five out of ten. I see my mother’s diary on the bedside table and fast-forward to the later pages, a dark time in Dave’s life, when he overdosed on Zoloft and had to have his stomach pumped.

  Nicole had little Amy with her, my God I can’t imagine what that was like. She dropped Amy off at her friends and took David in. He spent the night in the ICU, next day was sent to the hospital’s mental health unit and he ended up there for about two weeks. I feel so so drained at times.

  I forgot how badly things developed for my brother during that time after he and Nicole split up and the stress of work piled on top of him. Managing finances was never my brother’s strength. The potential for those bad periods when his energies were their most heightened and excitable was a frightening reality. When Ma talked about him over the phone I could hear the anxiety in her voice. With her heavy long sighs and pronounced silences I could picture her jaw clenching tighter, only just managing to exhale her cigarette smoke.

  ‘How’s he going to take care of himself when he’s old? His employment’s been on and off for years now,’ she said, stopping to take another drag. ‘He has no savings, no pension, nothing, and when he is making money it’s gone faster than he can put it in his pocket. I can’t begin to imagine what might happen to him later, Jo. I just can’t.’

  Unlike my father who never blinked an eye about how much to splash out when the treat benefitted him, my mother was fiercely conscientious about how she spent her hard-earned salary. She limited her bigger spending to her essential car purchase and annual breaks in the sun. When she had saved enough she bought her own little cottage in a nice Cape Cod town on a street with neighbours, who, for the most part, she said she ‘could relate to’. A builder and his family lived across the road. A retired nurse and her husband occupied the other end, a property manager lived next door to the right. They were all ‘very, very nice people. So friendly, Jo’, but ‘that family with all those noisy kids and all kinds coming in and out at all hours’ and the ‘snooty, yuppie couple in that big new-build place on the corner’ weren’t worth her time or effort. ‘There’s something funny about those yuppies. The way they look at us, like they’re better. I don’t know. It’s just a feeling.’

  In later years, when it became obvious that I was staying put in London, Ma would make a point of flying over to see me, without my father, of course, although the trips every two years tapered off when she grew bored with the rain and the prospect of me dragging her around on the underground to another museum or shopping on Oxford Street. She hated relying on public transport.

  ‘Aren’t there any malls nearby where we can park the car?’

  She hated the bustle and hard work of big city life and hoped I would grow tired of it and come back home.

  ‘Jo, I’m amazed at how easily you’ve adjusted to everything here. The expense of living in London. All these little houses attached to each other. Tiny flats. No built-in closets? Hardly any storage? The rain. I couldn’t do it, that’s for sure. But I’m so glad you’re happy. Really. I just want you to be happy.’

  Other treats she fitted into her budget were cigarettes and booze, always in full supply. Aside from these basics and occasional meals out, expenses like hair maintenance, clothes, shoes, accessories, stylish house furnishings or any luxury items, didn’t get much of a second look. In spite of the healthy stash I now know she was accruing with her biotech investment, she made it her mission to live a frugal life.

  The hopes that her children would follow her virtuous ways were fulfilled mainly by me. Unlike Dave, in my younger years I grew up with a sense of my position in the world that was aligned closely with my mother’s. I accepted I should never expect any sense of entitlement to anything. I continued to live out the expectations required of the good girl who never fussed. I ate that soggy McDonald’s burger without complaining and said thank you very much for the privilege.

  Over time I internalised an irrational fear of spending, convinced it would only lead me into poverty where I’d end up living on the streets. I saved every penny I earned from allowances, birthday money from my grandparents, money from all the times I helped look after my younger cousins and later when I did more babysitting. I saved until I acquired a fair amount to spend on something that was important to me; a record, a teen mag, a necklace or bracelet. Whatever I chose had to be worth it.

  My savings added up but were easy enough to manage without a bank account, so I continued to stash the money in a special place in the back area of my underwear drawer. One day, Dave found my hiding place. He must have been around sixteen at the time. I only discovered this when I came home from a friend’s one Saturday afternoon. I guess it was nothing new that the house was empty except for Dave who was upstairs.

  ‘Oh, hi. Yeah, hi, Jo. What’s up? What’s goin’ on?’

  His voice was nervous and hesitant although he was acting nice to me. He was packing a bag of clothes in a rush. That was probably the moment when I sensed something was up.

  ‘Hi. Nothing. Just been at Donna’s. What’re you doing?’ I sat on the corner of his unmade bed. ‘You going somewhere? You staying at Dom’s tonight?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess,’ he said, not looking at me. ‘I’m running late though, so I’ll talk to you later.’

  Off he went jumping down the stairs. My instincts compelled me to wander over to the drawer to look at my money envelope. I used to enjoy counting the notes, feeling the smooth material of the older ones next to the crisper new ones in my hands. By that time I had acquired around fifty dollars, which would have gone a long way in those days. I must have sensed something funny going on with Dave and my instinct was right. When I pulled back my underwear to find the envelope I saw it was gone and in its place was a sloppy, handwritten note on a letter-size sheet of white paper that read, Jo, Sorry I had to borrow your money. Will pay you back. There was no signature.

  I screamed a prolonged ‘No!’ as I heard the front door slam shut.

  I ran as fast as I could and managed to reach him as he was running out of the driveway toward the main road. Coming up from behind I pushed Dave with all the strength I could muster. When he turned around I swung fast and hard, then kicked, aiming near the groin. I thrashed my arms around in a fury and scratched his bare arms and neck. I punched his stomach with everything I had, then pulled at his arms and hand, sending the bag sailing into the street with most of its contents spilling out – a pair of jeans, some T-shirts, underwear, toothbrush and other small items. I headed fast toward the bag scanning with my eyes for the envelope but Dave was taller, bigger and much stronger. He didn’t hesitate to throw me down with one quick push. I landed heavily on my wrist and arm. The gravel of the pavement tore through the fabric of my shirt and scraped my arm, which began to bleed. Dave started gathering his things quickly.

  ‘I said I’ll pay you back,’ he shouted.

  ‘I didn’t say you could take it. I want it back. Now,’ I screamed long enough to create a stir on our quiet street.

  By this time some of the neighbours had opened their curtains or their front doors, their glares not showing concern but annoyance. Dave wasn’t deterred by them or my tears. When I tried to stand he didn’t hesitate to send me back down to the ground, the final brutal climax, with a sudden vicious thump aimed at the middle of my chest as he shouted, ‘Fuck off.’

  I fell hard again and hit my head. He hesitated only for seconds to see if I could open my eyes. As I wasn’t going anywhere at that point he had plenty of time to grab his stuff, run to the corner and disappear.

  I was left sobbing on my own in the middle of the road, trying to catch my breath, snot bubbling out of my nose, my head pounding. The neighbour directly across from us, the heavy-set, soft-featured mother of a girl called Barbara who I used to play with, stepped out with rollers in her hair, wearing a white polyester house-dress.


  ‘Come on inside,’ she said, and led me through her living room and into the kitchen, shaking her head back and forth in disgust.

  ‘I hate him, I hate him, I hate him,’ I mumbled through my tears.

  I wondered where Barbara and the two older brothers were. Barbara never said much about their absent father. He left when she was around three, but somehow they always managed just fine without him. I always wanted to know just what their secret was.

  Mrs Molina cleaned my arm, bandaged me, gave me a glass of milk with two Oreo cookies. ‘Now get yourself home, take two Tylenol and lie down,’ she said. ‘When’s your mother coming home?’

  Dave called a couple of days later to let my mother know that he would be away in New Hampshire, something about factory work. All went silent after that for a month or so when he headed back to Massachusetts to stay with friends. I’m not sure now what made me angrier: his vanishing act, how it upset my mother, or that he never paid my money back.

  Finally I return Dave’s many voicemail messages, starting with a long and feeble apology about how I forgot to turn on my phone. I listen to him holler about how deceitful our Ma was all that time she was hoarding her money from her investment over the years when she could have, at the very least, thought about her only grandchild, his daughter Amy’s needs, her future, things like college money.

  ‘You know, if Ma and Dad didn’t mess things up so much when we were kids,’ he shouts down the phone, ‘well, maybe I wouldn’t expect any favours, but this is the least she could have done for me. She could have at least treated me with fairness and the same respect she’s given her golden girl, Jo.’

  ‘Whoa, hold on there, Dave. Golden girl? That’s not exactly fair.’

  ‘And won’t Dad already have enough with the cottage in Cape Cod that Ma bought and now the sweet pension and savings she worked so hard for? What’s he done to deserve all that when he treated her the way he did? Huh? Tell me.’

  ‘Well, I think…’

  Dave’s speech grows more rapid as he interrupts me, with short breaks between thoughts to inhale his cigarette, clear his hoarse throat, or cough. ‘I’m not trying to lash out at you personally, Jo, but Ma was always “Jo this, Jo that” and then I’m the one who’s painted as the thicko, the lame one. How could she…tell me, how could she be so cold? She must’ve known I’d feel this way. So now, now she hasn’t even given me the chance to grieve for her the right way. All that time she was in that hospice saying her goodbyes and all that and never once did she give any hint of this except to keep saying stuff like, “Make sure you take care of yourself, David. Be happy and focus on the important things, one day at a time,” blah blah and the twelve-step Narcs Anonymous shit. I should be in a different state of mind to grieve, but now she’s just fucking pissed me off. I didn’t ask for this, you know. Of course I loved Ma, you know, she was good to me, but she shouldn’t have done this.’

  The rant continues. Every now and then I try to interject to defend a mother who lost many nights’ sleep over the years worrying about her beloved son. I remind him about the difficult times when he got into trouble with money and drugs, and ever so carefully, I remind him of the time she mentions in her diary when his credit-card charges added up to over $7000.

  ‘You can’t hold a person’s mistakes against them for ever, Jo. That was a long time ago and things are different now. No, it’s not like that now. It’s not.’

  ‘Ma wrote to me once about how proud she was that you wanted to apply for an engineering degree. Remember when you wanted to do that? Why don’t you read some of the letters she wrote to me?’

  ‘No,’ he says, ‘I don’t need to read the diary or the letters, don’t want to know anything about them, thank you. Maybe if she let go of some of that money years ago I could’ve got through school. Did she ever consider that obvious thing, Huh? Did she?’

  I check my reflection in the mirror while Dave continues to offload. I’m definitely looking fifty-four today.

  ‘She only made this arrangement with the money because she wanted to know that if your moods got out of control and if drugs became a problem again that your finances would be safe,’ I say. ‘And you know Dad’s not going to live for ever. When he goes everything else will be split between us. It’s not like you’re going to be suffering. And having an extra twenty grand a year now is like having another salary, and you don’t have a dependent child now.’

  ‘Yeah, well that’s all easy for you to say from where you are because you’ve got this lump sum. And I’m guessing your salary is pretty good doing what you do, and, sorry to say this, but no family responsibilities. I know that’s not your choice, Jo, but that’s the way it is, you don’t have kids and you’ve been able to keep having your fancy vacations. Well, I’ve never seen anything close to a Greek beach in my life. I wouldn’t mind a real vacation, all I ask is for some of the things other people like you and Jon have.’

  I shake my head in the mirror. As I move in closer I’m shocked to spot a couple of chin hairs. Using my fingernails as tweezers I manage to pull one but stop there and return to the conversation. By this time I know I have to control myself, think hard before I say anything that will make things worse.

  ‘Well, I did work hard for our honeymoon and it’s not like we have Cape Cod and guaranteed summer on our doorsteps here. Plus, I can’t tolerate the heat of those places during the British summer now and on top of that I’ve had to cut down to part-time and that means less pension.’

  ‘OK, so that’s a good point, so why didn’t she do your deal in instalments like her plan for me, knowing what your disability is like, huh? Tell me that. So you’re not tempted to blow it all on another vacation. Yeah, we’re both disabled.’

  I cringe at the label, and think, yes, I’m doomed too.

  At this point I hear his voice cracking just a bit, although I know he’s not really crying.

  One of the times when we were visiting Ma at the hospice I broke down outside her room. Dave showed some honest compassion in his eyes.

  ‘Oh, Jo. You know I want to cry too,’ he said. ‘I feel the pain just like you do, there’s a lot of pain in here,’ he pointed to his heart. ‘But it just won’t come.’

  At the time it felt like a special moment of sharing, enough for me to close my eyes and nod in sympathetic agreement. ‘It’s not unusual,’ I said, pulling myself together, ‘for many men who’ve been conditioned by society to act like impenetrable iron men of steel. Just look at Dad.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he agreed, patiently. ‘That’s kind of true. But it’s more to do with my meds. I used to cry a lot on my own when I was young, like a little fucking baby, but since all that time in the hospital, then all the different meds… it’s all gone. Dead.’

  Now I pause for a moment and hold the phone away from my ear while he continues to complain about his hard lot in life. When it’s my turn I have a go with my best shot at squeezing in the last word. ‘Well, our disabilities are different, aren’t they? Yours is different. All the kind of instability that comes with having moods that go up and go down. I mean, that must have been what Ma was thinking when she did this.’

  Long silence.

  ‘Hello? Dave?’

  ‘OK. We all have our demons, don’t we? Look, I need to go. I’ll see you at dinner later.’

  Twelve

  The sight of my mother’s disabled parking blue badge on the car’s dashboard is unsettling. Am I turning into my sick, old mother well before my time, yet without the same fortitude? Waiting in her car to meet Dave for dinner, reading through a draft for a journal article I’ve been writing, is a frustrating and futile effort. My eyes pass over the same page repeatedly as though the words aren’t mine. It’s as though an alien power has invaded my brain and is attempting to send a message, written in an unfamiliar language, in the form of incomprehensible drivel. I close my eyes, count to ten, tell myself this isn’t the time to attempt scholarly heights. It’s also the moment I remember I’ve fo
rgotten to contact Jon again. And then Dave texts, says he’ll be a little late, he’s leaving his car behind, catching a cab, and tells me to wait for him at the bar where they make killer margaritas.

  Dave’s chosen a place he knows well, one that specialises in a grilled menu. My family have always liked their meat and nice and charred it must be. If they could fire up the barbecue on Christmas day they would. I was a bit anxious about driving here, finding parking in Davis Square, Somerville, and having to walk a fair distance, but then remembered Ma’s blue badge and thought, jackpot. Let’s make life easier today. I’ll step out with my cane and not feel bad about it. Hey, I’ve earned the privilege. Today I can call the shots.

  While I’m sipping away at my big strawberry margarita at the quiet bar I look out the window and spot three white male teens, maybe fifteen or sixteen, hovering at the nearby bus stop in hoodies and jeans that sit low in a way that annoys older folk. All carry skateboards. One laughs at something, starts to shout. He sets down his board, then positions one hand on his jutted hip, the other under his chin. The others laugh in encouragement. I notice the object of the joke is waiting at the same stop some distance away; another white boy, similar age, fair-skinned and slight, a bag across his body. His purple pants are noticeably tight and his hair is shaved on both sides, the top in a ponytail. His blond locks look bleached with darker roots showing at the base. I can see from here that his eyebrows appear to be pencilled in a darker hue. He’s got the kind of pretty face I always wanted when I was that age.

  A bus arrives and I’m relieved to see him skirt to the front of the line and get on quickly while the skateboarders stay behind. All three of them are shouting now, their voices screeching like angry crows. Their steps follow the direction of the boy’s movement as he heads to the back of the bus where he disappears to the other side.