Filthy English

Hmmm. “Are you saying you don’t think I’m smart enough to graduate, and this is my fallback?”

“No, wanker, I’m saying this house is a steal for the money and you have that and more in the bank. Even if you don’t sell it, maybe it would be nice for you to put down some roots. That’s all.” He sent me a brotherly scowl through the phone.

Interesting. “Ah.”

We moved on to other conversation, mostly about the upcoming trial of Elizabeth’s attacker who’d broken into her apartment and attempted to kill her back in November. In the fray, he’d sliced the artery in Declan’s leg, and it had been touch and go for a while until we’d known he’d make it through surgery.

“He didn’t make bail, thank God, so he’s sitting it out in jail until the trial in January,” he told me.

“Any chance he’ll get off?” I asked. His father was a senator of North Carolina, but our father had deep political connections as well.

“I don’t know. Time will tell.”

That didn’t sound good, and I could tell he didn’t want to delve into the explanations with Elizabeth there, so we talked for a few more minutes until he had to leave for the gym, and then Elizabeth got on. We chatted for half an hour until she finally had to go take a shower.

Falling back on my bed, I stared up at the ceiling. Mulling. Brooding.

This summer I’d turned a corner; perhaps the day I’d driven out to the Hampstead Rehab Center to bring Spider home. He’d come out the front doors a withered version of himself, face gaunt, lines feathering out from his mouth. Drugs and being on the road had worn him down to a skinny whip of a guy. Even with the guiding compass of his bandmates, he hadn’t held his shit together.

And the thing that struck me the most—he was alone.

No groupies. No girlfriends. No parents that wanted him.

I knew the pain of being alone, when greedy people want something from you because you’re the son of a rich man or because you’re popular.

Remi had never been like that. She hadn’t kissed my ass when I’d treated her indifferently. Hell no—she’d strutted out of my room like she owned the place, sweater and all. Most girls would have gone along with whatever I said just to be near me, but not her.

She’d wanted a version of me that I couldn’t be at nineteen.

She’d wanted love although she’d never said it out loud.

I slipped on some jeans and walked into the large bathroom attached to my room. I washed my face and arranged my hair with my fingers, my brain running in all directions, mostly about what I’d do after I graduate. There’s not much out there with a degree in psychology if you didn’t go to graduate school.

What did that leave?

Bartend? Maybe. I did have four years’ experience of drinking at the Tau house and knew a lot about mixing alcohol. Billy, the owner of Cadillac’s, had offered more than once. He claimed I brought people in the door.

Work at Declan’s gym? I’d spent all last spring working out with him at his gym, and had really gotten into the fitness groove, but working for Declan? Mixing family with job responsibility is tricky.

Invest in the housing market? Hmmm. I didn’t know shit about houses.

You could learn. Maybe. The idea grew on me.

As if by instinct, my feet found themselves at my closet, and I reached up to the top shelf and pulled down a letter. It had been written from Mum before she passed away, and I carried it everywhere. Father had given one to each of us when we were thirteen years old: one for me and a different letter for Declan.

Letter in hand, I sat down on the bed.

Dear Dax,

This letter is goodbye, but please know I’m writing it with smiles not tears. I’m rejoicing because someday, when the time is right, you will read this, and there will be a connection, a gossamer thread that binds us together—you on earth and me in heaven. Perhaps a star will twinkle extra bright or a comet will race across the sky. Perhaps a dragonfly will land on your shoulder or a rainbow will be in your backyard. It’s me, becoming part of our infinite universe as I watch you grow.

I’m dying with cancer. There’s a slight chance I might live a few months longer with medication but it would make me very sick and tired. I don’t want to waste away in front of you. I want you to remember me as the fun mum, and with the time I have left, I want to spend every second with you playing Monopoly, making bangers and mash, singing “Hey, Jude” and “Here Comes the Sun.”

Am I scared as the hour of my death closes in? Yes. My heart breaks to know I won’t be here to carry you through the pain of losing me, the tumult of your upcoming teenage years, see you fall in and out of love, or experience the feeling of holding your own children.

But what I can leave you with is advice. You are young now, but someday I hope it gives you comfort to know that I too have been where you are, and I was far from perfect.

I got pregnant with you unexpectedly and married a man I’d fallen madly in love with but barely knew. You were both born, and soon he realized he’d never loved me. He wanted to go back to his home in the United States. It was not his fault. Please know this. Have compassion for him even though you barely know him. You can’t make someone love you and you can’t make them stay with you. But look at the blessings I received. YOU. If I could go back and change a thing about meeting your father and what happened, I wouldn’t, knowing you and Declan were waiting for me at the end.