State We're In (21 page)

I said to him, ‘Hey, I have something that you might like.' And I noticed that his expression turned; it became a strange mix, somewhere between wary and hopeful. I wonder if he's one of the deep ones, or is he easy-going like me? ‘In the drawer,' I told him. He went over to where I was pointing and opened the bedside drawer; rooted about a bit in amongst the crosswords and the audio books that I'd borrowed from the hospital library. When I say borrowed, in truth the disc was foisted on me by a zealous volunteer visitor; she was a nice enough old thing, and I didn't have the energy to turn her down. ‘In the box,' I urged.

Dean pulled out the small tin box. It used to contain toffees. Not my toffees. I don't have a sweet tooth. One of the nurses saw that my bits and pieces were rattling around the bedside drawer and she was worried that something was going to go missing. I bet they get accused of nicking stuff all the time in here, so to cover herself she brought in a toffee tin and said I could have it. He was a bit slow about opening it. Cautious or dim. Not sure which. I had to urge him. ‘That's it. Open it.'

Dean prised open the tin. I knew the exact contents. A couple of photos: one of me picking up the Captain's Cup at the golf club a few years back – Vince Langton's wife brought that picture in when she visited – and another of Ellie and Hannah. It's out of date, taken when they were kids and used to ride horses. There's my address book, which has my contacts, including the solicitor's details and such – that will come in useful – some keys, my watch and the ring. Dean paused over Ellie and Hannah's photo; I could see that he wanted to ask me about it, but he didn't. Too much pride. Probably didn't want to give me the satisfaction of knowing he gives a fuck. He picked out the ring, held it between his thumb and forefinger like he was going to catch something from it.

‘Do you know what that is?' I asked.

‘A ring.'

‘Einstein, you are.'

‘A wedding ring,' he snapped.

‘That's it. Mine, from my marriage to your mother. I didn't wear a ring the second time round.'

‘Saves the trouble of slipping it off when you're in a bar,' he said. I thought that was funny, although I don't think he was trying to make a joke.

‘You can have it. I want you to have it.'

‘Why would I want your wedding ring?' he asked.

Truth is, I'm not sure. It's not likely that he'll wear it himself, is it? It wasn't exactly a fortuitous ring; it doesn't come with a history of good luck, health and happiness. But what else could I do with it? Since he was here, I thought he might as well take it. Otherwise I could give it to a nurse, one who might drop it in to a charity shop for me.

‘Well, it's yours,' I said with a shrug.

I thought he was going to sling it back in the tin, but he didn't. He muttered, ‘Thanks' and shoved it into his inside jacket pocket. I closed my eyes, oddly relieved. It's exhausting, this fathering business.

I must have fallen asleep again. Then when I woke up, it took me a minute to remember who it was exactly sat by my bed. He nearly smiled at me, caught himself and then sort of turned his smile into a peculiar shrug-cum-wink. It was his refusal to smile that helped me place him. My eldest child.

‘How are you feeling?' he asked. I tried to tell him
like shit
, but my voice wouldn't break through. He got me some water and I tried to take a bit, but it scratched to sip. A new sort of pain. More extreme. Then he did this thing that I was startled by. He dripped a few drops of water on my lips, the way the nurses do. Who had taught him that? Why did he think to do it? He pumped the syringe driver and asked if I wanted him to get a nurse. I must have looked bad. I tried to shake my head, but everything was uncomfortable, separate from me. I couldn't seem to hold my body together. I was losing consciousness. I do now. Drift. In. Out. The lad looked shocked. He stood up and called for a nurse. One came over. It wasn't this latest one, the one who's here this morning, come to think of it. Which is a relief. She tapped tubes and checked my charts and my catheter again, nodded and then walked away. Nothing to do. Dean looked scared.

‘Why did you ask me here?' he whispered. He looked wrecked, probably not that much better than I do. He's desperate. I know it now. He's not slick and showy, like he wants to appear. He
is
one of the deep ones. Poor sod. I knew what he wanted to hear. He wanted an explanation, an apology, a declaration of love. He wanted me, his father, to hand over a bundle of tatty letters and birthday cards that I'd secretly written to him over all these years but had never posted.

I couldn't.

I've never secretly written anything to him.

I have
thought
of him. I'm not an animal. At the beginning, the very beginning, I didn't think of him much. Frankly, I was just glad to be out of it. Didn't miss him at all, none of them. Smelly, noisy, demanding kids; hysterical, slovenly, demanding wife. But a few years after I'd left, I got to wondering about them a bit. Dean in particular. First born. Not so much the girl. Just a baby when I went. I didn't know her at all. But I'd almost known Dean. It was the almost that did it.

I met Bridget around that time. We got on. We got married. We had the new kids. I forgot him again. I'm not one for looking back over my shoulder. What's the point? But seeing him yesterday, I did fleetingly wonder, what would it have been like to know him? That must be the drugs talking. Chemicals in my body. It's not the sort of thing I usually think. Besides, I know enough. I know what Dean came here for. He wanted an outpouring and a balm. Or at least a bloody good row. He wanted a reason. I haven't got one that's good enough. If I ever had one, then I've forgotten it, but I suspect I never really did have a good enough reason.

‘You hurt me.' He whispered this close to my ear so I could hear him but no one else could. His skin is fine, clear. He has a face that looks like it has been carved out of marble: smooth, glossy, somehow beautifully intense. I bet he's always more at home with inhospitable climates than sunny ones. He looks used to raw, stinging environments. What has he been taught over all these years? I wonder. How and by whom? I tried to stay buoyant. I didn't want to hear what he was telling me. What would be the point? There's no room for all that now.

‘You didn't even know me. You were a little lad. I thought it was best to get out of there before you grew too attached.' It was a labour to get these words out. I'm not sure he understood me, even though his ear was practically in my mouth.

‘I am your son. You are my father. I was born attached,' he replied.

‘Don't be melodramatic. You couldn't have missed me; you didn't know me. I left before you got to know me.'

‘That's the worst of it.' His breath caught in his throat.

What could I say? Nothing. There was nothing that could restore his mother's health. No words that would wipe away the months that added up to years that he and his sister had spent in homes, so what the hell was the point in trying? None.

‘What I don't get is why now?' he said. ‘Why leave it so late? Why didn't you get in touch earlier?' I thought that possibly he was about to cry. I couldn't see clearly enough to know if his eyes were tearing up – my vision isn't what it was – but his voice gave him away. Despite working in the arts, I'm not that sort. I don't do tears. Men shouldn't. What was he crying over me for? He doesn't know me. I tried to head it off. Back to some facts.

‘Look, son … I'm glad you're here. Surprisingly pleased about it. But there's something you should know.' It was such a struggle to speak. Not sure if the problem was lack of breath or lack of words. Sometimes there just aren't words. The right ones. I know that. ‘I didn't ask you to come,' I told him, because it's the truth and that seems important. There's not much between us except a brutal reality. I don't want to muddy that now. The only real thing we have.

‘But the nurse who called me …' he stuttered, confused.

‘She took it upon herself. Soft bugger. Agency nurse from the hospice,' I explained. ‘She was here with me all last week and we got to talking about kids and things. They're trained to ask if everything is in order. I said it was, but she thought you should know I was here. You kids. Not me. Her,' I explained.

I have nothing to tell him or give him. Nothing to reveal. Nothing.

‘You didn't even ask me to come?'

‘No.'

‘Jesus. Not even that.' He pushed back his chair and walked out.

I suppose there's a good chance he won't be coming back. Some might call that poetic justice.

Me? I'd call it sad.

‘I
t's undoubtedly the high altitude that is making me cry,' I explain to Dean.

‘Undoubtedly,' he agrees in a way that makes it absolutely clear he doesn't believe me.

‘OK, that and the plot,' I admit. As the credits roll to an end, I put away my screen and stretch my arms above my head. ‘Did you see it was based on a true story?' I comment, through my sniffling.

‘Probably only loosely,' he replies with a shrug.

I have not managed to exercise any control; the tears ran down my face like a waterfall throughout the film. It had everything: true love, triumph over adversity and a bundle of cute, impoverished kids. Dean offered me a handkerchief at one point and I was strangely touched that he (a man who is so obviously the very epitome of the twenty-first century) possessed such an old-fashioned item, until I unfolded it and saw that it had a picture of a buxom naked woman printed on it; it was an ironic handkerchief. Who'd have thought there was such a thing?

Obviously Dean remained dry-eyed, but I could tell he was moved because he chewed his nails through the bit when the Russell Crowe character went cap in hand to beg for money so the electricity could be turned back on and his kids could continue to live with him.

‘Did you enjoy it?' I ask.

‘The boxing was stunning.'

‘The boxing was hell.'

He grins. ‘Paul Giamatti was good. They all were. It was a bit cutesy for my taste, but brilliant cinematography. Ron Howard is always reliable.'

‘It wasn't cutesy. You've missed the point. It was about an enduring, genuine love.'

‘Was it? I thought it was about the 1935 heavyweight championship.' I know he's teasing me, but I can't help rising to the bait. I don't have political causes the way other people do; the only thing I think is worth defending is true love.

‘Besides, they nearly
starved.
There's nothing cutesy about starvation,' I point out.

‘No, there isn't,' he agrees grimly, and then he shuffles uncomfortably in his seat, fiddling with the buttons that make the chair tilt or rise. There's a sudden sense of oppression in the air. It's not like he's an aid worker or a humanitarian; he works in advertising, for goodness' sake, an industry that will actively encourage people to starve or binge if they can make a quick buck. However, he's taken my comment
very
seriously. It's unnerving; no one ever takes me seriously, let alone
too
seriously.

‘What is your usual taste in movies, then?' I ask, pulling the conversation back on to easier ground. ‘No, in fact, let me guess. I bet I can name your five favourite films of all time.'

Dean raises his eyebrows with scepticism. ‘Go on then. I like a game.'

‘
Fight Club
.'

He lets out an abrupt short laugh and nods. ‘The first rule of Fight Club is—'

‘You do not talk about Fight Club.'

Dean looks impressed. ‘You've seen it?'

‘No. I wasn't tempted, not even to see Brad Pitt's half-naked, hot body. I know the rule because every man I've ever dated has quoted it to me as though it's some sort of profound truth.' I grin. Dean nods again; this time his nod communicates understanding, perhaps contentment. Men are an alien species. I was offended when he implied I am predictable, but men are different; Dean is clearly pleased that he's part of the right club.

‘OK. Lucky guess. What are my other favourite films?' he challenges.

‘Hmmm. Let me think. I wonder, are you a
Pulp Fiction
,
The Godfather
,
Braveheart
and
Apocalypse Now
sort of guy? Someone who thinks of themselves as a bit cool. Or might you prefer
The Terminator
,
Lord of the Rings
and
The Matrix
? A proper lad's lad.'

‘That's not fair. You've named about twenty films to cover your options,' objects Dean.

‘Am I wrong?' I smile. If there's one thing I know, it is popular boy-culture. I've had lots and lots of conversations like this. Too many.

‘No, you're spot on. But a real pro would make me choose between the various renditions.'

‘Well, with the interminable
Terminator
s … Snoring. Boring. Most people pick two,
Judgment Day
, but I think you might prefer the first one, when Arnie is a bad cyborg.'

Dean raises his fine eyebrow but doesn't comment. ‘And the
Rocky
movies?'

‘All five are the same, so I don't care.'

‘No they are not.' He makes a face to indicate mock offence.

‘Yes, I'm sure they are, although you should know when I make this pronouncement that I haven't actually seen them. Your favourite
Lord of the Rings
is
The Two Towers
because of the massive battle scene, and as far as you are concerned, nothing ever touched the original
Matrix
.'

Dean laughs out loud; his laugh rings through the cabin. I am suddenly aware that I haven't heard him laugh until now. He throws out charming (not always convincing) smiles and grins often enough, and makes sounds that approximate a laugh, sounds that certainly indicate he's amused, but his out-and-out laugh is something different altogether. It's a wonderful laugh that rings with tones reminiscent of heady nights out dancing and drinking wildly. I'm reminded of the occasions I've received a bouquet of flowers and plunged my face into the blooms to breathe in their scent. This particular laugh of Dean's offers promise; it is earnest and reliable. I feel strangely proud to have been the catalyst. His laugh catches the attention of other passengers too; they throw aggravated or jealous glances our way. I stare them down. I don't care about these other passengers, who yawn and snooze their way across the Atlantic, not bothering to swap a word; I'd almost forgotten they existed. But I do care about Dean Taylor.