Turn Us Again (13 page)

“Do you think I like to enjoy life too much?” Madelyn asked Louise, as soon as she entered the kitchen.

“I think life is very hard, and we should all try to enjoy it as much as possible.”

“Yes, but a person who concentrates only on the enjoyment of life becomes shallow.”

“What's the matter with you, Anne? Sorry, I mean Madelyn,” said Louise. “The other week you asked me if I thought you were intelligent and now you're worried about being shallow.”

“I just feel guilty about enjoying life too much.”

“Did Sam tell you that? You always take criticism so seriously, without questioning it. Who is he to set himself up as a moral judge?”

“He has certain rights to that position. He has a moral force in him, which makes him strive constantly to think objectively about things so he can come to honest conclusions. I need to think about whether there is truth in what he tells me.”

“He seems to me to be pretty judgmental. He's quick to see what's wrong with other people, but blind enough about his own faults. That's his tragedy. It's not okay for him to criticize you all the time. Are you just going to go on living day to day, happy on good days and ignoring the bad ones? You have to think about your future.”

“I don't understand why you're so down on Sam all the time. Don't you remember how you used to mock me for jumping from one party to another? It's all very well to enjoy oneself, but it doesn't promote growth or maturity, does it? That's all Sam meant.”

“It's not just the enjoyment thing. He's always trying to change you, one way or another. Setting himself up as your mentor or something.”

“Well, why shouldn't he? Do you know how highly his professors think of him? Have you read one of his papers? He's not stupid.”

“I can see that. I just don't think intelligence is as important as he thinks. He has a lot of problems.”

“Him and everybody else. I do think I love him, Louise. I know I love him more than I've ever loved the others. He is strength. He is passion. He is man. I like him guiding me, I just want to be sure he is guiding me in the right direction. He's trying to.”

“Why shouldn't you enjoy yourself?” Lavinia whispered.

EIGHT

M
y father has highlighted the words
That's his tragedy,
and written in the margin:
Again Madelyn is projecting her beliefs into Louise's mouth. It is her opinion that my judgmental attitude towards others and my blindness in regards to self forms the basis of the tragedy of my life. She had not formed such an opinion at this early stage of the relationship.

Like last time, the comment jolts me, reminding me why I am reading my mother's manuscript. The peal of the telephone ricochets through the house and I glance at my watch. It's past midnight, and I plunge for the phone to grab it before it rings a second time.

It can only be one person.

“It's past midnight, for fuck's sake,” I stage-whisper into the receiver.

“Is it? I'll never get the time difference right. You should have called me.”

I chuckle. “You know me and phones, Jen.”

“Just to let me know you arrived safely. Now tell me everything. Every detail.”

So I tell Jenny about my father, and the manuscript, and how weird the whole thing is. Despite the fact that I don't like talking on the telephone, once I start I can't stop. I describe the ‘characters' in the manuscript in great detail, how my father is emerging as a controlling bastard with a nasty violent streak, how he wants to tell me his side of things so this impression is mitigated.

She listens in absolute silence. “Wow, I don't envy you. That's pretty heavy.”

“I'm not sure what to say to him. Should I soothe him and say I agree, or argue when I think he's behaved badly?”

“I think he wants you just to read, listen and absorb. If I were you, I'd try to curb your emotions. I know it's hard, but try and treat it clinically, without judging. Ask your father to clarify when you think he's done something controlling, instead of labelling him a controlling bastard.”

“Well, he is. He's trying to stop her enjoying herself, and changing her name was fucking weird.”

“All men are controlling. You don't want to have children…”

“Neither of us can stand children!”

“You won't let me get a dog,” Jenny says in a mock whine.

“We both work full-time.” I prop my feet up on the table. I'm enjoying this. “I haven't tried to change your name, have I?”

“I know you think the name Jenny is boring.”

“There you go. Proof positive that I'm not controlling. Don't like name, but wouldn't dream of changing it.”

“You never use it. You're always calling me Smooty-Wooty and crap like that.”

We both dissolve into laughter.

“I think it's romantic, calling your beloved a name that serenades her beauty.”

“Do you find it sexy when a man is so jealous he gets violent? Because I've always wanted to punch that co-worker of yours in the face … what's his name? Dave? Would you want to ravish me if I landed him one on the mouth?”

“Honey, I want to ravish you right now. You don't have to punch Dave. You're quite violent enough to get my juices flowing,” Jenny says.

“Excuse me? I am not violent.”

“Okay, wrong word. Rough. I meant rough. You must have broken three sets of plates since I've known you. After every argument it's smash, smash, smash.”

“Everybody needs some outlet when they're angry. Breaking plates is harmless.”

“Harmless? When we have guests, everybody has a different pattern on their plate.”

“That's a good thing. It matches our chair situation. Two on hard chairs, one on an office chair and one on an arm chair.”

“And one on a pile of books in the corner.”

We giggle again.

“Gabe, from what you've told me, your mother is painting herself in a weird way, too. Almost like, negative. She seems vain and silly and superficial. Was that the way you perceived her?”

I think for a moment. “No. She was a wonderful mother. She certainly wasn't vain in my memory, and she was completely unselfish. It's funny that she looks back on herself in that way at a later age. Perhaps she is trying to be truthful and objective, observing her younger self from the vantage point of age. How strange — truthfulness and objectivity were the values she saw in Sam.”

“I wonder if she's gone too far, like she's absorbed his way of seeing her? It's so interesting.”

“Maybe she wanted readers to understand every viewpoint. Every character is a real human being, filled with flaws and strengths.

“But it sounds like all the flaws make it hard to identify with her character.”

“Not really — I like her character a lot. She's full of life and compassion and feeling. But it does seem to me like she's describing a total stranger. I adored her. And she was beautiful. Even my friends thought so.”

“And I adore you, Gab. Be nice to your Dad, he's dying.” Her voice softens. “What … what's the situation exactly?”

“Well, I usually spend most of the day by myself, and then in the evenings…”

“I meant with his illness,” Jenny interrupts.

“Oh. Well, he has cancer.” I pause, as two things hit me at the same time. First, that I still don't know exactly what my father is dying of and second, how insane that will seem to Jenny. “It doesn't seem too advanced. He's still looking after himself without any problems.”

“How long will he be able to do that? What's the diagnosis?”

“Umm, he doesn't really like to talk about it.”

Jenny's voice collides with my eardrum. “Are you serious? You don't know what your own father is dying of?”

“He made it really clear right from Day One that he doesn't want to talk about it. You have no idea what he's like when…”

“You're fucking unbelievable.”

“Jenny!”

“Sorry, but you make me angry sometimes. Now listen carefully, and I'll spell it out for you. You need to find out exactly what he's got and how long he's got. You need to make arrangements for him to move into a nursing home when he gets too ill to look after himself. Are you writing this down?”

“Yes,” I say, though I don't need to. I'm ashamed of myself.

“And don't judge him, at least to his face. He's dying. Please try to remember that.”

I hear the sarcasm in her voice. I want to protest that my father never refers to his illness, doesn't act sick, doesn't accept any special care — and might get very angry if I insist on talking about it. I have almost allowed myself to forget about it, swept along on the tide of his intense focus on the manuscript and my own cowardice.

Jenny's voice goes soft again. “I love you, Gabs. I can't believe you sometimes, but I love you.”

“I love you too, Smooty-Wooty.”

I fall into bed and don't wake up till the next afternoon. I spend a few hours walking around, sampling Indian take-out and visiting a park, feeding the ducks.

I return to my father's place in the evening, with fish and chips wrapped in newspaper. After dinner we settle by the electric stove, my father clasping the customary beer and snacks — tonight it's pretzels.

“Where have you got to?” he asks, diving into the manuscript without preliminaries.

The need to broach the off-limit subject of his sickness is uppermost in my mind, but I have to wait for the right opportunity. “I got to the place where you kick John Drake over at the party. Did that really happen?” Of course, I'd gotten to where they'd made love for the first time, but I wasn't about to discuss sex with my father.

“It happened. Your mother was an outrageous flirt. I cannot explain the mortification of wanting our love to be pure and holy — in retrospect of course that sounds innocent, but I was a young man and it was my first love — while she flitted about looking at everybody with the same expression with which she regarded me.”

“I do think she's being pretty fair, on the whole. She talks about you with great admiration, even adulation. And she often represents herself as a flippant, superficial character. Sometimes even bordering on silly.”

“Yes, she tries. But there is no real understanding of the pain she caused me by her behaviour.”

“I understand that this is her perspective. You are here, in the flesh, to clarify bits that are skewed. And you have written comments in the margins. There aren't a lot of comments. Does that mean you agree with most of the script?”

“It doesn't!” my father barks, “I commented beside specific remarks which demand explanation. Everything is from Mummy's point of view. Naturally — it's her manuscript. The built-up anguish that caused me to kick John Drake is not recorded at all. Don't wait till you see one of my comments to ask me questions. Every time I seem to behave in a heinous way, please point it out. I have a different perspective on events.”

“I will, father.” Heinous? He worries too much about everything, perhaps because he is unwell. He's just a human being, faulty like us all. Still, if he wants me to ask questions…

“The way you are presented here does make you seem a bit controlling.”

“She was right about that, and I regret it now. I think most couples waste too much energy trying to mold their mates in their own image. The tidy partner nags the messy partner, the abstainer nags the drinker, the spendthrift nags the spender. When you get older you look back and think, what a waste of time. Yet you can't impart your wisdom to new couples. It seems everybody has to go through this process.”

“Weren't you a little more controlling than the average partner?”

“She was frenetically trying to enjoy herself. How would you feel if your girlfriend flitted from party to party, flirting with all and sundry? I wasn't even sure that I was the only one she was sleeping with.”

I thought about Jenny. I wouldn't like it if she rushed about like that.

“What about changing her name?”

“Was that controlling? I never thought she'd change her name officially. I just wanted to call her something else myself. ‘Anne' was so inappropriate. Didn't you tell me your girlfriend's name is Jenny?”

“Yes. I know, it's boring.”

“Have you ever thought to call her something else?”

Smooty-Wooty, think I, shaking my head in denial.

“Well, I don't see why not, if you don't like the name. It seems to me that it's important to call the person you love a name you like.”

I can't think of anything to say to this. I look down at my hands, twiddle the papers. How to broach the subject of his illness?

“Please read out the next paragraph or two, so I know where you are,” he instructs peremptorily.

“Okay. Can I ask you a question first?”

“Yes.”

“It's been bothering me a lot…”

He leans forward in his chair, there is an excited look on his face. Poor guy, he probably thinks I'm going to delve deeper into a fuddled segment of the manuscript that he can resolve for me.

“I need to know more about your sickness, Dad. I want to help you, but I'm so far away. If I knew more about … timelines, perhaps I could make arrangements for you to move into a nursing home when it gets to the point that you'll need a little extra help.”

His face creases into disappointment as I speak. He waves his hand impatiently, dismissing me. “Everything has been arranged already. There's no question of a nursing home. As long as I'm
compos mentis
I'll stay right here. Currently a nurse comes in once a week to check on my situation. As soon as she perceives that I'm not in a condition to look after myself, a bevy of in-home nursing care providers will invade my oasis and no doubt madden me, but better than a nursing home, no? There's nothing for you to worry about or arrange. If you want to please your dying father you will continue to do exactly as you are doing. Now read, please.”

What a relief. The prospect of phoning and arranging complicated matters in a foreign country had been daunting. Still, dare I ask the precise nature of his terminal illness? “That's great, you're obviously on top of everything. But I will need to come back. I need to … what do you have, Dad?”

“Cancer.”

“In your…?”

“Everywhere. Riddled with it.”

“When…?”

“Could be two weeks. Could be six months. No more than a year.”

I sit blinking at him owlishly, shocked. Jenny's right — I'm an idiot. It just never occurred to me that the outlook was so bleak. He'd been acting so … unsick all the time, looking after himself and me. Trotting around the house and even looking after his garden.”

“Now read!” he snaps.

I jump a little, glance at his face, which is working furiously to control his impatience. No way two weeks. I clear my throat. “The next bit is from the diary.”