sure.
‘I have to go back in,’ she said to Dad.
Dad acted as though he hadn’t heard her. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was too caught up in the story.
‘Eric, I’m going. An hour or so.’
Dad read on. I sat up in bed — I’m pretty sure I would have — and reached out to Dad, to the book. ‘Dad, she has to go to work, okay?’
‘Don’t go in tonight, Martha. I’m asking you not to go.’ He definitely said that. I remember, because his voice sounded weird, tight, as though something had gone down the wrong way.
‘I have to,’ she said. ‘He wants me in there.’ And then she was gone.
Dad kept reading. He read to the end of the chapter, then he started on the next one. I fell asleep.
The next day, he was gone. Mum had dark circles under her eyes, and her actual eyes were puff y and red. I remember asking her where Dad had gone, and she said she wasn’t sure. I asked when he was coming back, and she said she didn’t know. I asked her why he had gone away, and she didn’t know that either.
That is what I believe to have happened. I am reasonablysure that it went something like that. Sometimes, when I let the evening run through my head again, it turns out differently. It’s a little bit like the Santa and the chimney memory. Sometimes I’m not sure whether it ever happened at all.
The perfume smell is different. That, I remember for sure.
OF COURSE, I ASKED Mum again, many times, about my father’s disappearance. She always had the same reply. She didn’t know. She wasn’t sure.
Some kids at school started saying he was in jail for theft. When I told Mum, she laughed.
‘Poppycock,’ she said. ‘Absolute rubbish. Tell them to mind their own business.’
The next rumour was that he had gone away to live with another woman. When I told Mum that one, she said nothing at all.
Of course, I asked again, many times. As I got older I tried to put the questions in other ways. I’d try to trick her, casually build them into other conversations.
The replies were always the same. She didn’t know. She wasn’t sure.
I asked her if he ever tried to contact me. ‘No,’ Mum replied, and I felt so angry with him, I never asked that question again.
We had no relatives, and most people I knew had arrived in the neighbourhood after my father left. Besides, it’s not really the sort of thing you ask other people. Excuse me, just wondering, do you happen to know where my father is? I think, looking back, I just decided the best thing would be to simply wait for him to come back.
Over time, people stopped talking about us, about my father’s absence. Oh, now and again, something would happen — a mother who’d lived in the neighbourhood as long as we had would be talking to me and I’d see her look at me strangely. She might go to say something to me, then stop. And I’d know that she’d remembered there was something odd about me, about my situation .
But lots of my friends, those who lived in the townhouses that annoyed my mother so much, had just one parent. Mum never realised it, but aside from the house, we were a pretty normal family. She started talking in that strange old-fashioned way. She closed off her old life, like the ending of a story, and turned herself into a mysterious, private snob living in a grand mansion, surrounded by agrarian women and townhouse peasants.
ON HER THIRD VISIT, Mrs Button meant business. You could tell. She stomped in through the back door without knocking. She was carrying her sandals, one of the heels had snapped right off. She was holding it in her other hand.
‘That bloody back path,’ she said. ‘The heel went down a crack, I nearly went right over. Where’s your mother?’
I pointed towards the big lounge. ‘She’s in there already.’
She threw both her sandals in the corner of the kitchen and marched through, calling Martha . I kept out of the way until I knew they were settled, then I went to the stairs.
‘The first open home will
‘I have to go back in,’ she said to Dad.
Dad acted as though he hadn’t heard her. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was too caught up in the story.
‘Eric, I’m going. An hour or so.’
Dad read on. I sat up in bed — I’m pretty sure I would have — and reached out to Dad, to the book. ‘Dad, she has to go to work, okay?’
‘Don’t go in tonight, Martha. I’m asking you not to go.’ He definitely said that. I remember, because his voice sounded weird, tight, as though something had gone down the wrong way.
‘I have to,’ she said. ‘He wants me in there.’ And then she was gone.
Dad kept reading. He read to the end of the chapter, then he started on the next one. I fell asleep.
The next day, he was gone. Mum had dark circles under her eyes, and her actual eyes were puff y and red. I remember asking her where Dad had gone, and she said she wasn’t sure. I asked when he was coming back, and she said she didn’t know. I asked her why he had gone away, and she didn’t know that either.
That is what I believe to have happened. I am reasonablysure that it went something like that. Sometimes, when I let the evening run through my head again, it turns out differently. It’s a little bit like the Santa and the chimney memory. Sometimes I’m not sure whether it ever happened at all.
The perfume smell is different. That, I remember for sure.
OF COURSE, I ASKED Mum again, many times, about my father’s disappearance. She always had the same reply. She didn’t know. She wasn’t sure.
Some kids at school started saying he was in jail for theft. When I told Mum, she laughed.
‘Poppycock,’ she said. ‘Absolute rubbish. Tell them to mind their own business.’
The next rumour was that he had gone away to live with another woman. When I told Mum that one, she said nothing at all.
Of course, I asked again, many times. As I got older I tried to put the questions in other ways. I’d try to trick her, casually build them into other conversations.
The replies were always the same. She didn’t know. She wasn’t sure.
I asked her if he ever tried to contact me. ‘No,’ Mum replied, and I felt so angry with him, I never asked that question again.
We had no relatives, and most people I knew had arrived in the neighbourhood after my father left. Besides, it’s not really the sort of thing you ask other people. Excuse me, just wondering, do you happen to know where my father is? I think, looking back, I just decided the best thing would be to simply wait for him to come back.
Over time, people stopped talking about us, about my father’s absence. Oh, now and again, something would happen — a mother who’d lived in the neighbourhood as long as we had would be talking to me and I’d see her look at me strangely. She might go to say something to me, then stop. And I’d know that she’d remembered there was something odd about me, about my situation .
But lots of my friends, those who lived in the townhouses that annoyed my mother so much, had just one parent. Mum never realised it, but aside from the house, we were a pretty normal family. She started talking in that strange old-fashioned way. She closed off her old life, like the ending of a story, and turned herself into a mysterious, private snob living in a grand mansion, surrounded by agrarian women and townhouse peasants.
ON HER THIRD VISIT, Mrs Button meant business. You could tell. She stomped in through the back door without knocking. She was carrying her sandals, one of the heels had snapped right off. She was holding it in her other hand.
‘That bloody back path,’ she said. ‘The heel went down a crack, I nearly went right over. Where’s your mother?’
I pointed towards the big lounge. ‘She’s in there already.’
She threw both her sandals in the corner of the kitchen and marched through, calling Martha . I kept out of the way until I knew they were settled, then I went to the stairs.
‘The first open home will
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