Woman Last Seen(2)
Plus, not strictly accurate.
My husband and his sons are out. The thought flickers into my head, nips hard and cruel. Even now. This sudden and brutal distinction wounds. Although, it hasn’t been sudden, has it? Not really. I might as well be honest with myself. It’s always been there. An imbalance that we are both aware of and try not to acknowledge ever. An imbalance that has been impossible to ignore for these past few months, Oli has started being insistent on highlighting the difference.
They are my sons. I always think of them as my sons, I love them as though they are. I couldn’t love them more.
I really couldn’t.
I have done everything a mum can. I have bathed them, nursed them, fed them, shopped for them, I have played with them—oh the endless, mindless games! I have taught them. Not just their alphabet and how to tie their shoelaces, I’ve taught them how to swim, ride their bikes, measure out cooking ingredients, fasten buttons, tie knots, tell the time, cross the road. I try to teach them everything I can about the world. I want to stuff them full of knowledge and fortitude and curiosity because these qualities will sustain them when I’m away from them. But sometimes—maybe it’s all the time—kids are not pliable. They don’t note or understand your grand motivations. They don’t know you are trying to keep them safe, help them grow. They just think you are the strict parent, the one that obsesses about homework and teeth cleaning.
They are my sons. No matter what Oli says.
It’s breaking my heart. Everyone warned me that this stage would come, somewhere in their teen years when they test boundaries, want to develop their own identities, set their own agendas, create new worlds, generally turn into little shits. My best friend, Fiona, jokes that Oli could be doing far worse things than calling me Leigh. He could be ditching school, shoplifting or getting high every night. I should be grateful, she says. I’m not, I’m heartbroken. Because this is not a stage, it’s a protest. A point. It is true I’m not their biological mum but I’m the only mum they have, so you’d think he’d accept I’m doing my best. We used to be so close.
We had another row about it this morning. I filled out a parental online form about his prom night. Just stuff about allergies (he has none) and giving him permission to get the coach that’s taking the kids on to the after-party (I agreed). Nothing controversial. He said I had no right. I’m paying for the bloody party.
Mark just said it wasn’t the day to get into it. He always says that. We shouldn’t get into it on a school day because kids doing GCSEs are under enough pressure, we shouldn’t get into it during the weekends or holidays because it will bring the mood down. We shouldn’t get into it on a day ending in y. Although we are always into it. Oli seethes. Grunts. Sulks and is monosyllabic a lot of the time.
When they go out—look, this is an awful thing to admit—but sometimes, when the door slams shut behind them, and I know there are walls between us, the silence changes. There’s often a silence that’s claustrophobic and accusatory but I feel freer. Without anyone’s gaze on me, it is easier to think.
They are visiting Mark’s sister-in-law. Mark has stayed close to his first wife’s family, her sister in particular. Usually I also go along to see Paula and her family, when Mark and the boys go, but today there are a number of reasons why I thought it was best that I leave them to it. I pointed out I have some phone calls to make, there is a stack of washing up to be done and the kitchen floor needs mopping. Sunday lunch has been quite eventful. While we were eating, our cat, Topaz, jumped onto the counter and paddled in the discarded, greasy baking trays in the kitchen, leaving a trail of oily footprints everywhere. He’s a big, greedy cat and somehow he managed to pick up the chicken carcass and throw it onto the floor, where it slithered and slid, leaving a trail of smeared poultry fat. Finding the cat hunched over the chicken carcass, gnawing on the bits of remaining flesh, led to a mini crisis as Seb panicked that the cat was going to choke on a chicken bone. He didn’t, he just spat and clawed aggressively when I separated him from his prize. I’m not especially house proud. Before I was a mother and wife, I used to keep my flat neat enough but then one day I read a fridge magnet that said, A CLEAN HOUSE IS THE SIGN OF A WASTED LIFE, and I realized I agreed with it more than almost anything else I had ever read.
I can’t bear waste.
Especially wasted time.
However, even with my fairly relaxed standards, I couldn’t leave the kitchen swilling in bird fat; the boys would walk it through to the carpets, Seb—who is a bit clumsy—would no doubt slip on it. So, I said I’d stay behind and make everything shipshape.
Besides, I hate graveyards.
Today is the anniversary of Frances’s death. Eleven years to the day since they lost their real mother. Mark’s first wife. My predecessor. The forerunner. Mark is taking the boys to visit her grave. Frances’s sister, Paula, her husband and their three daughters are going too. Frances is buried just minutes from Paula’s house and Paula often visits the grave—keeps it tidy by weeding and supplying fresh flowers. Paula’s three girls visit the grave so frequently that they talk about it in the same way as they talk about visiting their nana or going to the play park. “Shall we go and see Aunty Frances?” they cheerfully ask on a regular basis. I think it’s because they like buying flowers at the florist—what little girl doesn’t? Paula’s kids weren’t even born when Frances died but Paula keeps her alive for them, and for my boys too. She is forever telling Oli and Seb stories about Frances. She’s in a unique position to do this and I think it’s important for them to feel comfortable talking about Frances. I don’t think she necessarily has to be the main topic of conversation every time they see their aunt; sometimes it might be nice if Paula talked to the boys without breaking off midsentence to exclaim, “You like chocolate fudge cake? Of course you do, your mother loved chocolate fudge cake” (well, who doesn’t?) or “You remind me so much of your mum when she was your age. The spitting image.” The boys actually look like their dad, but I suppose they might have mannerisms inherited from Frances that I’m unaware of. I am not disrespectful of Frances. I understand that by all accounts she was a wonderful woman. Kind, patient, funny, clever. No one has a bad word to say against her (which honestly, I find a little hard to swallow—none of us is perfect). I also understand some people get a great comfort from visiting graves; they like to show their respect and demonstrate gone but not forgotten. I think grave visiting is morbid. And in this case, a power play.