‘Did you take my phone?’
Callum holds his hands up. ‘Not me.’
‘It was right there, charging,’ she says, opening her bedroom door and pointing at her small bedside table.
‘I’m sorry, Georgia, I didn’t take it.’
‘Zac must have it, the little sod.’ She marches towards his room.
‘Hey, hang on a second. Zac’s gone out somewhere. Are you sure it hasn’t fallen off the table?’
He backtracks, about to help her search her room, but she blocks his way. ‘Dad, don’t – I’ve looked already and it’s not here. Besides, I know where I left it. What the hell has Zac taken it for? He knows I need it for the race.’
‘Call him,’ Callum suggests, holding out his own mobile. He watches as Georgia presses the phone to her ear, shifting constantly on the spot as she waits.
‘He’s not picking up,’ she says a short time later, handing the phone back. ‘Idiot.’
‘Georgia, stop judging him without letting him explain. He told Mum he’ll see us at the race, okay? We can sort this out then.’
‘So, I can just take one of your phones any time I like, can I?’ Georgia sighs so loudly he almost expects her to stamp her foot as well, like she had when she was a toddler.
She’s just nervous about the race, he tells himself.
He hears Anya’s words last night. She won’t cope with it. Feels a frisson of fear in his gut.
She looks close to tears.
‘What’s wrong, Gee Gee?’
‘Nothing.’
It used to be easy to tell when the kids were lying, but slowly, of course, they have become better at covering their tracks. However, there are still small tells, and Georgia has just displayed a few of them – cutting him off too quickly, turning away so he can’t see her face.
What is it that Georgia has to hide?
27
ANYA
As we head to the car, I am stressing about Zac’s disappearance, Georgia is ranting about her stolen phone, and Callum is rechecking bags and keys and house security in a rapid onset of OCD. The chances of any of us hanging on to our sanity for the entire day are not looking good.
‘Ready?’ asks Callum once we’re in the car. He glances across at me, turns to Georgia, we both nod, and he starts the engine.
Once we are moving, no one says a word.
I daren’t look at Callum. After our decision last night, we are co-conspirators, but I don’t feel comfortable with it at all. Until the race is done, it’s safest to keep quiet.
Why is it so easy to become disconnected from those we love the most? I know we are not the only family like this – the lines of our lives running parallel, the strive and struggle for moments of connection – yet such knowledge leaves me none the wiser as to how to make it work.
I recall Callum’s heated words last night. I don’t recognise myself in the judgemental control freak he described. Is he wrong, or could I have lost touch with my own behaviour?
I catch myself out. Black-and-white thinking is such a common psychological trait, and easy to spot. The problems lie with each of us; just as the answers do. I’m jolted by these thoughts. Where Callum is concerned, how much have I stopped thinking in colour?
What else am I missing here? Setting aside Georgia’s problems, what the hell is going on with Zac? Does Georgia know? Sadly, my maternal sixth sense has never extended to being able to prise information out of my kids. All I have to fall back on are the bonds that have been there since I carried each one of them inside me, their little limbs a twisting tangle that rippled and distorted my belly. These bonds might stretch but they’ll never break, so whenever I falter I remind myself that, first and foremost, the kids need me strong. That’s the best way I can build a protective shell around myself and keep going. But there’s a delicate balance between an outer layer that’s too hard or too fragile. It’s easy to lose sight of myself in the midst of it all.
I turn around and try to catch Georgia’s attention. She indulges me with a flash of eye contact, and when I smile she responds with a fake echo of upturned lips before she looks away. Each time my eyes find hers I see no recognition that I am a friend, somebody who might help her. It is hard to believe that this is the same girl who would once climb on my lap and bury her face into my neck to soothe herself. Whatever you think you see now, I want to say to her, that’s not who I am.