Dinner that Mum cooked. Like she made us packed lunches every day. Her life was looking after us. Loving us. To show how much he loved her for loving us, Dad kept a small section of the garden for flowers and plants. For her. She had a deckchair there and would sit, book in hand, watching him work. Those are the happiest memories I have: the two of them, content, in love, whilst we played in the garden.
It was losing the garden that killed me more than losing the house. The day when she sat us down and told us that we were moving is definitely up there in the crappiest days of my life. I knew I had to be strong for Josh and Grace but, deep down, I wanted to bawl my fucking eyes out. We had lived in that house my whole life. I could remember every layer of wallpaper in my bedroom, every colour Dad had painted the kitchen, every room we had laughed in.
But the garden? I had helped him to create that. He had taught me all he knew from his own dad, a keen gardener. It was ours. His and mine.
She didn’t care about leaving the garden. Hell, she didn’t seem to care about leaving the house, even though it was filled with every memory that belonged to us as a family.
We had no say in where we moved to. She made all the decisions. Moved us to a godforsaken estate, crippled with crime. Moved us to a smaller house where we tripped over each other, unconsciously invading each other’s space. I get that she couldn’t keep up the mortgage payments once he’d died. But I didn’t get the way she could uproot us all, take away the one thing that tied us to Dad, in the way she did.
And now, her attempts at getting a job long-forgotten, she moves from one loser to another, each time surprised he doesn’t turn out to be half the man Dad was. Forcing us to pick up her pieces over and over again. I’ve learnt to cope, but it’s not fair on Grace and Josh. They don’t even have the same memories I have to remind me that life isn’t always this shit.
So I drive to the park.
The park where Dad used to take us as kids.
The park where I learnt to ride my first bike.
The park where I first told Neve I loved her.
The closest thing to home I’ve got.
I sit in the car park, put in my earphones and listen to every song that now makes sense to the broken man I am. I get it now: what all of those songwriters and poets are trying to express: every metaphor for heartbreak strikes deep within me, every wail replicates the sound of my own soul crying.
When I pull up outside our house an hour later, anger threatens to overwhelm me and make me do something I’ll regret. Everything I own, everything that is mine, is scattered across the front garden. Clothes are strewn everywhere, like flyers thrown from the skies. CDs dot the lawn. My laptop lies on the slabs, smashed beyond use.
And then I see her. Grace. Sat on the doorstep, crying. I lock up the anger and go to her.
“I tried to stop him, Jake. I did. But he was so strong. I couldn’t make him stop.” I sit next to her and put my arm around her shoulder. Try to make sense of the scene in front of me. “He was just so mad, picking anything up and throwing it out the window. And all the time he was saying really horrible things about you. What did you do, Jake?”
I couldn’t tell her the truth. Well, not all of it anyway.
“I hit him. He pissed me off. So I hit him.”
“He said you can’t come back, that he’ll leave Mum if she lets you back in. She was crying, but I don’t think she wants him to go, Jake. What are you going to do? I don’t want you to go. I don’t want to live here without you.” Her crying gets louder and I feel every sob rip through me, tearing at the little bit of heart I have left. That one impulsive moment has jeopardised everything I was trying to do for Josh and Grace.
“I’ll think of something. Don’t worry.” My words sound pathetic, even to me. What the fuck am I going to do?
“I saved this for you.” Grace pulls a frame from behind her. Tears fill my eyes at what I see, at knowing she understood the frame Neve gave me for Valentine’s Day was more valuable to me than my Xbox or laptop. I take it from her and mentally devour the selection of photos it holds.
Me and Dad.
Me, Grace and Josh.
Me and Flynn.
Me and Neve.
A twelve-inch square that reminds me of who is important in my life.
“Give me a hand picking this lot up?” I pull Grace to her feet and start collecting my things. She runs inside, coming back out a few minutes later with a duffel bag and a large pink box.
“It’s all I’ve got. The suitcases are in the loft.”
I pack my things into the bag and the box and put them in the back of the van. Grace lingers next to me.
“Where are you going?” Despite not having a clue as to what my next move is going to be, I don’t want to worry her. I also don’t want to make it worse by causing a scene. Not yet.
“I don’t know. Maybe Bill’s or Flynn’s. I’ll be okay. What are you doing tonight?” I was more worried about her than I was for myself. The roof over her head offered little protection if I wasn’t there.
“I’m sitting for Noah. When I get back, I’ll use my lock.” That said it all. I need to come up with a plan. Quick.