What Goes Around

chapter FORTY TWO

Lucy

‘I’ll run you a bath.’

I’m on about my tenth cup of tea since mum arrived.

I thought mum would sweep in with a thousand questions, or tell me off and just lecture me, but she hasn’t really said anything.

Neither have I.

She just keeps making me tea and I keep on drinking it.

I’m so dehydrated and I’m all shaky. I feel like I should have felt when he died.

‘Come on.’

‘I had a shower this morning.’

‘Lucy.’

I go upstairs and I don’t look in the mirror. I bought a packet of razors the other week but never used them.

I use them now.

Unkempt.

I never thought it would be a word that might apply to me.

I come back down and I lie on the couch and mum comes over, she takes my feet in her lap and she gets to work with the clippers.

I hear unkempt with each clip and I see the last bits of fading red fall away.

The last time things were perfect.

Except, they weren’t perfect then.

Far from it.

I can see that now.

‘You need to get your hair done,’ Mum looks up from my feet. ‘It’s important that Charlotte sees you taking care of yourself.’

I nod. I can’t really afford the hundred and twenty quid I used to fork out all the time and, with the mess it’s in, Ricky will charge me way more than that.

‘Oh,’ she goes and gets rid of my toenails and then she goes in her purse. ‘I forgot, I owe you sixty quid.’

‘What?’

‘For the dress I got for Charlotte to wear at the funeral. I never gave you the change.’

‘You did.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘You did.’

My mum is not paying for me to go to the hairdressers.

But, I am going to go.

Just not yet.

Muttering and stuffing the money back in her purse the phone rings and mum answers it.

‘No, this is her mother,’ she says and rolls her eyes as she gives her name – Valerie Jones. ‘Yes, she’s here with me now. Charlotte’s staying at her…’ she pauses for a minute. ‘With Gloria Jameson and she’ll be back here tomorrow.’ She holds up her hand and makes a yap yap motion and she takes me by surprise.

I sort of expected her to revere to the social worker, to lower her voice, to be as I would.

But she’s not me.

And I’m not her, I realise.

‘She doesn’t drink,’ Mum says. ‘Well now and then she does but she’s certainly not an alcoholic. I’d know…’ and she is wiping down the kitchen bench as the social worker says something. ‘Because I am one!’ Mum doesn’t give a fag who knows. ‘I’ve been sober for eighteen years,’ she says proudly. ‘I go to my meetings every day and I’d certainly know if my daughter had a drinking problem. If she’d just gone and got a bloody carton of cream this could all have been avoided.’

I never thought I would again but hearing my mum, I almost, almost, smile.

But Luke’s right, it isn’t just about the missing cream and when she speaks on I start to cry.

‘I don’t think it will happen again,’ Mum’s voice is serious now, ‘but we all know, Frances, that well it might. I have had a very long chat with her and we both agree that if it does, and,’ she reiterates, ‘I doubt it will but, if it does, she’s to ring me and I’ll watch Charlotte. She was supposed to be on a sleepover when it happened,’ my Mum points out. ‘Lucy only set up her binge when she thought Charlotte was well out of the way. Tomorrow, I’m taking Lucy to see her GP,’ she comes over and puts her arm around me. ‘Yes, Frances,’ she says to the social worker. ‘I guess we do have a plan.’

‘I mean that,’ Mum says when she hangs up the phone. ‘You are to call me if you’re going to go on a bender.’

‘It won’t happen again.’

‘But if it does.’

‘It won’t.’

‘I won’t try and stop you,’ Mum says. ‘I won’t say a word, but you’re to promise me that you’ll call me and I’ll take Charlotte.’

I nod.

But that’s not enough for Mum.

‘I promise.’

‘Good,’ Mum says. ‘I think they’re going to close.’

‘Close?’

‘Close the case.’ Mum’s more than used to it. ‘They just need to know that Charlotte’s safe,’ she squeezes my shoulder. ‘Bloody hell, Lucy, why didn’t you just go and get some cream?’

‘I didn’t want to leave her,’ I say. ‘I was scared she might wake up and not know where I was…’

Like I used to.

I don’t say that, I’m not trying to hurt her now.

‘Do you think she’ll forgive me?’

Mum looks at me and I realise then that I just did.

Hurt her.

I realise what a cruel question I’ve asked her, because, after all these years, I’ve never once forgiven her.

I don’t even know if I do now.

‘That’s up to Charlotte,’ Mum says.

‘Do you think we’ll ever get back what we had?’

‘Probably not,’ Mum’s always honest. ‘You might just get even better.’