‘Oh Rosie…’ I went over and gave her a hug.
‘But no one made you pancakes when you had your… your miscarriage. I’ve been thinking about you. That was horrible. You were so young. I can’t believe you were so young.’
‘It happened. It was really sad. It changed my life, yes. But I’ve no regrets. People have miscarriages and I do think of the baby and wonder about it, but it wasn’t meant to be. You were meant to be. And everyone needs someone to make them pancakes.’ I placed one in front of her, not wanting her to realise that I had thought about the baby I lost every single day since. ‘There we go. So tell me, how was your night? Did you sleep?’
If she had, then she was the only one of us who had slept that night. I had lain awake thinking about her, about what had happened and why, how much of it was my fault (pretty much all of it) and where we would go from here.
‘Not really,’ she admitted. ‘But I feel a bit better. Like the alien is shrinking. Just a bit.’
I smiled. ‘Glad to hear it. You know why?’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’ve started talking about it. You’re not alone with what you might think of as your shame. Once you start telling people, the shame – or the alien – is exposed. It has no power.’ I took a deep breath. ‘This is where it ends right now, okay? This is where this stops. We have to work out what kind of help and support you need…’
‘But I don’t want to leave the house. Not ever. It scares me to think about going to the shop. What was I thinking that I would be able to go to college? Or inter-railing. Or anywhere. I am seventeen years old and I just want to stay with my mum. Isn’t that crazy. I’d die if anyone found out. Every time you left the house lately I’d be scared that you wouldn’t come back, but if I just stayed in my room, doing nothing, it was as though I could control that tiny part of my life.’
‘I always came back though, didn’t I?’
She nodded.
‘And I always will. Sweetheart, you don’t need to leave the house. Not until you’re ready.’
‘Okay.’
‘But we do need to get some help, okay? I’m going to call the school in the morning and tell them what’s been going on and talk about a few options. I think you need to talk to someone…’
‘It was as though I was the only person in the world,’ she said, tears forming in her eyes. ‘Every time I went out, I could just see faces, you know, people everywhere all doing things, being functional and normal and happy. And there was I, all weird and strange and not normal. I thought something might happen, like another panic attack, or worse, that I might die, you know, from not breathing. Staying inside was safest…’
‘I wished you’d told me.’
‘I couldn’t… I was just trying to manage it. Anyway, I didn’t want to let you down…’ She almost smiled. ‘I made everything worse, didn’t I?’
‘No.’ I took her hand again and I kissed it. ‘No you didn’t.’
‘I just want to be normal, Mum? Everyone else I know is normal, they are all working so hard. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I do this? Every time I tried, every time I sat down at my desk, I could just feel this horrible feeling inside me, rising up, like some kind of wave that I could actually taste. It was disgusting. And it was like that was who I was, who I am, this horrible disgusting person who can’t be…’ she began to sob once more… ‘who can’t be normal.’
‘You are normal…’ I was crying too now. ‘You are normal. This is normal. What’s happened is normal. Panicking, feeling scared, things going wrong are normal. What’s not normal is the way other people present themselves to the world as if there’s nothing wrong. Everyone is scared, everyone makes mistakes and no one is perfect. But life is not crap forever. It’s not ongoingly crap or awful. But without crappiness, you don’t get the happiness.’
‘Oh my God, did you just make that up?’
‘Yes! It just came out. Genius? No?’
‘No.’ But she smiled at me.
*
I had no choice but to leave her when I went to school and that morning, the first face I saw was Christy, sitting in one of those large picnic chairs, a mug of tea in the cup holder, notebook on his lap. When he saw me, he signalled to Leaf to give him a hand up and she hoisted him to his feet. ‘Tabitha!’ He hobbled over to me wearing a t-shirt which had a vaguely recognisable face on the front and the words Leonard Cohen is how the light gets in.
‘Beautiful day,’ he said, when I’d rolled down my window. ‘The kind of day that makes you feel like you don’t ever want the day to end.’
I nodded, I supposed it was. ‘Nice t-shirt, Christy,’ I said, getting out of the car to talk to him properly.
‘Red bought it for me,’ he said, ‘from California. He knows I am a disciple of the great man.’
‘And what would Leonard Cohen have made of Nora’s Last Stand?’
‘My poem or the point of principle?’
‘Both.’
‘He would have been impressed by the latter and I would say encouraging about the former. He might give me a few tips, though, on how to write a great poem. It’s a very creatively inspiring space, Tabitha, I have to say.’
‘Really?’ Was heating Heinz tomato soup really so inspiring? Forming a human blockade, pitching mother against daughter, really so exciting. I was feeling decidedly weary regarding the whole thing. ‘That’s nice for you. It’s great, Christy, it really is that so many people are having the time of their lives while making mine really difficult.’ I thought of Rosie at home. She’d cried that morning when I said I had to leave, making me promise that I would be home at lunchtime to check on her.
Christy nodded. ‘You’re right, Tabitha,’ he said, gently. ‘It seems very unfair, doesn’t it?’
I nodded. ‘Yes it does. And how am I meant to make a rational decision in either direction under these circumstances?’
‘I don’t know. But you will.’
‘What?’
‘Make the right decision – whatever it is. If it’s to sell the land, then I know it is the right decision.’
‘Why?’ I said suspiciously. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve always admired you, young Tabitha,’ he said. ‘You are one of those people who aren’t afraid of anything.’
‘Thank you, Christy.’ If only he knew. I had lived my life based on fear.
‘As Leonard would say,’ he went on, ‘poetry is just the evidence of life if your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.’
Did he expect me to start writing poetry now? Just being me was struggle enough. ‘I think I’ll leave the composing and the musing to you, Christy,’ I said. ‘And I’ll…’ I’ll what? Carry on being the bad guy? The one on the wrong side every time?
But he chuckled. ‘You’ll do the right thing,’ he said. ‘Whatever it is, you’ll do the right thing. You know it’s much easier to be us,’ he said, pointing to the protestors. ‘We’re just speaking out. We don’t have anything else to do. You are the one with the weight of decision on your shoulders. You are the one with the weight of responsibility.’
I shrugged noncommittally.
‘This situation…’ He gestured to the protestors. ‘And all you can do is find a place of peace.’
‘Peace?’ I said, sulkily, but realising how much I loved Christy. He was right. Fighting never got anyone anywhere. This was democracy and however much I would have like to live in a totalitarian state, we didn’t and I would have to suck it up. Also, the energy I had for the sale of the land and all the improvements was waning. Our pupils, were, on the whole happy. If I didn’t make any more speeches which would make them cry, then we weren’t doing too badly. Rosie was alone and upset. All anyone needed was love. Soppy but true.
‘Have you written any more about the protest?’
‘I have a few,’ he admitted. ‘Well, more than a few. Seeing these people, never giving up, standing up for what they believe in… it’s been quite the inspiration.’
‘Really?’
‘Really,’ he said. ‘And that’s what I want to talk to you about. You see, my book is going to be published and I wanted to know if I had your permission.’