The Happy Family by Jackie Kabler (electric book reader txt) 📕

and her white-blonde hair is brushed back off her face. I can just picture her floating around her gallery, organising everyone, being all arty.

‘How is he, health-wise?’ she asks. ‘He must be, what, eighty?’

I nod. ‘He’s OK. He had a stroke. His eyesight is bad – well, he’s almost blind really – and his mobility isn’t great, but he manages so well, with help. And his mind’s as sharp as ever. He’s the life and soul. I would have moved him in with us – I wanted to, but it would have been impossible, you know, with work and the kids and …’

My anxiety is suddenly rising again.

She must think I’m awful, putting my father in a home, when I have a lovely house and a spare room …

But she’s shaking her head, frowning.

‘No, no, you did the right thing. Gosh, you don’t have to justify yourself to me, of all people, love. If he’s well and happy, that’s all that matters, isn’t it?’

She squeezes my arm and my heart rate slows again.

‘He is. He really is. I see him a lot … Do you want to visit him, Mum? I mean, I haven’t told him about you yet, obviously. I’d need to do that first, to see how he felt, but it would be so nice if the two of you could make some sort of peace, after all this time …’

My voice tails off. Her footsteps have slowed and she’s looking uncomfortable suddenly, her face flushed.

‘I … I don’t know, love. I’d need to think about it for a bit. It would be so … so awkward, you know?’

‘Of course, of course. Ignore me. It was probably a stupid idea,’ I say hastily. We’re nearly at the house now and I take her hand and give it a little pat.

‘I’ll have to tell him you’re back,’ I say gently. ‘But there’s no pressure, OK? I suspect he might not be too keen for a reunion either, when I think about it.’

I smile at her, trying to diffuse the tension, and she smiles back.

‘I suspect not,’ she says drily. ‘I doubt I’m his favourite person.’

As I turn the key in the lock, the house phone starts to ring.

‘Damn,’ I say. ‘I’d better get that. Just close the door behind us, Mum.’

I run into the lounge and grab the receiver.

‘Hello?’

‘Mrs Holland? Hello, it’s Anya here. From Holly Tree?’

‘Anya, yes, hello. Is everything OK?’

There’s a second of silence. Then: ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Holland, but I’m afraid it’s your father. He collapsed about an hour ago. He’s been taken into the General—’

‘Collapsed? But he was fine … What happened? What is it?’

I’m aware that I’m starting to shiver, that little tremors are running through me.

No, Dad. No. Please. Not now.

In my ear, Anya is still talking.

‘… said it was most likely another stroke. But an even bigger one this time. I’m so sorry, Mrs Holland, but it’s not looking good. I think you want to get over there as soon as possible.’

Chapter 11

He looks so small, so old, so frail. My dad, who just days ago was laughing and sharing a drink with his pal in Holly Tree’s bar. Now he’s a tiny white-faced version of himself, his mouth even more violently twisted than it was before, his breathing laboured. He’s awake though, and when I bend down to whisper hello he mumbles, ‘Beth. Shorry, love.’

His words are slurred, but the fact that he can say them at all is such a relief that my legs, already wobbly, almost give way. I lower myself onto the chair at the side of his bed and turn to see where Mum is. Dad’s in a private room, and she’s lurking by the door, her discomfort clear. She hasn’t seen her husband for thirty years, and now …

‘Give me a minute,’ I say quietly, and she nods, edging out into the corridor. I turn back to Dad. There’s a reassuringly steady beep beep beep from his heart monitor, and I hope desperately that what I’m about to say won’t change that. But what can I do?

I have to tell him, don’t I? Just in case … just in case he dies, and never knows …

I sit there for a few moments, composing myself, trying to find the words. They loved each other once, my mum and dad, I know that. And I remember those days too, sometimes, the days when they’d walk hand in hand in the park, when she’d drop a kiss on his head as she passed his chair, when he’d come home with flowers and she’d wrap her arms around him and then carefully select a bloom and put it behind her ear. But I remember the dark days more. The days when I’d come home from school to find the lounge curtains closed and my mum curled up on a corner of the sofa, sobbing. The days when she wouldn’t even get out of bed, and I’d go to school and come home again and there she’d be, still lying there, staring at the ceiling, her eyes expressionless. The days, the weeks, when my parents would barely speak to each other, barely acknowledge one another’s presence, both of them hurting but not knowing how to stop the pain. And then, one day, she simply got up and walked away. It probably was for the best, in the end. But on the way to ‘the best’ there had been so much destruction, so many repercussions. And now she’s back and somehow I have to tell him, and I have absolutely no idea how this is going to go.

‘Dad? Dad, something’s happened. Dad, can you hear me?’

His eyes have closed, but he opens them again, blinks, and tries to focus on my face.

‘Mmmm,’ he says.

I take a deep breath. I can feel my heartbeat echoing in my ears, the clamminess of my palms.

‘Dad … it’s Mum. I know this is going to be a lot to take in, especially right