shopping show, has set up a showroom in the place where
we live.
‘And I wouldn’t have it any other way,’ Mum said once,
firmly, in her end-of-discussion voice. ‘Don’t look at them
as things. They are realised emotions: like relief, anger,
sadness, gratitude. You are surrounded by thanks—a
powerful thing to have about you.’
Yeah. And look at how it has protected her.
I’m like that tablecloth, I’ve decided. A repeating
pattern, embedded in plastic, frozen in place. Fully
functional and easy-care, but so unlovely.
It’s hell to keep clean, this home. Which is only home
because my mother and I were together in it, and not even
for long enough to catch breath. Just five lousy months, a
record of brevity, even for us. Without Mum here tonight,
our tiny apartment seems cavernous and strange, every
grinning, dancing bear and ceramic clown wearing an
air of darkling menace.
I know I’ve waited long enough, but my hand hesitates
over the handset, fearful that I’ve misread her absence as
something more than it is. She might be making a special
house call, which she has done before. Maybe she’s still
stuck on a country train, somewhere, someplace without
mobile coverage. It’s possible: she goes to those lengths to
see something through, even though she can’t afford to care
as much as she does. Mum hates fuss and attention; has
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