Okay. Spencer. You can do this. I call, and he picks up even faster than Mila did.
“Indie. Babe, what’s going on? I’ve been trying you all day. Are you okay?”
I swallow down bile. “Breathe. I have a sickness bug.”
There’s a pause as he decides whether or not to believe me. No reason he shouldn’t, though. “A sickness bug?”
“Yeah, I must have caught it from someone at uni. There’ve been a few off with it, apparently. I’ve spent all day in bed or in the bathroom.”
“But you’re all right?”
I grip the edge of the counter, digging my nails into the wood. “I’m all right. Or I will be. I’ve slept most of the day, but I’m still tired.”
That part is true. My body is heavy, exhausted, my mind ready to switch off.
“What can I do?”
Smiling, I hold the phone tighter. He’s always wanting to make things better for me. “Nothing. I’m just glad that I can stay away from the bathroom long enough to hear your voice.”
“It’s been that bad, huh?”
“Yeah. I haven’t been sick in an hour so hopefully it’s almost behind me. Spence, I really want to talk more but I’m beat. Can I call you tomorrow?”
“Sure. Feel better soon.”
“I will. Bye.”
When I hang up, I double over, my eyes prickling with tears.
Lying to them now feels worse than ever.
I put my phone down and place my palms on the countertop. Taking deep breaths, I count backwards from ten.
You’re going to be fine. Everything is going to be fine.
When I stand up straight after the last ripple of pain subsides, I continue making tea and take it through to Mum.
“Mum, come on; sit up for tea,” I say, putting the mugs on the coffee table.
She rolls over on the floor, and that’s when I see the reflection shine from the lightbulb above us.
“Are you fucking serious?” I growl, slamming the mugs down on the coffee table. Tea spills everywhere.
“Don’t,” she slurs, pushing herself to a sitting position, the bottle of vodka in her hand.
Fire burns in my chest. Snatching the bottle from her hand, I explode. “Dad has just died because of alcohol! What the fuck is wrong with you? He drank himself to death. He’s gone because of this shit!” I lift the bottle and hurl it at the wall.
Mum’s eyes widen as the glass smashes and clear liquid runs down the faded cream wallpaper.
“You need to stop this right now before you’re lying in the fucking morgue with him!”
“I wish I was!” she screams, throwing her hands in the air.
I absorb the punch to my gut. “Wow. Mother of the year.”
“Don’t start that,” she slurs. “You’ve no idea how this feels.”
“Are you stupid? I’ve spent every day since I was six wondering why my parents love alcohol more than me. I’ve had to fend for myself, look after two fucking adults, and pretend that everything is fine. Every parents evening or school event you missed, I had to convince my teachers that you were both working long hours, all while you’re sitting in this shitty room drinking yourself into an early grave.”
She flinches.
I kneel down and press my shaking hands together. “I need you now more than I ever have. My father is gone.”
My heart tears at how much I feel like a little girl again, longing for her mum to hold her and tell her everything is okay.
“Please,” I add. “Please.”
What am I doing?
I want to close the door to her, slam it in her face, and walk away. Despite what I want, I shouldn’t actually let her in.
Mum’s face crumples. “Indie.” She falls forwards, and I instantly sink into her embrace.
Sobs, loud and brutal, shake my body. We cling to each other, crying as we begin to grieve for dad and the life we should have had. We’ve not hugged in years. It’s the first time I’ve felt my mum’s warm arms around me since I was a kid, and that makes my heart shatter more than losing Dad.
I needed this so badly.
It feels like we stay on the floor forever, but it’s probably only a couple of minutes. I move back first and examine her. She doesn’t look well. Her skin is off-colour, and her eyes are sunken.
“I need you to stop drinking,” I say, swiping my tears away.
Her lip trembles. “I don’t know how.”
“We’ll do it together. I’ll help. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
With wide eyes, she whispers, “Okay.”
“Thank you.”
She smiles but still looks petrified. “Is the tea still hot?”
That’s the best thing she has said to me in fourteen years.
I reach behind me and feel the mugs. “Half spilt, but still warm.”
Mum gets herself to her feet, which seems to take great effort, and she sits on the sofa. I join her, tucking my legs under myself. We’re on the same sofa, neither of us can bear to be on Dad’s. I can’t even look at it.
She takes a sip. “You make a nice tea, Indie.”
“Thanks.”
We drink in silence but it’s not weird or uncomfortable. It is, for the first time in years, nice. Despite the horrific day, we’ve managed to find a minute of peace.
“He wanted to be buried,” she says.
I look over, hugging my mug in both hands. “I assumed so.”
“We spoke about it when I found out I was pregnant with you. We made a will saying we’d be buried together and everything we own goes to you. It seemed like the grown-up thing to do.”
They used to care. “Okay, we’ll have him buried.”
She puts her hand on my knee and that, along with the hug, is the most affection she has shown me in years. I almost cry again.
Thirty-One
Indie
Two days is how long it took to get liver failure confirmed as Dad’s cause of death.
It didn’t come as a surprise to me or Mum. I said a simple thank you on the phone when I was told, the same way I would if someone told me the
