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‘In’ – she checks her watch – ‘any minute now. And how are you, Millie?’
‘I’m all right,’ I say. ‘Things are better. You know when you just feel – clearer?’
Mum nods, leans to crack open a steamed-up window. ‘I do, love. Yes.’
And I do. Even though Jack is gone – his flight, on time and taken off, and now probably off on other adventures, taking people thousands of miles from people who love them, Idofeel clearer. Missing him, every minute, of everyday, but clearer. Like one by one, I’m throwing a bottle into the sea. Slowly, slowly, letting go.
A clatter comes from the hallway, a jangle of a chain, and the front door swings open, and slams again. Dad stands in the doorway. He’s holding two bunches of flowers wrapped in brown paper, and from behind them, he smiles. A lovely, freckly Dad ‘surprise!’ smile.
Mum freezes at the chopping board and turns. ‘Mitch?’
‘Hello, you two,’ he says softly, in his lovely, familiar, warm Dad tone. ‘How are we then?’
‘Hey, Dad!’ I stretch up, reach my arms around him, and Mum, simply stands, her hands at her apron.
He hands us a bunch of flowers each – white roses for Mum, and a spray of heather and lavender for me. ‘I thought it looked different,’ says Dad. ‘And I thought that was perfect for you.’
A few minutes later, we all sit at the little round table in the kitchen, with cups of coffee, sausages in the oven, the bacon, still out and unopened, bread lined up in the toaster, ready to be pressed down.
‘Millie, I’m sorry if anything that happened put any strain on you,’ Dad says.
I nod, don’t deny that it did.
‘We had a .?.?. hiccup in the road,’ he continues, ‘a hump, a hurdle, if you like. But we are right here. Solid as a rock. Because that’s just life, isn’t it? That’s just .?.?. well. Love.’ And when he says this, his words are all warmth.
‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ says Mum. ‘Both of you.’
Dad swallows, and he shifts on the chair. He brings out his phone. ‘And .?.?.’ he says, and he spends far too long going in and out of apps until he loads up FaceTime. He presses Kieran’s name.
‘Oh,’ Mum says, as it starts to ring, and Dad props his phone up, against a salt-mill. The three of us squish together, in the frame. A mismatch family portrait.
Kieran’s face flashes onto the screen. ‘Hello, family,’ Kieran laughs, and the screen, is a sea of smiles. His hair is greying at the temples. He’s had a haircut. Those long, floppy curtains he had all the way until we dropped him at the airport and he left for MIT, when he was eighteen, long, long gone.
‘What’s for brekkie then?’ he asks. His accent is onlyjusta little lost to an American twang. ‘Sausages in the oven?’
‘Of course,’ Mum says. ‘Links, you call them don’t you?’
‘Oh, we have snow!’ Kieran grins, not hearing Mum. The screen jitters. ‘Hold on, let me just show you. It’s still a little dark, but you should be able to make it out. Jennings has gone to work with actual chains on his wheels.’
Kieran swipes up his phone, takes us around his beautiful home, to his snowy ‘backyard’. It blurs on the camera, but it’s pillowy white, for miles.
‘Oh, I love snow!’ I say, and Kieran brings the camera to his face.
‘Then, come,’ he says. ‘Come and see your big brother.’
‘I wish,’ I say.
‘What’s stopping you?’ He settles down on his sofa and yawns. His dog, Mango, sniffs the screen. ‘Well, beside the fact we send each other really crap text messages, weeks apart and half finished, and can’t even answer each other about what we’ve had fordinnerlet alone venture into invites and plane tickets?’ He does that Kieran thing. Where his face is die-straight, in mock seriousness, then breaks into a massive, clowny, Dad-joke smile.
‘Um.You’rea shitty texter,’ I say. ‘Not me, thank you.’
‘I am such a shitty texter,’ he admits. ‘I prefer the phone. Like, actual landline. Forces me to sit down.’
‘Sure, old man,’ I laugh. ‘And an abacus. Do you prefer an abacus over calculator too?’
‘Do you know,’ says Kieran, ‘I love an abacus.’
And my cheeks are aching so much, talking to him. We’ve sunk straight into our brother–sister dynamic. Kieran self-depricating and old before his years. Me, the lighter, younger piss-taking sister. And I’m struck now, but how much IgetAlexis, in this moment. I think talking to Kieran was .?.?. painful. That’s why I haven’t stayed in touch as much, as we’ve got older. Kieran held up a mirror to me, of all the things I wasn’t, and thought I should be. And I’ve missed him. I really, really have missed him.
