Scott’s definitely blanking her. (He’s not replied to any recent messages.)
Fraser is coming at 11 o’clock. (It’s now eight thirty.)
Maisie is still alive. (She’s yapping like crazy downstairs.)
Heather’s first task, therefore, is already clear in her mind. She types out a quick and concise email of resignation with immediate effect and sends it to her boss.
She refuses to let a single shred of self-doubt hold her back from this moment on. She’s destined for this line of work and, if it’s not to be, she’s resolved to die trying (metaphorically, of course – she’s not inclined to the same leaps of drama that Georgia is prone to).
She gets up, feeds the dog, messages Scott to confirm their coffee date this afternoon, showers, and prepares herself mentally for the day ahead. As she deep conditions her hair, one thought dominates all others. What will it be like seeing her dad again after all this time?
***
Heather and Fraser stand huddled on the front doorstep of their parents' house. Fraser gives her a quick “you got this” squeeze on her arm before knocking on the front door. Maisie bolts into the house the moment the door is ajar.
‘You came.’
Her mother stands on the threshold, a tea towel in her right hand, the door latch in her left. Heather scrutinises her mother in a way she didn’t in the hospital recently. In many ways, she is unchanged. The clothing, the hairdo, the nervous way she wraps the tea towel around her hands. But other things are different. Her face is a spider’s web of fine lines, and the skin below her eyes is bagged. Even her lips look thinner.
But the most noticeable change is how small her mother has become.
Heather needs to adjust her gaze downwards by a good ten centimetres to meet her eyes. Didn’t they used to be the same height?
‘Hi, Mum.’ Fraser is the first to speak. He bends by about forty-five degrees to kiss their mother’s cheek.
‘Fraser,’ she says.
Fraser squeezes past his mother into the hallway, leaving her with nowhere other than Heather to look.
‘Hello, dear,’ she says, ‘I’m so glad you came.’
‘Hi Mum.’
Heather’s attempt at a hug – a kiss feels too intimate – turns into an awkward knocking of hips and a crow-like hand contacting her back in an attempt at an affectionate tap.
‘Your dad’s in the kitchen,’ her mother says, closing the door behind them.
If Heather’s mother was a surprise, her father is an enormous shock. He sits on an electric reclining chair designed for theterminally ill, his eyes fixed on the large silver birch in the garden.
‘He likes to watch the birds,’ her mother says.
Heather follows his gaze and notices a plethora of feeders, nesting boxes and bird tables affixed to the tree’s trunk and branches. ‘I think he likes to study the animals he used to mount in their natural environments.’
Heather is momentarily jettisoned back over thirty-five years, discovering her pet parrot is no longer in its cage. Only this frail old man in front of her is not the domineering, opinionated father of her youth. This man is skeletal, with chamois-like skin hanging from the same cheekbones that gave his face such definition in middle age.
‘This is Heather, Robert. Our Heather,’ her mother says, at least ten decibels louder than her conversational voice.
The old man’s eyes seek her out. ‘Huh?’ His false teeth rattle together as his lips part.
‘Hi Dad.’ Heather’s feet are fixed to the spot. She lifts her arm in a half-hearted wave which her father returns with a gnarled hand, which shakes visibly.
Her mum places a plate of pre-prepared egg sandwiches (Fraser’s childhood favourite) onto the kitchen table and peels the cling film off. Maisie scampers underneath the table, hoping for scraps.
‘Calm down, you,’ Fraser says, scratching the dog behind her ears.
‘Tea, Heather?’ her mother asks.
Heather accepts one of the cracked cups from her parents’ wedding china and adds a small dash of milk. Her mother places a plastic mug of milky tea with a bendy straw in front of her father. He used to take it black.
