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“Hugo, stop it,” Helen interrupted.
I ignored her. “Is he fun? Does he do stuff with you?”
The taller one, Oscar, nodded. “Yeah. He took us to crazy golf yesterday.”
“Yeah?” I clapped my hands together. “That’s awesome!” I looked up at the man I used to call Dad. “What a guy, John. Bravo.”
“I think we should go,” Helen interjected.
I felt my jaw tighten, quiver with rage. I stared the man up and down, a proud extension of the two young boys who hung from his arms, and I hated him. I couldn’t help wonder what those boys had done to earn a day at crazy golf with him. Fuck golf. What did they have that made them worthy of holding his hand? At their age, I’d have chopped off my fucking legs to know what my father’s hands felt like.
“So what is it today? Headstones and hotdogs?”
John looked at the ground. “Your mum meant a lot to me once. I came to pay my respects, that’s all.”
“And flaunt your replacement family.”
Helen returned with Ezra. I hadn’t even noticed she’d left.
“Time to go, Hugo,” Ezra said, interfering as always. He grabbed my arm.
I shrugged away. Ezra knew better. “Get off of me,” I snapped, pushing past him.
I heard John Hayes call after Helen as I stormed to the car, but I didn’t stop to hear what the piece of shit had to say. I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything. I climbed inside the back of Ezra’s car and turned away from the window, refusing to look outside. I would never set my eyes on Craydale or the memories it held again.
Thirteen
Helen
Today felt different. Better. For the first time in three weeks, Hugo’s smile felt genuine. He’d even laughed this morning, which made me feel giddy. Grateful. Excited. Life had been pretty tough lately and I felt selfish for finding it hard. Hugo was the one with the problems, but they affected everyone around him. I’d sickened myself most on the night at the bandstand. For a fleeting moment, a rush of rage had filled my veins. While seeing him there, finally, alive and, somewhat, coherent, should have filled me with relief…I’d felt only anger. When he wouldn’t talk to me, my muscles had tightened and my jaw ticked. I’d wanted to hit him. I’d wanted to fall to the ground and rain punches to every inch of his stupid, irresponsible, selfish body until he realised what he’d put me through.
And then I saw it. I witnessed what his mother saw. It made me question whether she really had been a bad person, or had she started out as a scared and lonely woman who didn’t have a clue what to do with this closed-off and damaged boy who, at times, appeared impossible to help. Hugo had told me how his mother had said she wished he’d never been born and those words had always spat like acid at my skin. How could she? But, that night, I think I knew what she meant. She wanted to prevent this life for him, stop the turmoil ever getting a chance to take over his mind by never creating that mind to begin with. I thought, now, that Kimberly Hayes felt responsible, and, ultimately the guilt ruined her. Unfortunately, it ruined her son, too.
Depression was such a mercenary disease. It wanted Hugo all to itself, tried to push us all away by convincing him he was a burden. It destroyed entire families, blood related or not. Hugo’s depression wouldn’t win, though. Collectively, we were too strong. I’d vowed that I’d fight when he couldn’t a long time ago. I knew I had to come through for him even as a kid, when I was too young to fully understand what it meant. Despite my brief moment of madness at the bandstand, I would never give up on him. We were connected. Soulmates. He could sing a thousand lyrics to millions across the world, exchange a hundred hours of conversations with journalists, TV hosts, fans, and nobody would ever understand him as much as I did without him needing to say a single word.
By the same token, Hugo could interpret my mood by what food was on my plate. He could read my feelings by whether my smile tipped to the left or the right. His gaze alone made me feel like the most beautiful woman on the planet. We knew each other implicitly, loved one another with all we had to give. Occasionally, though, I couldn’t help feeling faintly terrified, knowing there were times Hugo had barely anything to give to anyone because his own mind had cruelly stolen the most vibrant parts of him away.
“You missed a spot,” Hugo said.
Annoyed, I leaned in closer. “Arsehole.” I hadn’t missed anything. His nails were looking great as I swiped the final coat of yellow polish across his little fingernail. “You should wear them this colour for the party. They’ll go amazing with that yellow suit.”
