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‘What mistakes?’ he asks, not a hint of softness in his voice. I suppose being able to emotionally disconnect would be an essential skill for someone like Michael, but I don’t like being on the other end of it.
I expel a soft breath. ‘I...’
‘We don’t have to talk about this,’ he says, lifting a finger to catch one of the tears that has escaped from my eyes without my notice.
‘It’s fine,’ I say, frowning. ‘I...like talking about her.’ My smile is watery. ‘Show me a man who has no regrets when he dies and I’ll show you a fool. My mum used to say that.’
He keeps a hand curved under my chin, holding my face where it is.
‘What were her regrets?’
I note he doesn’t sympathise with the general sentiment. I don’t talk about my mum. Not because I’ve made a decision not to, but because there’s never really been anyone I would talk to about her. How do I feel about opening up to Michael Brophy, almost five months after my mum’s death?
‘I...’ I sigh again. It doesn’t feel wrong. It feels weirdly right. ‘Lots of things, I think.’ I move to look out of the window—there’s cloud for as far as the eye can see. ‘Mum was a brilliant surgeon. Quite renowned, actually.’ Pride tinges my voice. ‘But she very nearly wasn’t.’
He’s silent.
‘She got pregnant in her first year at uni.’ Our eyes meet. ‘She had an abortion. She’d wanted to be a surgeon all her life. She’d moved away from home to study and it wasn’t...something she was ready for. Motherhood.’ My heart twists for the young woman she must have been. ‘When her parents found out, they were furious. They cut her off, refusing to have anything to do with her. My grandfather was a minister, strongly tied to his faith. And, apart from that, very conservative. They couldn’t get past the fact she’d fallen pregnant, let alone had an abortion. It offended them in every way.’
He nods once, saying nothing.
‘She finished uni, worked. Worked obsessively. I have wondered, as I’ve got older, if she didn’t work so hard because she wanted to prove something to her mum and dad. Like maybe each time she did a surgery for the first time, saved a life, they
would finally be proud of her again.’ I shake my head. ‘She worked tirelessly, to the exclusion of anything else. And one day she woke up and realised she’d missed her chance to do anything but be a surgeon.’
‘So she had you,’ he says, no emotion in the words.
‘Yes.’ I smile. ‘She was beautiful; I’m sure she could have met someone, but she told me I was enough. More than enough.
‘She never travelled. Not more than an odd weekend away for a conference. She never travelled in the sense of finding herself. Of being footloose and fancy-free, of wandering the streets of a foreign city without responsibility or pressure. She never lived that life.’
‘So she wanted you to.’
‘Yes.’ I nod.
‘And now you’re travelling the world for your mother.’
‘And for myself.’ I smile. ‘I feel like the only person my age who hasn’t backpacked through Europe or Asia. I’ve had this picture of the Eiffel Tower in my bedroom since I was a teenager. That’s where I’m going next. I want to be there for Christmas.’ My voice cracks. ‘My first without Mum,’ I explain, forcing a smile to my face to undercut the sadness of that comment, the grief behind the words.
He cups my face then and simply kisses me, and I don’t check the tears that drop from my eyes, because there is sadness in our conversation even when the happiness of his kiss, his possession, his desire for me, fires in my bloodstream.
‘You never answered my question,’ I say against his mouth, pulling away a little, wiping at my cheeks now.
His eyes hold mine and I feel like he’s pulling me apart bit by bit, weighing each portion of me before returning me to myself. ‘I thought I loved her.’ He doesn’t smile, but the words are said with droll humour.
‘Who?’ I force myself to exhale.
‘Anita Kay. She was seventeen. The first girl I fucked.’
I roll my eyes. ‘I’m serious.’
He grabs my hand, lifts it to his lips and kisses the inside of my wrist. My stomach lurches. ‘So am I.’
‘What happened?’
‘She broke it off when she went to university. I was just a kid to her.’
‘You were just a kid,’ I say with a small shake of my head. ‘Did you pine for her, Michael? Did you cry into your pillows?’
