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I smiled gently. ‘Because she’s scarily like me at that age. She won’t be told. You and Chloe are going to have to trust that she’ll figure it out for herself. Eventually she’ll bring home a boy that youdolike.’
Like I did, I thought, silently acknowledging how much my parents had always loved Ryan. And still did. Perhaps Ryan’s thoughts were journeying along a similar path, for he suddenly asked: ‘Aren’t you meant to be visiting Faye at the home today? Do you need a lift to the station?’
‘Thanks for the offer, but I’ve already got it sorted. Mitch is driving me.’
Ryan blinked four times before speaking. I know that because I counted them. In the past there’d been an occasional prickliness between him and Mitch. I’d never figured out why, and it astounded me that it apparently still existed after all these years.
‘That’s great,’ he eventually replied.
*
By the time Ryan and Hope left, I had less than half an hour to get ready. I paused to pick up the damp towels Hope had half-heartedly aimed in the direction of the rail before having one of the fastest showers in history. Ryan would be amazed at how utilitarian hospital washrooms had cured me of any desire to linger in a bathroom. I ran a comb hurriedly through my long dark hair and gave it a drive-by blasting with the hairdryer. I was halfway to my wardrobe when I spotted the collection of glossy carrier bags from yesterday’s shopping expedition, lined up like colourful beach huts at the seaside. I hadn’t bothered putting away my new purchases, and because they were closer than the wardrobe, I pulled out the new jeans, a form fitting top, and the leather jacket from the bags.
I had only just finished applying mascara to my lashes and gloss to my lips when a shuddering bang rocked the front door. One day I really would have to tell Mitch he didn’t need to thump quite so hard on it to gain my attention. But then again, itwashis door and he was exceptionally good at fixing things. Nothing seemed to faze him: leaky taps, squeaky hinges, blown fuses. He was a man of many talents – and not all of them related to his DIY skills. He was a far better listener than most of the counsellors I had ever seen, and had a quick, dry sense of humour that caught people by surprise if they didn’t know him well.
I ran lightly down the hall to answer his knock, fearful the wood wouldn’t withstand a second assault. Mitch’s grin split the forest of his beard as I opened the door. He filled the entire frame – and it was a fairly big door. And yet even though he was blocking the light from the hallway beyond, the day seemed suddenly a little brighter with him standing there. I realised, not for the first time, how lucky I was to count Mitch Richards as one of my friends.
*
‘I’m sorry. I should have cleared it out a bit better,’ Mitch apologised, glancing down as two empty soft drink cans rolled out from beneath the passenger seat when we set off.
I nudged them aside with my toe and successfully hid my smile, wondering what the ‘before’ must have looked like if this was the ‘after’. Mitch’s vehicle had been a complete surprise. I’m not particularly knowledgeable about cars, but I was pretty sure he used to drive something fairly ordinary and nondescript. I had walked straight past the huge American Chevrolet truck parked outside my flat.
‘This is me,’ Mitch had said, blipping the doors to open the enormous bright red vehicle, with its gleaming chrome work and headlights the size of spotlights.
‘It is?’ I asked, unable to keep the amazement from my voice. This kind of car looked like it had been driven straight off Route 66 or the set ofThe Dukes of Hazzard. It was twice as tall, wide, and long as every other vehicle in the street and yet it suited Mitch perfectly. He flushed the same colour as his paintwork when I told him this, but I could tell my observation had pleased him.
‘You should have seen it when I first got it, it was a total wreck. It took me years of weekends to track down parts before I could evenstartrebuilding it.’ Mitch’s expression was one of pride as he looked at the product of his hard work. For a single stupid moment the care and devotion he’d showered on the truck made me strangely envious. Perhaps it was a sign that I needed to find something to be equally passionate about?
Mitch had opened the passenger door, and one look at the height of the step explained why his hand was held out to help me in.
‘Well, your hard work has clearly paid off,’ I said, admiring the impressive truck as I swung myself into it. ‘You must have endless patience.’
Mitch’s hand was still gripping mine, and for a moment I felt the tightening of his hold before he let it fall away. ‘I’ve always thought some things are worth waiting for,’ he said, ‘and yes, I’ve learnt to be very patient.’ His eyes flickered away from mine and, for a second, I was no longer sure if we were still talking about his Chevrolet.
It was a three-hour drive to Mum’s care home, but the enormous tyres of the truck ate up the miles. Mitch spent the first part of the journey talking about Sam. By the time we pulled into the services for a necessary restroom stop and coffees to go, I could have scored an admirable pass in an exam on his son’s sporting and academic achievements.
‘I’m sorry. Have I been boring you?’ he apologised, as we crossed the car park. We were waiting for a break in the traffic, and when one appeared Mitch’s hand went automatically to the small of my back until we were safely on the pavement. Given my history with road crossing, I could hardly blame him for the excess of caution.
‘Not at all,’ I said, lifting my face to enjoy the cool blast of air from the building’s vents as the automatic doors swished apart. ‘It’s lovely to hear how proud you are of Sam. And it’s great that the two of you have stayed so close.’ I glanced at him through lowered lashes as I shyly admitted: ‘You were always my role model for how to be a good parent when you don’t live in the same house as your child.’
It was so very easy to say the right thing to Mitch, but from the expression in his eyes I think I scored big time with that particular compliment. But then everything with Mitch was easy and comfortable. I wondered if the woman he was going to visit that day felt the same way? The thought left a slightly bitter taste in my mouth which I washed away with the jumbo-sized caramel latte Mitch had bought.
Back on the road once more, my thoughts were pulled like a magnet towards the imminent visit to my mother. It would be the first time we’d seen each other in ten years; something that I’m sure would tear at my heart far more than it would hers.
Memories of much-loved family members and an awareness of the passing years were two things dementia most liked to steal; and my mum had been robbed of both of those for many years.
‘Just don’t expect too much,’ my father had said on the phone last night. ‘She’s not as good as she was ten years ago.’ As Mum hadn’t even known who I was back then, it didn’t exactly bode well. But I hung like crazy onto the memory of that one brief moment when the fog had lifted and she’d recognised me. Despite my father’s warning, I couldn’t quite squash the hope that it would somehow happen again.
My dad was waiting for me in the care home foyer, and perhaps that ought to have alerted me that he didn’t want me to see Mum without him being right there beside me. Despite its height I had jumped down from Mitch’s truck before he’d even engaged the handbrake. Dad stepped out into the morning sunshine, raising an arm in greeting to Mitch. I felt oddly torn as I turned towards my road trip companion, as though I didn’t want him to abandon me and drive away, which was ridiculous.
‘Thank you so much for the lift,’ I said, my hand already raised to push the passenger door to a close.
‘Ring when you’re ready to leave,’ Mitch reminded me as the door clunked into place. I gave a brief, reluctant nod. The last few miles of our journey had been spent with me assuring him I could easily catch the train back home, and him insisting that he wouldn’t hear of it. I couldn’t imagine his lady friend would be pleased with his role as my personal driver, but Mitch shot down every objection I raised. In the end it was easier – and far less exhausting – to simply agree with him.
‘That was nice of him to drive you here; he’s a good lad,’ said my dad, kissing me warmly on the cheek as we watched the big red truck disappear down the driveway, spitting up gravel chippings as it went.
It had probably been quite a while since anyone had referred to Mitch – with his towering height and lumberjack physique – as a lad, unless they’d updated the dictionary definition while I slept. But thoughts of Mitch were disappearing from my head faster than his Chevrolet had sped down the drive. ‘How’s Mum today?’ I asked, slipping my hand through the crook of my father’s arm as we turned back towards the entrance.
