TWO
‘I got a letter too,’ my mother says.
‘From Matty?’
‘No.’ There’s disappointment in her voice, she covers it quickly. ‘From the prison chaplain. A guy called Bill.’
‘Old, is he?’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Sorry. Ignore me.’
Old Bill is British slang. Something as an American, she never quite picked up. Just as I never picked up the ability to sit with my discomfort.
I resort to lame jokes when I’m nervous. A defensive mechanism, according to my therapist, Janice. Another deflective tactic. I’ve acquired a few over the years.
Let your guard down,one of my mother’s Post-it notes reads. Let people see the real you.
Yeah, right.
‘So, what did this chaplain say? Bill.’
‘That forgiveness is healing. That I’d feel happier if I could let go of my resentment. That I’m the one it’s hurting.’
‘Christ’s sake.’
‘Don’t talk like that.’
Bet you and Chaplain Bill got on like a house on fire, I think.
‘I hope you told him where he could shove his forgiveness speech.’
‘I didn’t write back. I kept the letter though.’ I know she did. It’s in the box with the photos. ‘You can read it if you want.’
‘I’ll pass, thanks.’
‘I wish the way I feel would pass.’
Her sadness evokes a responding wave of emotion in me. I wish I could hug her, tell her everything’s going to be okay. But it’s too late for that.
‘When I think of my life with Matty, I don’t know what was real. And what I just wanted to be real,’ she says.
‘Does it matter?’
‘It does to me.’
The pause is pregnant. There’s so much I want to say to that, so much I shouldn’t say. I settle for the thought so often in my head.
‘That last girl he killed was eight. Same age I was when we first met. Her sister, twelve, just like I was when he was arrested.’
‘We don’t know for sure he killed her.’
‘Jury was pretty sure.’
I hear her sigh, take a sip of whatever she’s drinking. Gin, I imagine. It became her morning tipple during the trial. By the afternoon she didn’t care what was in her glass so long as it kept her drunk.
‘Don’t you ever wonder if they got it wrong?’ she asks.