Stuck on Me (6 page)

‘That’s rubbish!’ I shout. I’m wound up now. ‘Anyway, you’re the one who’s guilty of airbrushing! You’ve airbrushed Dad out of our lives. I think
the reason you don’t want to talk about my nose is because when you look at it, it reminds you of him, and you don’t want to think about him.’

‘That’s not true. Don’t be stupid, Sky.’

‘Then why won’t you ever talk about him? Why don’t you have any pictures of him? It’s like you’re pretending he never existed.’

‘No . . . that’s not f-f-fair,’ she stutters. ‘I . . . er, it isn’t healthy to dwell on the past. I’ve never said I wouldn’t talk about him if you
asked.’

‘It doesn’t feel that way to me.’

She sighs. ‘We haven’t got time for this now, Sky. You’re late for school. But I promise you that when you get home from school, if there’s anything you want to know
about him, I’ll tell you. OK?’

‘Really?’ Is she trying to fob me off? Mum doesn’t usually lie. And she’s never offered anything like this before. So maybe I can trust her.

‘Yes, really.’

‘OK, Mum. I’ll hold you to that,’ I say. ‘Now let me finish off my make-up, or I really will be late.’

I spend all day at school in a world of my own, dreaming up questions to ask her, things she’s never told me about Dad. How and where did she meet him? What made her fall in love with him?
Why did they never get married even though they had three kids together? What went wrong? And why, exactly, did Dad leave? I have silly little questions too, about mundane things, the things you
should know about people who are important to you. What was Dad’s favourite food? Did he like playing sports? Which football team did he support? The more I think about Dad, the more I
realise I know virtually nothing about him. All I have are a few snapshots of memories, stuck on a repeat cycle in my mind.

As always, Mum is true to her word (which is probably why she still has such a tiny nose). When I arrive home she makes me a cup of tea and then takes me into the living room, where she’s
left a pile of old videotapes and a photograph album on the coffee table. I finger them, excitedly, dying to see what’s inside.

‘I got them out of storage for you,’ she says. She seems sad and it makes me feel a bit guilty.

‘I don’t have to look at them if you don’t want me to,’ I say, hoping she doesn’t agree.

‘No, it’s all right. It’s probably something you should have done years ago.’

‘I didn’t think you’d kept anything. I thought you’d cleared it all out.’ I wonder if I should tell her about the photos I found, the ones she threw away.

‘I got rid of a lot of stuff when I was angry, sure. But I’ve always kept some things – just not out on display.’

‘Oh, right.’ I decide not to tell her, in case she wants the photos back. They’re precious to me. They’re mine now. ‘So what have you kept, then? What’s on
the tapes?’

‘Footage from your father’s gigs, mainly, and a few home movies. It’s lucky I never got rid of the old video recorder when we bought the DVD player, isn’t it?’ she
says. ‘It still works perfectly. I hate the way technology makes things obsolete these days. It’s such a waste.’

‘Sure . . . So can I watch them now?’

She nods. I insert a video tape into the machine and Mum gets up to leave the room. ‘Call me if you need anything,’ she says. She claims she has things to do but I know that’s
just an excuse.

The videos aren’t labelled, so I watch them in a random order, which means that Dad grows weirdly older, then younger, then older again, with flecks of grey disappearing then reappearing
at his temples. The images are really grainy, especially in comparison with the high definition pictures I’m used to. It makes them seem ancient, a world away – although, I suppose, it
did all happen in the last century. In the last millennium!

I can’t help noticing that I really do look like Dad. It’s not just his nose and his dark colouring, but something about his expressions, the way his face crinkles up just like mine
when he smiles. Dad seems awkward in front of the camera, happiest and most relaxed when he’s on stage, absorbed in his music. He truly can play any instrument. Sometimes he’s playing a
guitar, sometimes a harmonica or a violin; he’s brilliant at them all. I’m also surprised at how pretty Mum was when she was young, and how much Ocean resembles her today. Mum was so
fresh-faced and rosy-cheeked, one of those girls who can get away without any make-up at all. Now she has worry lines sketched all over her forehead and between her eyes.

When I’ve been through every tape – some of them twice – I feel sad that there’s nothing left to watch. I thumb through the photo album, looking at snaps of Mum and Dad
when they were in love – on a beach somewhere in Cornwall, on a barge on a canal, at a music festival. There aren’t many photos of Dad with me, Ocean or Grass. Maybe my parents
didn’t have a good camera then.

‘Sky?’ Mum is standing at the door. She seems tentative, almost afraid to come in. ‘I thought I’d leave you in peace for a while.’ I glance at my watch. A whole
hour has passed and I haven’t realised. ‘So have you seen what you wanted to see?’

‘Kind of. Thank you. But they’re just pictures. I still want to know more about Dad. Like . . .’ I rack my brains, trying to remember the questions that have been niggling me
all day, in case this is my only opportunity. ‘What was he like? Where did you meet him?’

‘Well . . .’ she begins, sitting herself down beside me on the sofa and launching into what sounds like a well-rehearsed speech. She doesn’t go into much detail; she talks as
if she’s been expecting this moment, my questions, for years. She looks down while she speaks, her voice emotionless and monotone. This is what she tells me.

She met Dad in 1988 at a ‘Summer of Love’ music festival – a giant rave in a field that lasted for three days. It was supposed to recreate the ‘Summer of Love’ in
the Sixties, when everybody was a hippy, just like Mum. She’s always said she was born in the wrong era. There were thousands of people there, but as soon as she spotted Dad, that was it. She
didn’t notice anybody else. She was nineteen and on her gap year, there to sell food from a stall; he was thirty and hanging out with his musician friends. She glossed over the next part,
when they ‘got together’, but I think she was a bit of a groupie, following him around the country, helping his band sell CDs at their gigs. She genuinely thought he was going to be the
next big thing, because he was so talented and handsome. Most of all, he was a free spirit and that was what attracted her to him. Her parents – my grandparents – were stuffy and strict
and didn’t understand her. But he seemed to ‘get’ her.

They fell in love and eventually settled down in a flat in Camden (not in our flat, which she bought later with money from an inheritance). Renting in Camden was a lot cheaper then, but it was
still tough to manage. She found a job working in a vegetarian café and he played gigs. He hardly ever got up before noon, didn’t make much money, and spent a lot of what he did make
on alcohol. Worse, drinking made him unpredictable, and nasty, sometimes. He was away a lot, and Mum had to cope alone, even when she was pregnant. By the time she realised she was living with a
penniless alcoholic, who’d never change, she had three young children, and she was stuck. She wouldn’t take help from her parents because she didn’t want all the ‘we told
you so’s, and so she managed as best she could.

Then, one day, Dad went out on the road again and, this time, he didn’t come home. He phoned her from a payphone and said he’d met someone else, someone who didn’t ‘nag
him all the time about money and drinking’. Mum was devastated; then she toughened up. She says she realised that she didn’t need him any more and, more surprisingly, she didn’t
even want him. The rest I already know: gradually, he stopped phoning us and sending presents and cards, until he vanished from our lives forever. And after that, she tells me, we all lived happily
ever after. I’m surprised she doesn’t finish with ‘The End’.

‘Oh!’ I say, when she’s finished. It’s all I can manage. ‘Oh.’ The way she’s described Dad doesn’t chime with my memories of him at all. He was
fun and kind and generous too, but she hasn’t mentioned any of that. Surely she’s exaggerated the bad parts – I can’t remember things ever being
that
awful.

I’m now absolutely certain that, despite everything she’s said, I still want to get to know him for myself.

‘I really appreciate everything you’ve told me, but it’s not enough. I need to see him again. Will you help me find him, Mum? Please?’

She pauses and takes a deep breath. ‘I was praying you wouldn’t ask that. No, I’m sorry. That’s one thing I can’t do. Not even for you.’

I should have known she’d say that but, somehow, I wasn’t expecting it. She’s been so sweet today. ‘Why not, Mum? It’s really important to me.’

‘I just can’t,’ she says, quietly. ‘Not because I don’t love you and want to make you happy, but because I really don’t think it’s a good idea.
He’ll only let you down, Sky. It’s better to hold on to your good memories. If you meet up with him again he’ll only disappoint you. I learnt that lesson many times.’

‘But maybe he’s changed. Maybe he’ll be a good dad now. Maybe he wants to get in touch but doesn’t know how to.’

‘He knows where we are,’ she says. ‘We haven’t moved from Camden. He could have written any time.’

‘Yeah, but maybe he thinks we all hate him. Like you do.’

She shrugs. ‘I don’t hate him, Sky. I just know that having him back in our lives again isn’t a good idea. We’ve all moved on and we’re much happier now.’

Again! She keeps saying we’re all so happy now. Can’t she see it’s not true? She might be happy, but I’m not. ‘So you won’t help me?’

‘No, I’m sorry. I can’t help you.’

‘Thanks a lot, Mum.’ I can’t look at her. I feel tearful and angry.

She tries to stroke my hand, but I won’t let her. ‘It’s just too painful for me, Sky. And I don’t want you to get hurt.’

‘Not seeing him is hurting me too. Can’t you see that?’

She looks pained. ‘That’s because you don’t know what he’s really like. I can’t stop you, Sky, if you’re determined to find him. I won’t stop you.
It’s just not a good idea.’

‘Fine,’ I say, getting up from the sofa. ‘I’ll do it on my own, then.’

I sound confident, but I’m not. I don’t want to do it on my own. I want Mum to help me. It hurts that she won’t. I have this image in my head of us all sitting around the table
together, having dinner, hearing Dad’s stories, catching up on the last few years. We’re all happy again. I’m not naive enough to think my parents will get back together, but
can’t they at least be friends? Mum’s all about love and forgiveness when it suits her; why is she such a hypocrite when it comes to Dad?

he first person I call is Rich. I’m dying to tell him about how I’ve decided to hunt for Dad and,
who knows, he might be able to help. Most of all, I really need a hug.

‘Hey, babe,’ he says. ‘What’s up?’

‘It’s too complicated to explain over the phone. Will you come round?’

‘What for?’

To see me, obviously. To spend time with me. Because you’re my boyfriend, and that’s what boyfriends do. ‘Um . . . I wanted to talk to you about something.’

There’s that bristle again. ‘Right . . . About what?’

‘Come round and I’ll tell you.’

‘Right now? We’re seeing each other tomorrow night anyway.’

I am seeing him tomorrow night, it’s true, for our anniversary dinner. But this can’t wait. ‘If you can. Please. Unless you’ve got something better to do.’

‘Well . . .’ he begins and I know he’s trying to decide whether football on TV or his new computer game count as ‘something better’. ‘I guess I can pop round
for a few minutes. If you really want me to.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, before he can change his mind. ‘See you in five.’

I hang up and go to my dressing table to redo my make-up and brush my hair. I don’t think my nose has grown too much this week; maybe – fingers crossed – it’s reaching a
plateau. I look tired, though, a bit puffy-eyed. I had a good cry earlier, after Mum said she wouldn’t help. I came up to my room and lay on my bed, and the tears just came. I haven’t
cried for ages, not great big, salty, snotty tears like that. I wonder if Dad has ever cried, thinking about me and Ocean and Grass.