So that was a no from Mum. And from Dad. Mum got pretty mad. I mean, she was mad with Mrs. Lawton, she kept saying, but it sounded like she was more mad with me, from the way she kept coming back to the same topics. I do appreciate that reading private emails is beyond the pale. I do appreciate that Mum and Dad are juggling some big issues, and they can't do that if they're constantly afraid I'm going to hack into their email account all the time. Do I want to turn into a household with locked doors? (No.) Do I want to live in a family with no trust? (No.) Wait a minute, was this Heather? Did Heather help you? (Silence.) Mum's nostrils were white and her forehead veins were throbbing, and Dad looked grave, seriously grave, like he hasn't looked for a while, and they were both one hundred percent adamant that seeing Isaac was a nonstarter. "You're fragile, Henry," Mum kept saying. "You're like a piece of china that's just been mended." She pinched that from Dr. Gobber. Does Mum talk to Dr. Gobber behind my back? This has never occurred to me before.
But then, I can clearly be quite slow off the mark. "Son, I know you think it'll be a cathartic experience and you'll say your piece and everyone will come away the wiser," says Dad. "But in real life, that doesn't happen. I've confronted enough assholes in my time. They never realize they're assholes. Not once. Whatever you say." He turns to Mum. "Remember Ian? My first boss? Now, he was an asshole. Always was, always will be." "I'm not planning to say a piece," I point out. "He's the one who wanted to apologise." "He says," mutters Mum darkly. "He says." "Tell us why you want to do it," says Dad. "Explain." "Do you want to hear him say sorry?" says Mum. "We could tell him he has to write a letter." "It's not that." I shake my head impatiently, trying to shift my thoughts into making sense. The trouble is, I can't explain. I don't know why I want to do it. Except maybe to prove something. But to who? Myself? Isaac? Dr. Gobber isn't wild about hearing about Isaac or Thomas or any of them. He's all, like, "Henry, you aren't validated by other people," and, "You're not responsible for other people's emotions" and "This Thomas sounds very tedious, let's move off the topic." He even gave me a book about unhealthy relationships. (I almost laughed out loud. Could you get any more unhealthy than the relationship between me and Thomas?) It was about how you have to be strong to break free from abuse and not constantly measure yourself against toxic people but stand strong and distinct like a healthy tree. Not some stunted, falling-over, codependent victim tree. Or whatever.
It's all very well. But Isaac and Thomas and all of them are still in my mind all the time. They have not checked out of the building. Maybe they never will. "If I don't do it, it'll always be a question," I say at last. "It'll bug me my whole life. Could I have done it? Would it have changed things?" Mum and Dad don't look convinced. "You could say that about anything," says Mum. "Could you skydive off the Empire State Building? Well, maybe." "Life's too short," says Dad firmly. "Move on." "I'm trying to move on. This is part of moving on!" But as I look from face to face I know I'm never going to persuade them. Never, whatever I say.
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So I go to Heather. Who also thinks it's a bad idea, but the difference is, after we've discussed it for about five minutes, she shrugs and says, "Your life." Dad's changed his email password, but Heather soon finds it on his BlackBerry on a memo called New Password (poor Dad; he really shouldn't leave his BlackBerry lying around), and we get into the account. I was planning to write the email myself, but Heather takes over, and honestly, she sounds just like Dad. "You've been reading too many of Dad's emails," I say in awe as I read her words. "This is amazing!" "Piece of piss," says Heather, but I can tell she's pleased. And she should be. The email is totally a work of art. It goes like this:
That's my new mobile number. After we've sent the email, Heather deletes the email and then deletes it again out of Trash, and I think we're safe. And then all of a sudden I feel this lurch of fright. What am I doing? Shit, what am I doing? My heart starts racing, and I can feel my hands twisting up into knots. "Will you come with me? Please?" I say before I can stop myself, and Heather turns to give me a long look. I dodge it, turning my head, but then sneak a glance back. She's looking really anxious, like it's suddenly hit her too, what we've done. "Hen, are you sure you want to do this?" "Yes. Yes." I nod, over and over, as though to convince myself. "Yes. I'm going to do it. I just need a bit of moral support. If you come with me. And Ally." "The three musketeers." "Something like that." "Have you told Ally?" "No, but I'm meeting her later at the park. I'll tell her then."
