A Bit More of You

Chapter Nineteen: Can't Keep From Crying

(Photo from scrapbook: Dad, 1960)

It took a long time for Mum to recover from her hangover. She was banished to her bed and stayed there for several days. I assumed her recovery took a lot longer than anticipated because it was her first ever mass-consumption of alcohol (and her last, if I had anything to say about it). I still looked after her devotedly despite being cross with her.

We had a lot of in-depth discussions during that time. Mum told me stories from her "younger years", and, in return, I told her about my time at George's house. I decided it was the least I could do for her since she was still feeling blue. Recollecting on it just made me fiery red with rage.

"How did you find out?" Mum asked, sipping at her glass of flat lemonade.

"Find out what?" I asked - although I knew what she was getting at.

"About George's... condition." Mum pronounced 'condition' delicately, as if it was a rude word and she was embarrassed to say it.

I sighed heavily. "Mum, please don't make me repeat it. I've told you already. Why do you keep asking?"

Mum ducked her head and stared into her glass. I noticed a big fat tear escape from the corner of her eye and trickle down her face, landing directly into the lemonade with a plopping sound. "I just want to make sure it's true... Maybe if I hear it enough times, I'll... get used to the fact that..."

Mum stopped speaking for fear of bursting into floods of tears. She bit her lip hard, so hard in fact that she made it bleed. "Bum," she said, reaching for the tissue box on the bedside drawer.

I got there first and handed her a tissue. "Here."

"Thanks, dear," Mum mumbled, dabbing at her affliction. "I don't know why I keep trying to kid myself, Georgia. I know he's never coming back, but..."

"We can always hope, Mum," I said, taking her trembling hand in my own. "But remember, we've got to be realistic. George probably won't come back to us, so we shouldn't get too fixated on it."

Mum giggled feebly. "Listen to yourself, babe. It's like you're my mum."

"You've never really told me about your mum," I said.

"What's to tell?" Mum sniffed. "She's long gone and good riddance to her."

"Was she really that awful?"

"If she wasn't awful, I wouldn't have been kicked out, would I?" Mum paused then looked at me with big, worried eyes. "Am I a terrible mother to you, Georgia? I made a vow to myself that I would never be like my own mum, but..."

"You're a great mother, the best mother ever," I insisted. "In fact, I couldn't have wished for a better one."

"You're a sweet little liar," Mum said, playfully ruffling my hair.

Then she pulled me in close for a cuddle. We sat together in silence for a while, listening to each other breathing and the clock ticking on the wall. It was a peaceful few minutes. I quite enjoy quiet moments.

Mum nuzzled her nose into the back of my head and whispered, "Do you still hate your dad?"

"A little," I murmured. "I mean, he's terrible for lying to us and all that, but... but he's not a bad guy."

Mum laughed. "You have no bloody idea how long I've been waiting to hear that!"

"But it's true," I said, giving her a tiny push. "George is quite a good dad. He talks to me like I'm a real person rather than some stupid kid, and he seems interested in what I have to say... although I rather think he's more interested in his blue-eyed drummer friend than me."