Chapter Twenty-Six

RHYS

Our David’s chair cuddles me, and my head drops back into its warmth. I let out a yawn and Mum sighs. We take the pause to look at each other. My mum, the one woman I could always count on. The one who understands me and forgives me. The one who picked me up physically when I went head over handlebars at age six. The one who picked me up emotionally when I failed every last GCSE I took. What does she think when she looks at me? ‘There’s more to this, isn’t there.’ She states it as fact, rather than posing the question. ‘This isn’t about Derek, or David, even. What’s going on, Rhys?’We reach the crossroads. Left: I tell her the truth. From Michelle to Susan, via the book of fairy tales and my panic about how the hell I deal with a world I can’t control. Right: I tell her a lie to smooth things over, leaving me to get on with things on my own. Which, at the very least, protects her from more evidence I’m a royal disappointment.

‘Rhys?’

‘I tried to help that woman at the hospital. The one I thought was you.’

‘Whatever for, Rhys?’

I think for a moment, realising I can’t completely go left. ‘Because she has nobody. Because she’s alone in the world and I couldn’t get her out of my head. The nurses said I was helping, and you know what, that felt good. It felt good to think that I could make a difference to someone.’

‘But you make a difference to me, Rhys.’

‘Still? But you’ve got Derek now, you don’t need me.’ I hear myself and I don’t like it. I try harder to dig for the truth. To excavate beneath the spoiled-child exterior. ‘I thought, perhaps, I’d learn to understand.’

‘Understand what, Rhys?’

I cross my arms.

‘Rhys?’ she pushes.

‘I thought if I helped her, I’d understand what makes someone want to kill themselves,’ I answer quietly. ‘I’ve said it before to you, Mum, but I don’t think you understand how important this is. How much I need to know. I thought I could help her and, in so doing, lay a ghost to rest. She ended up in hospital because she tried to end her life. I might not have been able to save David, but perhaps I could have saved her.’

‘Oh, Rhys.’ She pulls the pouffe up towards me, sitting with her hands on my knees. ‘Love.’ She reaches up to stroke my face. ‘People can’t be saved if they don’t want to be, we’ve talked about this.’ Her touch pushes me back into the chair; the clock ticks out the seconds. ‘When you say “could have”… is that what this is about? Has she…?’ She can’t bring herself to finish the sentence and I quickly shake my head, but resist explaining further. How do I tell her why I’ve had to stop? Why suddenly the woman I wanted to help has become the woman I can’t stand to even think about? After a pause, Mum sucks at her teeth, before gingerly asking, ‘Have you tried talking to Michelle?’