Free I Unlove You by Matthew Turner

” asks my father, eyeing my plate. My
mother stares as B smiles, holding back a laugh, no doubt reading
the thoughts bombarding my brain.
    “ Yeah, ” I say.
    “ You sure? You look a tad
lost. ”
    Glancing to B , she holds my hand; helping me and guiding me
like she always does. “ It ’ s okay, ” she whispers.
    “ What ’ s
wrong? ” says my mum, placing her knife and fork down and edging her
chair closer to the table. “ What ’ s
happened? ”
    “ It ’ s fine.
Nothing ’ s happened, ” I say. “ Well …”
    I
look away from my mother because all I foresee is her face after
Joey and me flooded the girls ’ bathroom when we
were ten; sitting in the head teacher ’ s office whilst he
ran through our wrong-doings. Not angry, but disappointed, an empty
stare that seemed to suggest I lost part of my mother that
day.
    She ’ s terrible at hiding her emotions, and I
can ’ t stand the thought of letting her down
again.
    “ We have some pretty big
news, ” I say to my father. Hesitating, and looking to my plate of
half-eaten vegetables and lamb, I sigh. “ B ’ s pregnant. ” Two words sneak through my lips, a near whisper
I ’ m certain they both hear as loud as a
shout.
    B squeezes my hand and places her
other on my thigh, and I know she looks at me in the hope
I ’ ll lift my head, but I can ’ t. All I see is
my mother ’ s face as we left the school that afternoon, her
silence enough to shame me as she pursed her lips and remained a
few feet in front.
    “ I see, ” says my father,
breaking the silence. Slow. Calm. In control. “ Well, that is big
news. I suppose it shouldn ’ t be a huge
surprise, though, considering the two of you have been together
forever. Still, it ’ s big. ” Taking a drink of
water, I raise my chin and focus on his own. “ But a baby ’ s a blessing,
and I ’ m glad you told us. ” He turns his
attention to B . “ How do you feel? ”
    “ I ’ m good. Thank
you. ” She tightens her grip, edging closer to my chair. “ It ’ s still a
shock, but we ’ re
adjusting. ”
    I
nod because I ’ m unsure of what
else to do or say. I ’ m the idiotic,
frightened boy from two weeks ago, trembling from B ’ s news, but this time it isn ’ t our baby that
shakes my insides, rather the do-or-don ’ t temptation to
sneak a glance at my mother.
    I
know she loves the idea of being a grandma, as I ’ m sure
most mothers do. But not now. Not today. She ’ ll adjust
and come around, but I know she shares my fear because
I ’ m sure it ’ s from her I get it.
A carefree soul who drifts without worry until her anxieties and
worries decide to drown her in the moment.
    Like I drown.
Like I ’ m drowning right now, scared to face my
mother ’ s disappointment.
    “ You okay, dear? ” asks my father,
facing my mother and taking her hand. I follow her arm up to her
face, unable to fight the curiosity consuming me.
    I
used to lose myself in her long flowing hair. A memory of me
twisting her auburn locks in my fingers pops into my head, sitting
on her lap as she reads fairytales from the same book her mother
read to her. Another glimmer of yesteryear, the sun shining through
her hair, lightening its tone; we ’ re on some beach
holiday, maybe, or enjoying a particular sunny Yorkshire afternoon
as we sit in the garden together.
    There ’ s this one picture
in the hallway; a young twenty-something version of my mother back
in Austin, ‘ hippified ’ , in a tie-dye shirt
and flowing skirt. It ’ s taken by my
father, although it ’ s hard to decipher
how they found one another; he, an English writer obsessed with Bob
Dylan, decked in tweed and sensible sweater-vests; she, a carefree
American from an unmarried beatnik couple, a professional wanderer
and full time daydreamer.
    So
beautiful, and my father, so normal and predictable, just like me.
She ’ s older now, and a tad more plump with a lived-in
appearance, but that hair remains the same now as in the