Free Face by Bridget Brighton Page B

everyday stuff, the details,” Mum continues, “if the baby kicked and kept me awake; if you came out of your room today. All the time I question, should I be telling him this? Is it just delaying the inevitable bit where he moves on in his head as well as in his feet?”
                  “Ask him to come and clear out his stuff. Tell him we need the storage space for all our new clothes.”
    Mum gives a weak smile of recognition. The thought of Dad turning up at the door churns me up to infinity.
                  “I’m not sure I can handle any more conflict right now. I’m too tired.” she says.
                  “Stupid suggestion, forget it.”
    Mum touches my forearm, a n unfamiliar gesture to match her face.
    “Mum, there’s something I still don’t understand: there was a consent form. Did you fake his signature or something?”
    Mum slowly shakes her head.
    “ Why would Dad sign it if he didn’t want a baby?”
                  “It’s complicated, his feelings changed. I wish you’d talk to him about this. There are other factors...”
                  “What factors?”
                  “Well, initially he had to contend with my strong desire to complete our family-”
                  “So you bullied him into it? Dad never could stand up to you.”
                  “I certainly let my feelings be known, but no, I didn’t bully. Your father is more than capable of standing his ground. We had always talked about having two children, that’s what the frozen embryos were for. It was his suggestion to store them, to keep the option open. He was adamant that you have the both of us to yourself for as long as possible. But now I’m fifty-three, so this is the edge of possible.”
                  “So you gave him an ultimatum? It’s me or the baby?”
                  “No, no, nothing like that. Look, True. I know you’re angry at us both right now. You’ve got every right to feel that way.  But there is no baddie here. Dad would say the same.”
                  “Signing the consent form and then walking out? That’s classic Bad Dad. Dad’s a walking stereotype.”
                  “I’m not going to attempt to justify what he did. But before you condemn him forever, at least listen to his side of things. You might feel differently afterwards.” There’s a whole host of stuff behind Mum’s olive eyes, but none of it is guilt. “The situation, our situation, is not as straight-forward as it appears. Dad is desperate to talk.”
                  “I’ll think about it.”
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Eleven
     
    Dollar is talking out of my tummy but I’m not in the mood for melting so I’m letting him flirt at the wall.
    “...but you know me, I can’t keep secrets. I’m about to take the hugest risk of my career and I sure could do with someone to confide in...I know I can rely on you, True. So when the time comes, you’ll be the first to know. Don’t go away...”
    His loaded words are come at me like a dead weight; I mute him. Sorry darling, I haven’t got the headspace for your brand intimacy right now. I wish you could listen to me for a change: I just lied to Mum. I’m not talking to him, ever. They’re collaborating. No doubt she’s messaging him right now: it’s a “maybe” from True. They don’t talk either, it’s just writing. Let him wait.
                  I need a creative distraction; there’s a more pressing mystery to solve here. I grab a pencil and paper and with a swooping scrape an oval shape appears: it’s a blank face and it’s going to become Cliff. Cliff exposed. Because portraits are one of my talents: I capture people by drawing them. (Then I smile at them and they run. That part is new.)
    I rest the pencil at the level where