Free The Good Mother by A. L. Bird Page B
Authors: A. L. Bird
to adulthood. When I came into her room to say goodnight when she was little, she would throw her arms round me, kiss me goodnight and beg me not to leave. I often had to sit holding her hand until she drifted off to sleep.
But then, other nights, when she was older, she would remain turned towards the wall in her bed, pretending not to hear me. She knew that I knew she knew I was there. I can see her now. Hair – with purple strands, to match her latest customised outfit – lying over her pillow. The hallway light revealing her eyes wide open. The duvet not disguising the fact that her limbs were stiff, not sleep-filled.
Just lying there. No response. Am I somehow to blame?
I’d say, ‘I know you’re awake really.’ But she didn’t reply. Didn’t utter a sound.
It was the intention to hurt as much as the ignoring me that was as painful. This little girl doesn’t intend to hurt me; there is no spite in her turning her back. She either didn’t see the sign or doesn’t trust me. Maybe I have to win her trust somehow? Like I won Cara back when the ‘parents are gross’ phase passed. Or maybe the hormones won her back for me. But the Cara I know now, the fifteen-year-old version, humours and loves her old mum as much as she did as an eight-year-old. So I didn’t lose her for ever. How did I do that? I made myself available, but didn’t press myself on her. I made myself interesting, cool, a purveyor of all things sweet. I was the witch in the gingerbread house without the witchiness (and, to be fair, without the gingerbread either – I had cupcakes). She tells me everything. That’s the beauty of the mother–daughter relationship we have.
So maybe I need to do the same with this little girl? Maybe I can draw her in through drawings. Little pictures, or little comments, on my piece of paper. Not ‘Help Me’ phrases. As a modern child she is probably used to phishing scams. Probably has her own email account – [email protected] . Probably already sees things she shouldn’t when the parental block system breaks down. Anyway, I need to intrigue her, interest her, cajole her into helping me.
So. A dialogue. Oh God, perhaps this is crazy. She probably can’t even see the bloody sign let alone what’s written on it. But I have to try something. I have to have another plan for Cara. An option B. If Cara’s proposal – modified by me – doesn’t work. So that we don’t need to go for option C. The grizzly one.
What do I know about this little girl? What did I know about my own little girl? That the best friend at that age is a playmate. Someone to hold the other end of the skipping rope. Plus someone they can look up to, someone who can wow them with their own stories of the past. The child will watch, incredulous yet wanting to believe.
I tear out some new pages of my so-called diary.
I draw a picture of a little girl with a rope. She is smiling with a big cartoon grin. Then I write ‘I skip too!’ in as bold lettering as I can.
A lie, of course. I’ve never used a rope in my life – Cara was more into roller-skating and I liked hula-hooping when I was a kid. But what’s a little white lie if it might reunite me with Cara?
I put the paper up on the windowsill in the place of the ‘Help Me’ sign. The girl still has her back to me. I stare at her a while, willing her to turn round. Then I get down. She can probably feel my eyes on her back. If I were that age, I would wait until I thought no one was looking before I went to examine a sign. It’s less threatening yet at the same time a more daredevil adventure – grandmother’s footsteps, will you or won’t you be seen.
I turn my attention back to Cara and her plan A. Good start, perhaps. But it needs modifying. Because most important of all is that she should get out of here alive.
Chapter 17
The other side of the door
Imagine, drawing me into the room, kissing me, arousing my hopes and expectations, and my relief –
But then, other nights, when she was older, she would remain turned towards the wall in her bed, pretending not to hear me. She knew that I knew she knew I was there. I can see her now. Hair – with purple strands, to match her latest customised outfit – lying over her pillow. The hallway light revealing her eyes wide open. The duvet not disguising the fact that her limbs were stiff, not sleep-filled.
Just lying there. No response. Am I somehow to blame?
I’d say, ‘I know you’re awake really.’ But she didn’t reply. Didn’t utter a sound.
It was the intention to hurt as much as the ignoring me that was as painful. This little girl doesn’t intend to hurt me; there is no spite in her turning her back. She either didn’t see the sign or doesn’t trust me. Maybe I have to win her trust somehow? Like I won Cara back when the ‘parents are gross’ phase passed. Or maybe the hormones won her back for me. But the Cara I know now, the fifteen-year-old version, humours and loves her old mum as much as she did as an eight-year-old. So I didn’t lose her for ever. How did I do that? I made myself available, but didn’t press myself on her. I made myself interesting, cool, a purveyor of all things sweet. I was the witch in the gingerbread house without the witchiness (and, to be fair, without the gingerbread either – I had cupcakes). She tells me everything. That’s the beauty of the mother–daughter relationship we have.
So maybe I need to do the same with this little girl? Maybe I can draw her in through drawings. Little pictures, or little comments, on my piece of paper. Not ‘Help Me’ phrases. As a modern child she is probably used to phishing scams. Probably has her own email account – [email protected] . Probably already sees things she shouldn’t when the parental block system breaks down. Anyway, I need to intrigue her, interest her, cajole her into helping me.
So. A dialogue. Oh God, perhaps this is crazy. She probably can’t even see the bloody sign let alone what’s written on it. But I have to try something. I have to have another plan for Cara. An option B. If Cara’s proposal – modified by me – doesn’t work. So that we don’t need to go for option C. The grizzly one.
What do I know about this little girl? What did I know about my own little girl? That the best friend at that age is a playmate. Someone to hold the other end of the skipping rope. Plus someone they can look up to, someone who can wow them with their own stories of the past. The child will watch, incredulous yet wanting to believe.
I tear out some new pages of my so-called diary.
I draw a picture of a little girl with a rope. She is smiling with a big cartoon grin. Then I write ‘I skip too!’ in as bold lettering as I can.
A lie, of course. I’ve never used a rope in my life – Cara was more into roller-skating and I liked hula-hooping when I was a kid. But what’s a little white lie if it might reunite me with Cara?
I put the paper up on the windowsill in the place of the ‘Help Me’ sign. The girl still has her back to me. I stare at her a while, willing her to turn round. Then I get down. She can probably feel my eyes on her back. If I were that age, I would wait until I thought no one was looking before I went to examine a sign. It’s less threatening yet at the same time a more daredevil adventure – grandmother’s footsteps, will you or won’t you be seen.
I turn my attention back to Cara and her plan A. Good start, perhaps. But it needs modifying. Because most important of all is that she should get out of here alive.
Chapter 17
The other side of the door
Imagine, drawing me into the room, kissing me, arousing my hopes and expectations, and my relief –