Nita’s Reviews > Spare > Status Update

We called them GRUB DAYS.

They were Tuesday , Thursday and Saturday, I think.

But after Mummy disappeared, letter-writing day became impossible.
I've been told the matrons asked me to write a "final" letter to Mummy. I have a vague memory of wanting to protestthat she was still alive, and yet not doing so, for fear they'd think I was mad. Also, what was the point? Mummy would read the letter when she came out of hiding, so it wouldn't be a total waste of effort.

Mummy bought it for you. Shortly before,....
You mean in Paris.
It was an Xbox. I was pleased I loved video games.
That's the story, anyway.. It's appeared in many accounts of my life, as gospel, and I have no idea if it's true. Pa said mummy hurt her head, but perhaps I was the one with brain damage? As a defence mechanism, most likely, my memory was no longer recording things qute as it once did.

It's OK, I reassured myself, it's OK. There aren't any cameras around.
Besides, I wasn't crying because I believed my mother was in that hole.Or in that coffin. I promised myself I'd never believe that, no matter what anyone said.
No, I was crying at the mere idea.
It would just be so unbearably tragic. I thought, if it was actually true.

It was reported that Mummy's hands were folded across her chest and between them was placed a photo of me and Willy, possibly the only two men who ever truly loved her. Certainly the two who loved her most. For all eternity we'd be smiling at her in the darkness, and maybe it was this image, as the flag came off and the coffin descended to the bottom of the whole, that finally broke me.

Besides, I wasn't crying because I believed my mother was in that hole. Or that coffin, I promised myself I'd never believe that, no matter what anyone said.

No, I was crying at the mere idea.

It could be so unbearably tragic, I thought, if it was actually true.

I wanted to cry, and I'd tried to, because Mummy's life had been so sad that she'd felt the need to disappear, to invent this massive charade. But I couldn't squeeze out one drop. Maybe, I'd learnt too well, absorbed too deeply, the ethics of the family, that crying wasn't an option- ever.

We pulled over, stepped out. I could see nothing but a matrix of coloured dots. Flowers. And more flowers. I could hear nothing but a rhythmic clicking from across the road. The press. I reached for my father's hand., for comfort, then cursed myself, because thst gesture set off an explosion of clicks.

I'd given them exactly what they wanted. Emotion. Drama. Pain.

They fired and fired and fired.

Pa didn't hug me.He wasn't great at showing emotions under normal circumstances, how could he be expected to show them in such a crisis? But his hand did fall once more on my knee and he said: It's going to be OK.

That was quite a lot for him. Fatherlt, hopeful, kind. And so very untrue.

Did he mention papparazi? Did he say she'd been chased? I don't think so. I can't swear to it, but probably not. The paps were such a problem for mummy, for everyone, it didn't need to be said.
I thought again: Injured....but she's OK. She's been taken to hospital, they'll fix her head, and we'll go and see her. Today. Tonight at the latest.
They tried, darling boy. I'm afraid she didn't make it.