Geekhood (23 page)

TWENTY-ONE

Fear is a wonderful focus for the untidy mind, and right now, I am as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. The smell of air freshener in my dad’s car threatens to choke me.

“What happened?” I ask, in a voice that doesn’t sound like mine.

Dad’s face is tight and stressed, but he’s trying not to show it.

“I don’t know. After you … left … he just sort of turned white and collapsed. I called an ambulance, called your mum and waited with him until they arrived. She’s at the hospital now.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“How’d you know where to find me?”

“I didn’t. I was on my way to your house to see if you were there. What were you doing on the pavement? Whose house is that?”

“Just waiting for a friend who wasn’t in.” I avoid the use of gender to head off further questions.

We drive in silence for a few minutes. I don’t know what’s going through Dad’s head, but I know what’s going
through mine: this is my fault. If I hadn’t lost my rag, if I hadn’t run off, if I hadn’t been such an almighty jerk – none of this would have happened.

Dad senses something in my silence and pulls over.

“Are you all right, Arch?”

“I don’t know.”

“I know what you’re thinking – and it’s not true. If it was going to happen, it was going to happen. I don’t mean to sound harsh, but he doesn’t look as though he takes care of himself.” Dad isn’t saying exactly what’s happened to Tony, but it wouldn’t take Dr McCoy to figure it out.

“No … no, he doesn’t.”

“He’ll be fine, I’m sure he will. But what about you? What’s going on?”

This is unfamiliar terrain for me; me and my dad don’t really talk about anything important and I’ve no idea how to respond. I’d love to be able to come out with something deep and profound, probably with a hint of mysticism about it, but my PS seems to have packed up and moved out. And I can’t say that I’m sorry about it. However, there is a voice in my head and while it’s very, very familiar and very, very welcome, it seems to have altered a little bit.

IM:
Just tell him how you feel
.

It seems to have grown up a bit. I take a deep, much-needed
breath and don’t bother to relax my buttocks.

“I guess I’ve been angry, Dad.”

IM:
Not bad. A bit non-specific. But it’s a start
.

“Because I’m moving?”

“Yeah.”

Dad shifts in his seat and with my peripheral vision I can see him leaning in and trying to make eye contact with me. When I turn to look at him, he’s wearing a smile, but it’s one of those that people put on when they’re trying to fight back tears.

“I’m sorry, son,” he says in a thick voice. “It was a bloody hard decision. Really it was. And I thought of you every step of the way.”

“It didn’t feel like it.”

“No, I s’pose not. I should have spoken to you about it right from the beginning, but I didn’t want to worry you; I didn’t know if it was going to happen or not. But I should have spoken to you about it. I’m sorry.”

IM:
Your turn
.

“Yeah. Me too. I just felt sort of…left out, I think.” There’s a hand on my shoulder, but it’s gentle and earnest this time, much like the look in Dad’s eyes.

“I’m so, so sorry, Archie. So sorry.” He breathes deep and reaches inside for something he’s hidden away. “
You’re
my son, Archie. No one else. Much as I love Jane and much as I care for her kids –
you’re
my son and no
one can take that away.
No one
. I will be there for you whenever you need me and I will do whatever is humanly possible to make your life a good one. I know I’m a pain in the arse and I don’t always say the right thing, but I’m your dad and I love you more than you will ever know.” A rogue tear is making a break for it down his cheek.

IM:
Time to let him off the hook
.

“I’ll still see you, though?”

Dad answers with a noise that is a mixture of relief and pain, but the smile that comes with it is full of hope.

“Of course you will! Jesus! With the money I’ll be on, we can take holidays, I’ll get you train tickets! I’ll have a bigger house – you can have your own room. You’ll be driving in three years, Archie – we’ll make it work!”

“OK.”

IM:
And cue the orchestra
…

Hugging isn’t easy when you’re in the front of a car, but we manage it.

“Right, then!” Dad wipes his eye in that way that men do when they don’t want to acknowledge they’ve been a bit teary. “You OK? Good. Let’s get to the hospital, your mum needs you right now.”

IM:
And so does Tony
.

TWENTY-TWO

I don’t like hospitals. They give me The Fear. Even children’s wards; try as they might to make them friendly with poor imitations of cartoon characters painted on the walls, they reek of anxiety and shepherd’s pie. Don’t get me wrong, I like a shepherd’s pie, but a helping of mince and mash seems to smell different in the comfort of your own home.

IM:
Especially without some mutant version of Mickey Mouse leering down at you
.

There are no such monsters painted on the corridors that lead to the Cardiac Ward – which is probably a good job, considering the state of most of the patients that are intermittently wheeled past us.

Dad and I walk in silence, following a set of yellow lines on the floor to our destination.

IM:
Not quite the Emerald City
.

And not quite the time for jokes. We arrive at a small waiting room with a busy reception desk and are told to wait; we can’t see Tony yet – we’re not family and he’s being “worked on”. Just that simple phrase ignites a pocket of fear inside me that I didn’t know existed.

“What does that mean, Dad? Is he going to die?”
I can’t help myself. Tony might be a Tosser, but I suddenly don’t want to lose him. Whether it’s through guilt that I might be responsible or finally realizing that he makes Mum happy, I don’t know. Maybe it’s both. Or maybe it’s because underneath all the Tosser Talk, I know that he cares about me too.

“Let’s sit down,” Dad whispers, putting an arm round me. “You’re here for him; that’s all you can do right now.”

IM:
Hang in there, Tony, you … Tosser
.

Half an hour later, I’ve exhausted the problem pages in a number of women’s magazines and start counting how many strip lights there are in the corridor behind us.

IM:
There’s psychic evolvement for you!

Suddenly, there’s a noise that sounds like a heart monitor gone mad. Me and Dad look around, as do the nurses behind the reception desk.

IM:
It’s your phone!

I quickly root through my pockets until I find it. There’s a number on the screen that it takes me a moment to register, but there’s also a nurse on top of me in seconds, telling me with no uncertainty to turn it off, please. With my EM kicking back into touch and routing every possible red blood cell to my cheeks, I search for the power button and kill it as quickly as possible.

IM:
Let’s hope you didn’t do the same for any of the patients…

I smile apologetically at all the staring faces and sink as low as possible into my chair. Dad leans over to me, whispering in that way you feel you ought to in a hospital, despite the fact that there are bleeps, moans and the click-clack of heels echoing all around.

“I thought you didn’t have a phone.” There’s an accusation lurking in there, somewhere.

“I didn’t. I just bought it.”

“Oh. Right.” There’s a silence, during which he changes tack. “Who called? Anyone I know?” Even though he’s whispering, I can hear the telltale tones of someone fishing for information.

“Not really…”

IM:
Go on – build the bridge!

“It was the girl who came round the other night. To the Game night.”

“Oh! What – as in girl
friend
?” The last syllable is heavy with pre-emptive approval. Here my EM takes an unexpected stance and reveals my irritation at being placed under the microscope yet again; I sigh and roll my eyes. Dad gets the message.

“Don’t want to talk about it?”

IM:
No shit, Sherlock!

“Not really.”

“Fair enough. Hope you have better luck than I did, though…”

“What do you mean?” If he’s including Mum in his nebulous statement, then I’m coming up fighting this time.

IM:
*Rolls up sleeves*

“What? Oh, God, no – not your mother! No, sorry – I just meant generally. I was always hopeless with girls.”

My IM and I have the same thought at the same time, so it just sort of trips off the tongue.

“It must run in the family.” I grin ruefully.

“Like that, eh? Well, for what it’s worth, just be yourself. That’s the only advice I can give.”

IM:
Might be worth listening to
.

Before I can respond, the door to the ward opens and Mum walks through. She looks tired, old and like her tear ducts have been working overtime. Dad stands awkwardly then takes a few steps back, giving me and Mum a bit of space. She half trots over to me and gives me a hug; one of those ones that tells you the other person needs it more than you do. I squeeze her back and let her decide when enough’s enough.

“Archie,” she sniffs, “what’s been going on? Where were you?”

“How’s Tony? Is he going to be OK?”

Mum seems to remember that the Cardiac Ward waiting room isn’t quite the place to grill her son and pulls herself into a more together state.

“Yes, I’ve just had a chat with the doctors and they think he’s going to be OK. It was a warning. I don’t think he’ll be smoking when he gets out.”

“Can I see him?”

“Not now. He’s very tired. I’m going to come back later, but I think it might be a good idea if you left it until tomorrow.”

“Couldn’t I just nip in for a couple of minutes?”

“No, Archie. Best not.”

IM:
It’s not about you. It’s about Tony. “Sorry” will wait till he’s ready to hear it
.

“OK.”

Mum glances over my shoulder and sees Dad. She smiles crookedly and then looks back to me.

“What happened, Archie?”

“I think I can help there.” Dad steps forward, but still leaves a wary space between him and Mum. “Shall we go and get a cup of tea?”

A hospital coffee shop wasn’t quite what I had in mind when I fantasized about a family reunion. Dad goes to get the teas, while me and Mum go and perch on bar stools that overlook the hospital’s gift shop.

“You OK, Mum?” The weight of the situation seems
to have pulled at her features, so that even her smile takes more effort than usual.

“Yeah. Better now. A cup of tea will sort me out.” Her eyes flick to find Dad in the queue; they’re full of wariness and old memories. “What happened, Archie?”

IM:
And now for a game of conversational Buckaroo…

I know how much is at stake here, so I try and tread carefully, giving a sketchy account of the car-boot sale. My EM tries to cover any glaring omissions, but the Human Polygraph is having none of it.

“And what’s the bit you’re not telling me?”

IM:
D’oh!

“Dad’s moving to York next Friday.”

“What?!” This isn’t quite the reaction I’d been hoping for. In fantasyland, Mum would suddenly realize that she couldn’t live without him, and Dad would probably look at her and resolve to win her back. Instead, the look Mum throws at the queue is the eyeball equivalent of a karate chop. As if directed by some mischievous god, Dad wanders cautiously over, carrying a tray and wearing an expression that wouldn’t look out of place on a shop-window dummy.

“Tea?” He knows something’s up, but seems to think that a cup of tea will somehow make everything all right.

“Thank you.” Mum’s reply is curt, reinforcing the invisible wall that has sprung up between them. “What’s this about you moving to York?”

At this moment in time, I might as well not exist. Mum and Dad have locked eyes and the tension is practically visible.

“Ah…” Just the one syllable confirms everything.

“And when were you thinking of telling me? Haven’t we been down this path before?”

“How long is it since we’ve spoken?” I can hear knives in Dad’s voice.

“And whose fault is that?” Mum’s got a spear in hers.

IM:
Pointless! This is pointless!

My EM concurs by causing me to blow out a pointed sigh and apparently removing the muscles at the back of my neck, so that my head lolls back and I’m looking at the ceiling.

IM:
Which is a damn sight more interesting than listening to this
.

For once, my actions seem to have an effect. Dad looks at me, at Mum and then at his tea. Mum suddenly seems to find her cuppa endlessly fascinating.

Then there’s some sort of sighing competition, while my parents gaze into the middle distance, searching for answers. Eventually, and as though someone has applied glue to his bar stool, Dad stands up.

“Let’s leave it, shall we?” There’s an air of resignation about him.

Mum wins the sighing competition with a monster exhalation, her eyes still fixed firmly on her tea.

“No,” she says, as though she’s trying to convince herself of something. “You’re moving and we might not be able to do this again. Sit down. Let’s try and work this out.”

Dad sits down and there’s another elephantine silence.

“Archie,” Mum says, “do you want to go to the shop and get a magazine or something?”

IM:
Which loosely translates as “Get rid of the kid.
”

“No. I think I ought to be here.”

Dad flicks a glance at Mum. Mum flicks a nod at Dad. The fact that they’re able to agree on something – no matter how small – seems to relax them a bit and they start to talk. Dad explains about his new job and how much better life’ll be for everyone with the money he’ll earn and how I can take the train to York and how he’ll have to come down now and again anyway. An argument starts to build when they discuss who’s going to see me when, and Mum suggests that Dad’s going to need to be a “bit more reliable” and not cancel a weekend “at the first sign of a cold”. This obviously gets under Dad’s skin and he goes into some bristling rant about how “some of us
have to work for a living”, but Mum refuses to rise to the bait and changes tack.

“Archie? How do you feel about this?”

IM:
You’ve just been promoted to “grown-up”. Don’t blow it!

I take a deep breath and for once in my life say exactly what I think. Not what I think people want to hear.

“OK,” I breathe, taking the crown as Overall Sighing Champion. “What you both don’t seem to get is how hard it is that you don’t talk. And because of that, I don’t talk to you about each other. I don’t talk to you…” I lock eyes with Mum, “…about Dad and I don’t talk to you…” Dad’s turn, “…about Mum. So I talk to myself. Probably a lot more than you know. And that’s when I get things wrong.” Something akin to shame settles like a ceasefire between my parents. “In an ideal world, I’d like to see you both all the time. But I know that’s not going to happen. So, if there’s a way that I can call Dad…” I shoot another look at Mum “…without worrying that you’re going to be upset, that’d be good. And if you can mention Mum…” Dad’s not off the hook either, “…without it being such a big deal, that’d be good, too. You’re both a part of my life, but it’s like you’re each trying to pretend that the other doesn’t exist. And from where I’m standing, that’s pretty lame.”

IM:
*Applause*

Mum and Dad look at each other, embarrassed, and then simultaneously start nodding to themselves, each lost in their own thoughts. I deflate a little and listen to my heart rate calming down.

“Truce?” Dad asks finally.

“I think so,” Mum agrees with a tired smile.

“OK, then.” The glue on Dad’s seat has obviously evaporated. “I’ll leave you to it. Archie, I’ll give you a ring tomorrow and let’s get together before Friday. Go out or something.”

“’K.”

“OK, then. Bye.”

“We’re going too. We’ll walk out with you.”

IM:
Steady on, Mum!

The walk to the main doors is like wading through treacle, but they manage it with me walking between them. Eventually we make it out and, after some staccato goodbyes, my dad leaves and I head with Mum to the car. As I close the door, I switch my mobile on, just because I can.

Sarah’s number is down as a missed call.

As the car starts up, a silence consumes us, but neither of us notice. Mum’s eyes are staring at the road ahead, but her mind is somewhere else. Mine too; when can I call Sarah?

IM:
Best wait and see how Mum is before you 
do anything
.