My old filing cabinet, in which I’d stored years’ worth of magazine clippings, scribbled notes and designs, was shunted into what we have always referred to, optimistically, as our ‘guest room’, and which is now entirely filled with junk.
It wasn’t as if Nate pushed me into any of that. It was my choice to put my business on hold; I wanted to be a full-time mum, and no other job was as thrilling and rewarding – or downright terrifying when it was suggested that Flynn’s development wasn’t following the expected curves. Weren’t all babies different? I insisted, belligerently. What did health visitors and GPs know? What could paediatric neurologists and behavioural development specialists actually tell us, with their decades of study and experience in impaired muscle coordination and control?
‘They just want to label him,’ I protested to Nate – as if there was a ‘them’ and ‘us’. Like these kindly professionals were trying to put our baby into some kind of box, just to be difficult. There were numerous scans, examinations and tests. We joked, rather bleakly, that we should be issued with hospital loyalty cards.
Eventually, a grey-bearded consultant explained that Flynn – who was by then nine months old – had cerebral palsy. No, we didn’t ‘cause’ it, he insisted. It had nothing to do with the wine I’d drunk at our friends’ wedding, plus tequila shots, ill-advised gin jellies and God knows what else I’d tipped down my throat before we’d realised I was pregnant.
Eventually, Nate insisted that I had to stop beating myself up or I’d go mad. It took a long time for me to trust these unfailingly kind professionals and not assume everyone was lying to us. If someone had said, ‘Your son has this condition because you’ve worn thongs/took ecstasy – once, in 1992, and nothing actually happened’ – then they’re the ones I’d have believed. Our consultant suggested that I wanted someone, or something, to blame. As our baby’s carrier for forty weeks, it seemed that had to be me.
I tried to explain this to Nate, but he brushed me off, implying that I was being silly and even hysterical. Eventually I stopped talking about it as it just seemed to cause rows. Meanwhile, we threw everything into being Flynn’s parents. He was our little hero, and our entire life, and when one aspect of life is all-consuming, other things tend to be forgotten. Like paying parking fines on time and sending Nate’s mother a birthday present (somehow, since I’d let my business slide, attending to such matters had become my job). We forgot about wedding anniversaries, and rarely had nights out, despite numerous offers of babysitting. For the most part, we even forgot about having sex. Let’s just say our cars had oil changes more regularly than Nate and I were getting it together. And somewhere along the way, we lost ourselves.
For a while, I assumed the real problem was money, and it was certainly tight. I knew this was partially my fault. All through Flynn’s primary school years I was a non-working person, which sometimes seemed to tip into being a non-person. But I accepted that, because Flynn was surpassing all expectations and growing up into the sunniest, most determined and delightful boy. CP was just a part of him, like his love of dogs and fascination with his dad’s vast record collection.
By the time Flynn was twelve I had an overwhelming urge to return to work. Jewellery was far too precarious an option, and by then I was lamentably out of touch with trends and potential retail outlets. Plus, as Nate often pointed out – quite rightly – our debts were mounting and we needed another regular income. Pre-parenthood he’d scraped a living through teaching guitar, playing in bands and driving musicians, plus their gear, the length and breadth of Britain. He’d enjoyed the driving part so much, he’d eventually trained as a driving instructor, and then the examiner he is now.
Reliable, hard-grafting Nate: willing to swap his life in music for one of tests and minutiae, because he loves us and wanted to take care of us. Meanwhile, I took on some part-time admin work, until last year, when a card in a local shop window caught my eye: Full-time sales assistant required. Please enquire within.
‘Would it seem ridiculous,’ I asked Nate, ‘for me to apply for a shop job?’
‘What kind of shop?’ He started to rearrange the contents of our dishwasher, as he always reckons I stack it incorrectly.
‘A new gift shop called Little Owl. It’s by that bistro in Stoker Road. You probably haven’t noticed it …’
There was a clink of crockery as he repositioned the top shelf’s contents to ensure effective cleansing. As my friend Michelle once put it, ‘A man who criticises your dishwasher-loading technique risks being shoved into it with the intensive setting whacked on.’
‘So, what d’you think?’ I prompted him.
He removed the forks from the appliance’s holder and put them back properly, with prongs facing upwards.
I jammed my back teeth together. People have committed murder over less. ‘Nate? Did you actually hear what I said?’
‘Yeah, sorry, darling.’ He turned and smiled. ‘Yeah. I think a little shop job would be really good for you.’
Little shop job!
I was replaying all of this as I scribbled that list two nights ago. I hardly knew what I was doing as I placed it by the kettle, then called Abby in a state. Of course I could stay with her, she assured me. She would come and get me, and would I please stop apologising? She met me in her car at 1.40 a.m. at the end of our road.
So here I am now – trying, unsuccessfully, to sleep in her spare room. The plump pillow is wet with my tears, and although somehow it’s better than being with Nate, I can’t help thinking: What the hell have I done?
Weekends are usually an opportunity to kick back, read the papers, walk Scout, maybe meet up with Eric and Sarah. Or Sinead and I would just go out for a drink ourselves: all the ordinary (but now, I realise, intensely pleasurable) stuff I’ve taken for granted all these years. Without Sinead here on Saturday morning – and with no work to go to – I simply don’t know what to do with myself.
Still, I can’t fall apart. I’m still Flynn’s dad and, if nothing else, I’m going to prove that I can run this home, this family, by myself.
Things start off pretty well, considering. Flynn emerges from his room a little before 10 a.m. There are no visible signs of tears or anger; on the contrary, he utters a gruff, ‘Morning’ as we pass on the stairs. I even dish up a proper breakfast – not that I’m expecting some kind of World’s Best Dad accolade for scrambling some eggs. However, we are coping, in that we are dressed, and nourished, and I have only checked my phone a handful of times to see if Sinead has been trying to contact me.
Of course she hasn’t. Idiot, I chastise myself.
Aware of behaving a little manically – in order to prove just how fucking fine I am – I suggest to Flynn that he fetches his guitar and we have a go at some new techniques. ‘Okay,’ he says warily. Minutes later, we’re sitting together in the living room while I show him a new take on the traditional twelve-bar blues he knows already.
He’s strumming away, albeit rather mechanically, as if he’s keen to get on with something else.
‘Hang
