Alien Murmuration - Chapter 19 - Spring 1992

Mum has been drinking every night recently. I mean, so have I but I am supposed to, right? I am out partying like my friends . . .  like everyone’s friends. Manny says we are hedonists. After I agree with this I go home and look up what it means. Hedonism seems to be what this generation does. We are the youth and we are expressing ourselves through excess and endless partying. Maggie Thatcher calls us ‘invaders’ but we don’t really care. We are rebelling. Mum isn’t though, she is just downing a bottle of wine a night. Sitting there staring at the TV in the gloom of our lounge.

I remember back when our lounge used to be a place full of joy and life. Things were always happening. Dad might be playing his guitar or talking to mum about something with that hyperactive passion in his eye. Sometimes I used to find it so hectic it made my head spin. Sometimes I would sit in the doorway so one side of me was excited and interested, while the other (sort of half in the kitchen) was calm. I knew that I felt the same way about stuff I was into, I was just scared of overloading.  Dad would talk passionately about politics, music or anything else that had caught his fancy that day. Stuff that people had been talking about at work. It always occurred to me that he was totally opposite to me, I focussed all my interest on one thing but he, he has such a range of interests. “Jack of all trades and master of none,” he said. I still don’t know what he meant. What the hell is a Jack? Mum would sit and nod and do her best to join in the one-way conversation. Then she would see me in the doorway and roll her eyes. She told me once that what she meant was that he was off on one again. After tha when she did it it always made me smile.

I would give anything to have those days back. I would do anything to have my dad back.

Slowly, I wonder into the gloomy darkness. No light in the room. Not even from the TV tonight. Mum has a book in her hand but is just staring straight ahead. Her face is expressionless. It feels like everything has gone from her. I don’t remember ever seeing a face so blank. She is here in the room with me, I can see her, but I have no idea how to reach her. I stand by the door and watch. Like so many times in my life I have no idea what to do. An no-one is here to help me. Loneliness surrounds me and I am floating in void. A weak voice in my head mews “Dad . . .? Help me?”

I take a couple of deep breaths and prepare myself for . . . well who knows what at the moment?

“Just go and talk to her . . . just e with her” I hear dad’s calming voice in my head. Tentatively I take as tep forward. It feels like pushing through an empty yet stodgy atmosphere. Then another. Like dad said, sometimes you just have to put one foot in front of the other and keep on going.

‘Mum!?”

I try to smile.

. . .

. . .

. . .

Standing still. I wait. I start to sort through my files of skills and information. Mum and Dad have helped me through so many difficult situations there must be something in here for . . . for what ever this is.

. . .

. . .

. . .

Under my breath, I half-whisper “You’re on your own Alien”.  Maybe Aunty Caroline will get the message I left for her and come over. Did it even make sense. I don’t remember what I said.

“Mum!” I say a little louder this time. I force another step toward the side of the chair that Mum is occupying.

. . .

. . .

Eventually, she turns around. I can see that she is trying to do something. It’s like I can see the muscles in her face flexing and moving. It is not surprising really the amount of weight she has lost recently. Unfortunately though, all her flexing makes no impression on her face. Blank.

I am out on a wing here but determined to do my best. I kneel down next to her and take her hand. I am trying to be gentle because she just seems so frail recently. I’m really uneasy with this shit so I am clumsy and awkward. She moves a little and her eyes kind of focus on me. Gently, I squeeze her hand like she used to do to me.

Her mouth opens slowly and again I feel like I can see the muscles trying to create speech. Nothing comes out but I think I can see something in her eyes.

“I love you, Mum,” I say softly. The words seem to surround her in the gloom. Just for a moment they hold in the air her before sailing away behind her and off somewhere else. Did she hear me? Maybe they weren’t the right words?

I look into her eyes, I am not sure if it is the darkness in the room but it feels like there is nothing there. Empty.

There was a time when her eyes had ultimate power over me. They were strong and swirling baby blue. Often they were too powerful for me to ever look directly into. Other times though they were softer, calming and safe. Like nothing could hurt me when they were near. Comforting and homely. Occasionally, I would even be able to explore them. I remember her eyes when she was angry. I couldn’t settle on them, even for a second. They were terrifying if I caught a glimpse of them. I couldn’t settle.  Feeling so alone, like the world had been stripped away from me leaving me standing on a tiny fragment of land in a sea of space.

I looked deep into her eyes now and there was no hint of any of that power. All that energy . . .

. . . gone.

Where was my mum?

I smile gently and release her hand. Maybe I can find the words. When you need something you turn to an expert. I turn and pick up the latest Cure Album that arrived last week from a friend of dad in South America. His mate had sent it to Dad because he knew he was such a big fan. It had floored Mum because this guy didn’t know about Dad. The attached letter was all hope and joy, wish they could see Dad again. Mum hadn’t been able to listen to the album but I did when she was out . . . and a couple of times since.

“The is no pain that a Cure song can’t help” Dad had said to me “That is why they called The Cure.” This was the kind of rotten joke that Dad enjoyed making. Totally deadpan but everyone knew he was laughing inside.

I picked up the red record with a crude strip of the album cover looking like it was stuck on the front. It looked like a bootleg or something but it sounded okay.

I flipped the record and placed it on the turntable, lifted the needle and dropped it onto track three on side A.

As the needle started to pick up the ambient sound at the beginning of the song the room seemed to shift a little. The thick empty fog starts to twist around the melancholic twitching bass line as it gently creeps through the smoky, atmospheric keyboards. I turn to look at mum. Hoping that somehow she can take something in that will bring her back to life. I kneel back down next to her and take her hand “Come back to me Mum,” I whisper.

I don’t remember the last time I cried. Mum always found my endless even emotion so frustrating. In fact most of the times when her eyes were frightening and powerful, were times when I had done something bad at school and didn’t have the good grace to seem upset by it. She used to say it was impossible to reach me. It was always there though, I just had to keep it under control otherwise it would erupt and explode. That was even worse.

I understand now.

“I love you mum” I quietly say again. Not quite managing to finish my sentence before tears stream down my face. I don’t remember this kind of crying.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t move.

I try to speak . . . my mouth opens but that is about as far as I get. Kneeling next to mum silently screaming, cheeks floating in rivers of tears.

I want to tell her that dad isn’t gone. I want to tell her that I still talk to him. He still helps me. He is here now. I want to explain that she can do this too. She can be with him. They don’t have to be apart.

I am so desperate for her to keep hold of him.

To keep hold of us.

I start to sing the chorus. So simple yet so heartbreaking. “How did we get this far apart?” There is too much between us. I can’t tell her the things I want to say. I just keep singing.

Then suddenly she joins in. Her voice is broken and weak but unmistakable. She is with me. An echo of herself but at least I can hear her. I drop my head into her hand and imagine that she is stroking my hair and singing to me like she did when I was young. Most of the time I hated it . . . but sometimes, when I was recovering from a meltdown it calmed me. Until I realised it was happening of course.

I drifted off listening to her voice singing along. Realising that she must have listened to this album a few times.

I am roused by the plinking piano and strings of the next song. It burst away from the sadness of ‘Apart’ and took me with it. Adrift in an ocean of uncertain melancholy. What should I do?

We are lost, together for a time. I wonder if this is helping.

 “I can’t do this stuff,”. I think cruelly and screw up my face with frustration. Why can’t I find the words?” I silently scream into Mum’s hand.

Still holding mum’s hand, I reach up to wipe the snot and tears from my face. Crudely using the back of my hand across my face.

Something changes. I can feel her hand on the back of my head. Her fingers in my hair. Gently stroking me. She calmly takes me back all those years to when I was young. Emerging from my meltdown. . . back home. Her face is over my head and I hear her sing again. She has such a beautiful voice and suddenly with her singing those beautiful words the gloom in the room kind of cleared.

For a moment I am back in the lounge of my childhood. For a moment it feels like it used to. “Dad?” I whisper, expecting him to be here. Singing along with Mum. Singing his favourite band . . . but he has never heard these songs. I cry harder as Mum keeps singing.. Then suddenly she slows and looks down at my broken face.

I say “I am okay Mum” as boldly as I can. I know that my shaking voice betrays me but I know . . .  it’s time to look after you now.”

Slowly, oh so slowly but oh so surely I can see her eyes flicker, just a spark now as she reaches her hand to her face. Her muscles strain again as she moves her lips. She smiles.

“I just miss him so much Allan,” she says just before she pulls me to her as she sobs uncontrollably “I just miss him so much.”

“Me too Mum” I mumble into her neck “but he is still with me.”

“He is still here with us . . . just not enough.”