I guess it all started when my mum left. I mean hell! I don’t blame her. I would leave. If I could, I’d leave too. Dad told us that she had just had enough of everything and couldn’t cope with us all anymore. I would too; Dad was in debt, Leo was constantly in trouble and her business had gone bankrupt. I would leave.
She was a free spirit he used to tell us. She needed something we couldn’t give her.
It was good for her, but it sucked for us. When my mum left, my dad kind of fell apart. I mean, he has a good job and everything, he just about pays the bills, he’s paid off his debt, he has us but I guess he still misses her. I kind of miss her too. Sometimes I think I hear her voice in the kitchen when I come home from school, so I run in, hoping she has come home and find it’s just the radio or something. I can tell it gets to Immie sometimes, I mean; she was only eight when mum left, so she kind of had to grow up without her. Which I think is really sad. I think she still hopes that one day mum might come back.
I don’t know if dad drunk a lot before, and mum protected us from it, or if he started drinking after mum left but he started coming home late, heavily drunk. It generally depended on his mood as to what he did. Sometimes he would do stupid stuff that was funny. I would joke about it to my friends because somehow it seemed as if I was making the best of it. If he was depressed or angry then he’d tend to shout and smash stuff against the walls. He never touched me – but occasionally he’d lay a hand on Leo, if he had done something really out of line. It was terrifying; I have to admit it was terrifying. I tried to stop him hitting Leo, but there was nothing I could do. He was just so worked up, so angry. If it was anyone else Leo would have fought back, but he told me that he can’t hit dad. He could never hit him back. I mean, Leo does some pretty stupid stuff but he doesn’t deserve to get hit for it. I don’t think so, but that might be because I’m biased, because he’s my brother.
We protect Immie from it, Leo and I, we have to really. I mean – she’s getting a bit wise to it now because she’s twelve, and I think she realises that all the shouting isn’t the telly anymore, but she never says anything about it and Leo having bruises and cuts isn’t exactly unusual, so she’s stopped asking about them too.
Sometimes I wish that she would come back, and see the mess we’re in and wish that she had never left us. I get mixed emotions towards my mum. Sometimes I get angry at her; I think that she was selfish, selfish to leave us in the mess we’re in. As if all of this shit is her fault. Sometimes I say to myself that I don’t want her to come back – but I know I do. I act as if I hate her to my friends and to Leo, but all I want is for her to come back. I miss the way her heels used to clatter in the hallway when she got home from work. I miss her perfume; I miss her humming to the radio while we were eating breakfast. I miss her loud, dirty laugh which made everyone smile. I miss her suddenly pulling me up and waltzing with me around the room. I miss watching her dance. She was an incredible dancer. She always had such grace when she moved, the way she flowed, the pleasure it gave her made it pleasurable for me. The way that when she did competitions the audience would be captivated by her and a little proud voice in me would want to jump up and shout, “That’s my mum! Isn’t she incredible?!”
I just want her to come back.
To see her dance one last time would make me happier that you could comprehend. I guess that’s why I still dance. It’s the only link to her that I have left, other than a bottle of perfume, a pair of her dance shoes, some of her jewellery and her silk bathrobe that I keep in a box under my bed. I mean – photos are nice. I get to see how beautiful she was, how much I look like her, dark, glossy hair, bright blue eyes, tanned skin and all - but sometimes photos aren’t enough. Photos are dead, in a manner of speaking. I need a link that I can smell or touch or… feel. That’s why I dance. It’s not only my link to her; it’s also something that I love. My mum’s ballroom dance school went bankrupt years ago, shortly before she left. Although the building was repossessed but her partner, Keith, still runs classes that the community centre so I go to them, every week. The one thing I live for, that hauls me through a week of crap. It might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but it gives me pleasure, something to look forward to, confidence in something I know I’m good at.
Something that makes a shy girl feel confident and beautiful for those few pleasurable hours in her week.
