Familiar Ache

Hurt people hurt people. It’s a line that illustrated many of my pastors’ sermons.

Sure. But you know what? The truth hurts more.

And the truth was that my auntie’s husband had never liked us.

*

You can’t say things like that; my mother snapped at the open road before us, bracing the steering wheel. She’d rebuked me for saying so for almost five years. The length of time the man I was forced to call Uncle had been playing house with my mother’s most precious little sister.

It’s true though; I retaliated and then immediately regretted it.

Ha! My mother scoffed incredulously; Your auntie told you, did she? She aggressively flicked one hand up in the air towards me; And who are you?

My mother shot me a threatening look via the rear-view mirror, a non-verbal warning that still held just enough power to make my body turn cold.

Stay in your lane, Katrice; her voice lowered; you don’t know nothing about nothing. Your auntie’s business is none of your business.

I could only imagine kissing my teeth and pouting at her remark, but I wasn’t foolish enough to set my mother off whilst we were pelting down a high-speed motorway at seventy, in a little Skoda hatchback. My disgust for my auntie’s husband wasn’t quite great enough to commit suicide on our way to visit them, a practice that had become a bi-monthly ritual.

For the rest of the ride on that particular journey, my mother didn’t speak to me. Instead, she plugged the car player with one of her beaten up cassettes and filled the air; stifled by the temperature of the car heater, with her singing along to old school gospel tunes from her childhood. And I resolved to staring out of the foggy window to watch the grey roads of modernity make its exit and give way to a simpler greener scene.

By the time our car struggled over the series of cattle grids and scarcely made the sharp right at the village bridge - where my mother would pray fervently that the blind spot would not reveal a slow-moving vehicle or a lost herd of livestock - the cassette had racked up an impressive five loops. The very audible sigh of my mother’s breath as she rolled us to a halt at the bottom of the double driveway offered a little comfort to me and our little spat earlier seemed forgotten. But sharp as she was, my mother spun away from the steering wheel and poked her head through the gap in the two-fabric covered front seats.

You know what I’m going to say to you Katrice.

I knew.

Her breath was hot and humid against the left side of my face; I’d swung my legs out of the car. But she’d grasped the car door handle, blocking my escape, and crushed the metal against my shins. We did this every time we came to visit, every single time. We had been doing this for five years.

My eyes prickled from the pressure on my legs and from her waiting eyes. A curtain fluttered in the kitchen window of my auntie’s red bricked house.

I told my mother, in rapid haste, exactly what she wanted to hear:

I won’t show you up. I won’t interrupt your conversation. I won’t walk on the carpets in my shoes. I won’t ask for more food at dinner. I won’t disrespect my uncle. I won’t ask to leave early.

Good; came her reply and the car door finally relaxed, relieving me.

I felt thankful for the fresh air but flushed with self-pity. At sixteen, I was bordering adulthood towing a mother who wanted to put the brakes on my breakaway.

At the navy-blue front door, I balanced the steel pot of ackee and saltfish wrapped in a Waitrose bag whilst my mother tested her breath against her wrist, popped a mint and then fluffed the bouquet of lilies in her hands.

You’re here; my Auntie Courtney greeted us both with kisses. She pulled me in deeply against her wool jumper. I inhaled a distantly familiar fragrance on her clothes. It was Jo Malone, Auntie Courtney’s signature. For me, the scent summed up everything about the life my auntie had been living since she’d married Kelly. A life that wasn’t anything like ours. I’d added the perfume to my wish list that Christmas and then cursed my childish faith that I might receive it from my single-parent breadwinner mother.

Give Katrice a break, Teen; Auntie Courtney laughed when my mother gasped at me for resting the pot of food on the white carpet, as I removed my shoes dutifully on the doormat; I can’t believe you insist on bringing that big old dutchy pot. Who do you think we’re feeding? Besides you know Kelly doesn’t eat this…

Well, he should; my mother resolved; I mean who’s met a black man who doesn’t eat ackee and saltfish?

Kelly isn’t black; I said and rolled my eyes. In my head, of course.

Teen, he’s biracial; Auntie Courtney corrected and folded her arms playfully; You gotta stop saying things like that. You know he hates that.

Well, he’s coloured and that means he’s black; my mother straightened up with the pot in her arms, tipping it side to side enticingly in front of my auntie. According to my mother, being black and being biracial was the same thing. But of course, it wasn’t. And she was actually wrong to call Kelly “coloured” because technically, as I had found out in Year 7 art class, black isn’t a colour. Black is a shade.

In the kitchen, I took my usual spot at the island and hid behind a series of vases sprouting flowers in various stages of bloom in order to check my leg in secret. The damage from the car door wasn’t as visible as I had imagined. There was a mere indent in my skin, that was already springing back to solid form. I’d known worse pains, worse scars. I had learnt how to recover quickly.

The sisters were chatting at the open top stove. My mother made them both tea; one with organic milk, one without. Auntie Courtney was flattering my mother with compliments.

You make the best ackee, Teen; she kept saying, dipping a little dessert spoon in and out of the West Indian goulash; Even Mum could never make it like this… I always get so excited when you bring a batch, I miss eating this you know… You don’t mind me serving some for dinner tonight, do you?

No, of course not; my mother shrugged a knowing and proud smile and she sipped from the little floral tea cup that she held to her lips with two hands, not one; perhaps we can convert Kelly?

Kelly; Auntie Courtney said in a way that someone might if they’d just realized they’d added red clothes in a white laundry load; Where has he gone? He was down here when you pulled up outside…

I almost choked on a subdued scoff. My mother wriggled her nose and moved across the kitchen in the clean fluffy slippers she had brought to only ever wear in this house. She put down her tea cup on the island right next to me. Purposefully.

Come on; she slapped the marble worktop besides me; We’re going to say hello to Uncle Kelly.

I could hear the car debrief again in my ears. I knew she was replaying it in her head too.

You haven’t had any tea; Auntie Courtney told me with concern. She was right. I hadn’t been included in their cozy tea round.

No; my mother held up her hand; it’s not important. We need to greet the man of the house. First and foremost.

*

The man of the house was sitting in a royal blue robe, with the spaniel he’d fathered from his bachelor days, lying between his legs. With a glass in hand, Kelly reclined in his office chair and blinked at us coming into his study, as my mother made silly apologies for interrupting.

Not at all; he said in his infamous one-word-per-second way. It was a habit I assumed he’d picked up from public school; I honestly didn’t hear you both arrive.

You honestly did; I said. In my head, of course.

The study was an unusually small space for such a big house. It was one of the rooms that my mother said was “off bounds” to me, unless I was supervised. Kelly hadn’t shown my mother any gratitude for her respecting his privacy. I remember how he had simply added that he had needs, and one of his needs was a place to recluse and “get away from it all”.

The spaniel came over eventually. He nosed around our legs and then tried to mount my mother. She laughed with strained joy, pushing him down.

He’s getting big; she winced.

My mother and I don’t have pets. Pets are for people who don’t have real jobs or responsibilities; my mother said once when I asked for one for Christmas.

How are you Katrice? Kelly asked me. He remained seated on his throne.

Good; I replied and thanked the Lord that I could avoid small talk with him, in exchange for the spaniel pleading for a belly rub.

Kelly said something about perhaps catching up with me about school, my aspirations and selecting university options for next year.

Absolutely; my mother answered for me; Kelly you wouldn’t believe what nonsense universities your niece is applying to. I’ve told her how fortunate she is to have you and your insight about these things.

Mmm; Kelly replied, as the spaniel licked my fingers. It seemed he was starting to finally like me. The dog, I mean.

Maybe you’d like to discuss it with me Katrice?

Yes; my mother stepped over me towards him; Great! It’s a date. How’s about we discuss it over dinner tonight? No time like the present, right?

And then she leaned down and embraced him; It’s so good to see you again Kelly.

After sprinting up and down the hectare of land at the back of the house with my new found spaniel friend, the announcement of dinner was a relief. Until I remembered the talk promised by good old “Uncle” Kelly.

My mother sat opposite me with an interfering view of my plate and everything I was spooning onto it. Kelly had changed into a dark shirt for dinner. The spaniel sat on his hind legs, panting for food.

Tuck in; Auntie Courtney served and placed a plate down in front of her husband to eat. Kelly tilted his head at the ackee with a little bemusement. I watched him scoop some into a napkin and throw it between his legs for the dog and when our eyes met, he belittled me by pressing his finger to his lips. His outright audacity stunned me.

Auntie Courtney tipped her wine glass towards my mother and then me; It’s always so lovely having you here; she sang.

Likewise; my mother tipped back. And then she swiveled, with a big grin, towards the man of the house, waiting.

Kelly changed the subject and muttered something about proceeding to talk university applications as though he was eager to wrap up the night and be done with us. He pushed away from his dinner plate and the table to lean into his dining chair.

I looked back at my mother, who was lowering her glass to pick up her fork again.

Go ahead; she waved. Strained joy. My eyes tried to plead with her but she didn’t see me.

At one point a little later, she got up and insisted on helping Auntie Courtney to clear the table; her dinner had barely been eaten. She also insisted on having a conversation with her younger sister in the kitchen. Auntie Courtney smiled.

Sure; she agreed and promised Kelly and I she’d be back with gateau for dessert. You guys mingle; she encouraged and left with my mother steering her out, the way my mother would do to me.

After an awkward pause, Kelly and I engaged in a lazy game of university selection ping pong across the remains of our meals. I offered a few university names to satisfy him. The spaniel came back for more ackee. I was glad my mother wasn’t in the room to see her food go to waste.

Good choices; Kelly concluded at the end of our match; I think you will do very well whatever you decide, Katrice. And then he added; Good luck.

His well-wishes were spirited. It was the first time I felt he’d been truly genuine with me. In five long years.

The spaniel kept the atmosphere lively by entertaining us with some basic obedience commands, whilst we waited for our family members and dessert to join us.

But we sat waiting for a very long time. Kelly eventually went to the drinks cabinet and came back with a glass vessel of a dark spirit. He topped both of our glasses.  I declined so he drank, and poured another. The spaniel grew bored and wandered away.

I’m going to see if they need help; I suggested as the clock hit eight and Kelly agreed too quickly. We stood up in sync and separated like the Red Sea.

Until next time; was his departing remark. Kelly padded off to his man cave and I went down the hall heading for the kitchen.

In the fading light, a dark figure suddenly burst through the kitchen door and hurried towards me, shouldering me back the way I had travelled with a heavy metal pot. It happened so quickly that I didn’t figure out in the moment who exactly had started barking orders at me to put on my shoes until I was at the front door with my shoes on standing on the white carpet.

My mother did not rebuke me. She didn’t even notice my faux pas. Instead, she tore off the fluffy slippers, dumped them on the ground, pulled on her own boots and hauled open the door. She marched me out into the darkness of that fateful evening to the car, driving that cold hard dutchy pot over and over into my back. Everything suddenly felt so loud, so wild, so unexpected.

Get in; she yelled in my face, her breath hot and humid. I did what she wanted me to do. And as we reversed and drove away, my head started to ache. Looking back now, the ache was probably a combination of the shouting and the alcohol I eventually drank. And perhaps deeper than that, the offence I’d been made to bear by a mother who had been hurting and who had been showering it all over me for years.

I never received an apology from my mother about that day or an explanation about why she cut ties with her beloved little sister. We never went back to that house. And we never saw Auntie Courtney and Kelly again.

*

So, hurt people do hurt people.

But you know what? The real truth hurts more.

And I’ve carried enough hurt in my life, I cannot carry any more.

So perhaps it’s for the best that what really happened between my mother and her sister and the reality of our family’s dynamic remains as it stands:

Open for interpretation.