Page 44 of One Last Thing
I got over it. I accepted that writing wasn’t for me, or rather that I wasn’t right for it, and I moved on and focused on a career that I could do well in. I’d stupidly told Dad that I was working on a book. I didn’t tell him I’d finished it or sent it off or that it had been turned down by so many people that there was no question it was terrible. ThatIwas terrible. Every now and then he would ask about it, and I’d shrug it off.
Eventually, I casually told him I’d given up on it.
‘That’s a shame,’ he’d said, crestfallen. ‘I wanted to read it.’
I couldn’t bear the idea of telling him the truth and knowing that he’d be thinking exactly what I thought and what all those literary agents would have thought if they’d known who I was: ‘She will never live up to Dawn Dixon. Pitiful of her to try.’
***
Trying to get to sleep next to Mum in a tent is a bit like trying to sleep with a mongoose trapped in the duvet next to you. Constant rustling, tossing and turning, squeaks andgrunts of irritation that fill the air with a sense of impending chaos that could erupt at any moment. I try to be as patient as possible.
‘Mum! What is wrong with you?’ I hiss at one point, unable to ignore it any longer.
‘I can’t get comfortable! This tent is absurdly small. It was made for infants.’
‘It’s an adult-size tent. Maybe if you didn’t insist on putting the boxes between our mats, we’d have more room,’ I suggest bitterly.
‘It’s got nothing to do with your father’s ashes, Megan, they are two tiny boxes, I haven’t noticed them at all. It’s this mat! It’s so thin. What’s the point of it? They might as well have provided me with a sheet of sandpaper to recline on.’
‘It’s not that bad.’
‘Itisthat bad.’
I sigh grumpily. ‘Just . . . see it as a good thing for your back. A more supportive surface is better for your spine and can help with back pain.’
‘That’s funny because my back has no pain on a memory foam mattress but is screaming with pain on this piece of plank masquerading as a suitable sleeping mat.’
I smile to myself at her use of ‘masquerading’.
She huffs, rolling over once again.
‘Mum, try to clear your mind.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You’re too focused on your comfort level.’
‘My comfort level is minus zero,’ she snaps.
‘That’s my point, that’s all you’re thinking about,’ I explain wearily. ‘Why don’t you try some breathing exercises? That way, you’ll be able to relax your body.’
‘I don’t know any breathing exercises,’ she says impatiently.
I turn my head to look at her even though it’s dark. I can just make out her silhouette.
‘Really?’ I say in surprise. ‘You don’t use any meditation techniques? How do you calm yourself when you get into a panic?’
‘I ask for a large.’
I snort with laughter. My reaction makes her relax and chortle along.
‘All right, I can teach you,’ I offer. ‘Lie on your back and close your eyes.’
‘If you think I haven’t already tried that . . .’
‘Come on, trust me,’ I say through a smile, as I follow my own instructions. I wait until she’s still and then I begin. ‘Okay, a few deep breaths to start. So, inhale through your nose, big breath, and then out through your mouth. And again, that’s it. Deep breath in. And out. Good. So, this time, breathe in for four seconds, hold it for seven and then exhale to eight counts. That make sense?’
‘All right.’
