Page 92 of Counting Down To You

I don’t miss the irony of this—that by trying not to be like our dad, he’d done exactly the same thing as him.

“Because the idea of doing what he did to Mum…Well. I didn’t want to be like that.” He pauses. Then, carefully, “Before he left, Dad told me that he felt trapped.”

I frown. “What? When?”

James rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t know, maybe like a month or so before? I’d gone back to visit them both while you were at uni. Well, you remember what things were like between them.” And I do, of course. Our mum had tried to fix it, tried so hard to make it work, but it had always been clear our dad wasn’t happy. It still hit Mum so hard when he left, like she couldn’t understand why now, after all the years of trying. Like she wasn’t sure who she should or could be without that part of her.

“Anyway,” James says, “he was drinking. And maybe he thought he could tell me because I didn’t live with them anymore, or because I’m a guy or something. I don’t know.”

“He told you he felt trapped?” I don’t know why I’m shocked—our dad has proved over and over that he has an inability to think about other people. But, still, telling your child that you feel trapped by your life, that’s another level. “That’s…God, that’s horrible.”

“Yeah. Only he didn’t make it seem horrible. You know what he’s like.”

“Well, not anymore,” I mutter. And he’s not tried to contact me, not for years. Yet, somehow, it’s felt easier to direct all my anger and resentment to my brother, instead of my dad. Because I never really had a good relationship with my dad, because it always felt like he had one foot out of the door anyway. Because, when he left, it didn’t feel the way it did with James.

“It stayed with me,” James carries on. “Trapped. And I think I was scared of that happening to me. Of staying and getting trapped, and then leaving, like he did.”

“But you left anyway, James.”

“I know. But it was my choice. Dad, he always made it seem like he didn’t have a choice in the matter.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, “because he’s a dick.” That gets a half smile from James.

“He is,” James agrees. “And I do realize, believe me, that it’s fucking ironic—that I didn’t want to be like him so much that I copied him. It just…It made sense at the time. And then, the longer I was away, the harder it became to come back. To face up to it.” He sighs, rubs his face again, tiredness etched into the action.

“Do you still see him?” I ask, a little tentatively. I’m not sure what answer would be better here.

“I did for a bit. Like, the odd FaceTime call, and I went to France to meet him and his new missus on holiday once. He didn’t invite me,” he adds quickly, perhaps reading something on my face. “He mentioned it and I was nearby, so I said I’d drop by.” He makes a face. “It was weird.”

“I’ll bet,” I mutter.

“He didn’t try to stay in touch really, though. He still sends the odd message on birthdays and stuff, but I don’t think he’s all that interested, to be honest.”

“No,” I agree. “I don’t think he is.” And that’s why, in ten or twenty years, I don’t think I’ll regret not reaching out to him.

There’s a beat of quiet between us. Then James makes an attempt at a smile. “So what do you reckon? Is my therapist worth the money?”

I let out a snort of laughter, because I know I should. I take in my brother, older, but somehow more vulnerable than when I saw him last. I suppose I haven’t let myself try to see his side of it. I still think it was wrong, to bolt like that. I still think he could have messaged or called. But I’m willing to concede that he has his own side of the story.

I’m far from forgiving him. I’m not sure I’ll ever fully be able to understand it, or to accept how he treated us. And although he’s tried to explain about the funeral, I still think he could have tried harder to be there. I would have tried harder, if the roles were reversed. But we are different people, it seems. And I can either try to find a way to accept that, or I can hold on to the bitterness.

In the back of my mind, I can hear the echo of a conversation with Robyn about her mum, in the hospital that day. After her mum had left, and Robyn and I were alone.

“I didn’t want to regret not seeing her,” Robyn said. “I want to leave all the regret behind.”

Which is what she was trying to get me to do, when she suggested calling James. Leave the regret behind.

The first of the tapas arrives, stuffed Padron peppers and bread with aioli and fried eggplant in molasses.

I glance down at my phone, thinking of the message from Leo. I don’t think I can accept that he was keeping such a big thing from me. But am I going to regret never talking to him again? Maybe I need to hear what he has to say, so I can put it behind me, rather than carrying it around until it stagnates.

“Al?” I look up. “I’m so sorry about Robyn.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“I’m also really sorry for being a shit brother.”

I sigh, placing some of the tapas onto my plate. “I guess I could have tried harder too.” I think the fault is mainly with him, especially given what I’ve gone through in the last year. But I do also realize I have been determined to hate him for leaving, and maybe, by doing so, driven him farther away.