you?”
“I’m not sure. I miss her. I wish she was here.”
Gab hugged me and dropped a bottle, which smashed on the floor. I cringed and looked at the studio door, expecting Dad to come out shouting, but he didn’t. Gab said, “He’s asleep in there.” (Where “asleep” = “unconscious.”)
I thought I might miss Mum less with time, but I sometimes think it gets worse. And I’m sure it’s the same for Dad. It might help if he would actually talk or be part of the family, but he’s in his own world. Gab says I shouldn’t blame him, says it’s not Dad’s fault that Mum’s dead, but I do blame Dad.
• • •
Gab has just returned this journal to me, saying he found it on the kitchen table. I suspect he’s been reading it. If so—KEEP OUT!!! and I LOVE YOU!!! but mainly THIS IS PRIVATE. KEEP OUT!!!
M,
If this is a private journal then you shouldn’t leave it open in a place where I can see it.
Gabriel
PS Can you call me Gabriel, please? You know I hate Gab.
Dear Gab,
This is a PRIVATE JOURNAL, whether it’s open or not.
M
27th January, 2013
This year my New Year’s resolution was to be nice to Dad, but every time I see him it all goes horrible. Having said that, I hardly see him as he’s always in his studio. Gab is right that Dad is both painting (paint on hands and clothes) and drinking (slurred voice, breath of the devil). This morning was a classic example of how Dad and I get on.
He was standing on the back step, surveying the backyard (an overgrown grassy square), having a cigarette for breakfast. I was sitting at the kitchen table, eating my Cheerios (I make them healthy by adding banana—it’s impossible to get muesli here!). We didn’t speak. In my head I was asking him questions: “What are you doing?” “Are you going to help me take the sheets to the Laundromat?” “Have we enough money for the Laundromat?” “How much do your cigarettes cost?”
He dropped his cigarette stub and put it out under his bare foot, then walked through the kitchen to go to his studio and I blurted out, “Where did you get the money for paints and canvases?” (It has to be Gab who got them as Dad never leaves the house.)
Dad stopped and said, “I’ll sell the paintings.”
And maybe he will—he’s a great artist—but in the meantime he has turned his son into a thief.
I should say as well that I spoke English and he replied in French, which is exactly how he and Mum communicated (or didn’t) at their worst. But at least I didn’t swear at him or call him names—that’s what this diary is for. I can call him whatever I like in here:
artist
drinker
smoker
womanizer
murderer
all of the above
Your typical male Black Witch.
14th February, 2013
It’s a year since Mum died. Dad’s in his studio. He’s been drinking and now he’s asleep (passed out) on a mattress in there.
Gab and I spent today together. This morning while Dad was still sober he gave us each a tin containing letters. I got the letters that Mum sent to Dad, and Gab got the ones Dad sent to Mum. We read them all from the oldest to the most recent. They’re love letters and we were both smiling but crying too at the end. Mum’s are good, but Dad’s are truly beautiful and special. Who would think that a drunken misery-guts like him could be so poetic? But then again maybe that’s what poets and artists are like.
I said to Gab, “He loved her so much and still does and she loved him. It should have been perfect. How could it all go so bad?”
“You know how.”
And of course I do.
Mum had fled from England. She and Nan were among the first to leave when it got really bad, when Marcus was at the height of his killing spree there. Mum and Dad first met at a gathering when they were just twenty. They saw each other across the crowded room and that was it. Love.
They married, had us kids (Gab and then me a year later) and it was a good marriage for a few years, but one of my earliest
“I’m not sure. I miss her. I wish she was here.”
Gab hugged me and dropped a bottle, which smashed on the floor. I cringed and looked at the studio door, expecting Dad to come out shouting, but he didn’t. Gab said, “He’s asleep in there.” (Where “asleep” = “unconscious.”)
I thought I might miss Mum less with time, but I sometimes think it gets worse. And I’m sure it’s the same for Dad. It might help if he would actually talk or be part of the family, but he’s in his own world. Gab says I shouldn’t blame him, says it’s not Dad’s fault that Mum’s dead, but I do blame Dad.
• • •
Gab has just returned this journal to me, saying he found it on the kitchen table. I suspect he’s been reading it. If so—KEEP OUT!!! and I LOVE YOU!!! but mainly THIS IS PRIVATE. KEEP OUT!!!
M,
If this is a private journal then you shouldn’t leave it open in a place where I can see it.
Gabriel
PS Can you call me Gabriel, please? You know I hate Gab.
Dear Gab,
This is a PRIVATE JOURNAL, whether it’s open or not.
M
27th January, 2013
This year my New Year’s resolution was to be nice to Dad, but every time I see him it all goes horrible. Having said that, I hardly see him as he’s always in his studio. Gab is right that Dad is both painting (paint on hands and clothes) and drinking (slurred voice, breath of the devil). This morning was a classic example of how Dad and I get on.
He was standing on the back step, surveying the backyard (an overgrown grassy square), having a cigarette for breakfast. I was sitting at the kitchen table, eating my Cheerios (I make them healthy by adding banana—it’s impossible to get muesli here!). We didn’t speak. In my head I was asking him questions: “What are you doing?” “Are you going to help me take the sheets to the Laundromat?” “Have we enough money for the Laundromat?” “How much do your cigarettes cost?”
He dropped his cigarette stub and put it out under his bare foot, then walked through the kitchen to go to his studio and I blurted out, “Where did you get the money for paints and canvases?” (It has to be Gab who got them as Dad never leaves the house.)
Dad stopped and said, “I’ll sell the paintings.”
And maybe he will—he’s a great artist—but in the meantime he has turned his son into a thief.
I should say as well that I spoke English and he replied in French, which is exactly how he and Mum communicated (or didn’t) at their worst. But at least I didn’t swear at him or call him names—that’s what this diary is for. I can call him whatever I like in here:
artist
drinker
smoker
womanizer
murderer
all of the above
Your typical male Black Witch.
14th February, 2013
It’s a year since Mum died. Dad’s in his studio. He’s been drinking and now he’s asleep (passed out) on a mattress in there.
Gab and I spent today together. This morning while Dad was still sober he gave us each a tin containing letters. I got the letters that Mum sent to Dad, and Gab got the ones Dad sent to Mum. We read them all from the oldest to the most recent. They’re love letters and we were both smiling but crying too at the end. Mum’s are good, but Dad’s are truly beautiful and special. Who would think that a drunken misery-guts like him could be so poetic? But then again maybe that’s what poets and artists are like.
I said to Gab, “He loved her so much and still does and she loved him. It should have been perfect. How could it all go so bad?”
“You know how.”
And of course I do.
Mum had fled from England. She and Nan were among the first to leave when it got really bad, when Marcus was at the height of his killing spree there. Mum and Dad first met at a gathering when they were just twenty. They saw each other across the crowded room and that was it. Love.
They married, had us kids (Gab and then me a year later) and it was a good marriage for a few years, but one of my earliest
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