The Immaculate by Mark Morris Page A

was in a flat, neutral voice, as if divorcing himself from his emotions would allow him to disown his memories.
    â€œAnyway, I remember that my childhood was spent in a state of . . . well, I guess near-panic wouldn’t be too strong a phrase. I seemed to be either trying to endure pain as best I could, or waiting for the next pain to happen, which in some ways was worse.”
    He broke off again to clear his throat and pour himself a glass of water. The jug wobbled in his hand, slopping water over the tablecloth.
    â€œShit,” he muttered and half-heartedly began to mop the mess up with a paper napkin, aided by Gail. When he had done he said, “Look, are you sure you want to hear all this? It’s not exactly cheerful stuff.”
    She reached across the table and took his hands in both of hers. “Listen, buster,” she said firmly, “I love you like crazy and I want to be there for you at all times. I don’t want us to have to pretend with each other. If you have a problem or you’re feeling crappy, I want to know about it, and I hope that you feel the same about me. I want us to be soulmates, Jack. I want to share everything with you, good and bad.” He must have looked dubious because she said, “I mean it. Honestly, I do. Whether you’re a happy chappy or a glum bum, I want to be there.”
    Jack looked at her earnest face for a long moment, which seemed elfin in the reddish light of the restaurant. The flickering white image of a candle flame was reflected in the dark pupil of each of her eyes. Then he smiled and said, “I love you.”
    â€œMe too,” she said. “So talk.”
    Jack picked a crumb of poppadum from the tablecloth and squeezed it between his thumb and forefinger like a bug. He sighed and looked up at the ceiling, resembling a nervous bridegroom who has left his speech in his other suit.
    A waiter sidled up with their order. Jack looked glumly at the channa masala, pillau rice, mango chutney and naan that the waiter placed before him. Normally he relished this meal, but just now he didn’t feel too hungry.
    As though to make up for him, Gail made exaggerated yum-yum noises as her lobster-red tandoori chicken was brought to the table together with a small bowl of salad and an even smaller bowl of raita. Normally she and Jack shared a portion of rice, but from the looks of him she would be scoffing the lion’s share this evening.
    As they filled their plates from the various bowls, Gail prompted, “Why do you think your father hated you so much?”
    Jack grimaced and shrugged, but muttered, “Because he blamed me for the death of my mother. I was a breech birth, you see, and apparently on the night I was born there was a terrible storm, so the doctor was unable to get to the cottage as early as he should have done. Because of the various complications, she died, and . . . well . . . I got the blame for it.”
    â€œBut that’s awful!” Gail exclaimed. “It wasn’t your fault that your mother died.”
    Jack simply shrugged and spooned mango chutney onto his plate.
    â€œSurely, though, when your father cooled down he must have realised how unreasonable he’d been?”
    â€œHe never did cool down. He ran out of the house into the storm and didn’t come back. In the end, my Aunt Georgina had to call the police out to look for him. They found him in the woods, unconscious, lying in mud and soaked to the skin. He was suffering from exposure and concussion and a couple of broken bones. They reckon he must have slipped down a bank and knocked himself out. Aunty looked after me while he was in the hospital, which was about two or three months. He took a long time to come round from his concussion and a longer time for his bones to mend. Aunty always said that at that time she thinks he wanted to die, which is why he took so long to get better. Anyway, he was never the same man after that. He