Songs For Your Mother

his possessions.
‘What the actual fuck am I going to do?’ I ask.
I am not sure if I expect an answer, but none is forthcoming.
An elderly woman walking her white Scottish terrier stops on the pavement just in front of me. I’ve often seen her out walking her dog. She looks me up and down, noting my bare feet.
‘Are you all right, love?’ she asks.
For a moment I almost tell the truth, and say ‘not really’. I am so far from all right that it might as well be another dimension. Standing there, I realise I’ve morphed into one of those people you see on the street occasionally who are not all right. They are troubled and in need of help. Most of the time they do not get it. I don’t say this. Instead, I smile.
‘Rushed after the postman, didn’t I? Forgot to put my shoes on,’ I say.
This seems to satisfy the woman, who has done her neighbourly duty, for which I am grateful. I turn back to the house. I shut the front door and walk up the stairs. When I get to the door, I stop. I look at Luke sitting quietly still on the couch playing with his Transformer, and I see him as if for the first time. As I stand there, I know that I am searching Luke for a part of myself, and I am not sure that I immediately see it. The hair, though; there is that, the dark brown hair we share, but then Lauren had that too.
I have a moment’s panic as I watch him before I pull myself together. I need to be as strong as Lauren right now, and I need some kind of plan. I have no idea what that plan might look like, but I also know that I don’t have a choice in this. Lauren didn’t do this lightly. This was a desperate measure. I know that from the little of her letter I’ve read.
Lauren sent Luke to me as she can’t look after him herself, and she hoped that I could. So that’s what I have to do.

Chapter 9
Luke looks utterly untroubled by all that’s happened, which I can’t quite work out. Personally, I am deeply troubled by everything that’s taken place. Maybe this is what children are like? Although in my limited experience there’s usually more crying. I know a few people with kids. They vary from precocious five-year-olds to destructive two- to three-year-olds. With the latter there have been tantrums in the park: lying face down on the ground, screaming and kicking like they are trying to break through the dirt. It’s frightening to watch, and I always want to run in the opposite direction. What am I going to do if Luke is like that? I am so screwed. I want to ask Luke so many questions, only I am not at all sure where to start. I am so overwhelmed and being hit by wave after wave of crashing emotion that I do not know what to do. My overriding instinct is to run as fast as I can in the opposite direction, only I can’t do that, so I do the next best thing.
‘Luke, I’ll be back in a moment. Can you sit here and play?’
Luke looks at me and shrugs, and I head for the bedroom. I flop face down on the bed alongside Rachel and bounce like the dead man that I am. I put the envelope and the letter beside me. I know I should read it now, only I can’t bring myself to do it. I’m reeling from the little I read as I stood with Josie and everything else. Luke is my son? I’m a father? This has to be a mistake… only I know it’s not.
‘What are you doing?’ Rachel asks.
‘Burying my head in the sand. Seriously – kill me now,’ I say in a muffled voice, talking into the pillow.
‘What are you talking about? You were gone for ages, who was it? I heard voices,’ Rachel says.
‘You don’t want to know. You really don’t,’ I say.
‘Jehovah’s Witnesses? How bad can it be?’
‘Worse than that.’
‘Seriously? It wasn’t the Tories, was it?’
I shake my head. ‘Even worse than that.’
Maybe if I stay like this for long enough, with my face embedded in the pillow, I’ll pass out, and then will wake up and find this has all been a dream. It’s as likely an outcome as any considering the events of this morning. Maybe I’ll flashback to my hospital bed and find this is part of a coma dream? I imagine looking up and seeing a nurse smiling down at me. Maybe I’m suffering PTSD and Luke is symbolic and representative of my trauma? Right now, that makes more sense. I swear I would gladly settle right now for trauma of any variety. I press my face harder into the pillow. I’m starting to asphyxiate. I lift my head and rest my chin on the backs of my hands. I stare at the wall, feel sorry for myself, and I sigh deeply. I can’t believe that this isn’t a dream and that Josie left like that.
Josie has gone, I say to myself, and the horrible truth is that this is not a dream. I woke up from my coma and almost six years have passed. This is my life, and it’s happening to me right now. My brain is processing a kaleidoscope of emotions. It’s a blur, like someone is flicking through channels with a TV remote. The images are changing so fast and settling on nothing. I cannot take anything in. I realise, as these thoughts materialise, that I’m blistering with self-pity. Rachel observes me carefully before she shakes her head in disinterest at my sudden-onset malaise and switches her attention. She picks up her phone and starts scrolling. I am pretty confident that right now she is thinking ‘Why the hell did I break the rules and agree to have breakfast