Educating Simon (3 page)

Maybe Mum is willing to let BM step into that role. I am not.

I couldn't slam the door shut with him in the way, so I turned my back on him. I sat on my bed, browsing through my phone like I cared about what I might find there.

His voice still annoyingly calm, he asked, “Are there things you'd like to say to me, Simon?”

I turned to look at him. He was leaning against the doorframe, no doubt trying to look casual. I blinked stupidly for about three seconds. Was he really prodding me to lay into him? And if I did, what would the consequences be? Doing my best not to shout, because I wanted to sound eminently sane, I said, “Do you have
any
concept of what this is doing to me? Wrenching me away from everything in my life? And if that's not enough, it'll ruin my chances of getting into university where both my father and I want me to go, one of the best in the
world,
where I could get myself set up
for the rest of my life!
” I shouted that last bit. So much for sanity.

He blinked softly, rather like a cat when she's looking at you and wants to let you know it isn't a confrontational stare she's giving you. Silence.

“Well?!?”
I slammed my phone onto the bed as punctuation.

His voice still calm and soft, he said, “I have a feeling there's more. Why don't you get it all out into the open?”

I stood, hands clenched at my sides. At first, words failed me, but not because I didn't know what to say. I didn't know where to
start
. I glared at him, willing my eyes to shoot fire.

“Fine. You and Mum have made me into the red-haired stepchild, literally and figuratively. You've ganged up together, and I'm odd man out. If you insist on being married, you could have waited long enough for me to finish one more year of school, and I'd be on my own, at university. Or if you couldn't wait to do unmentionable things together in my father's bed, you could move to London instead of ripping me out of my home during my almost-finished formative years. Your daughter's young enough to be flexible. There are all kinds of ways you could proceed without ripping my life to shreds. And my dear mother”—I wanted to spit at this point, but it would have been uncouth—“is proceeding with all these plans that destroy my life, and she lies to me to make it more convenient for herself.”

I was breathing hard through my nose, all those things I'd been dying to say strewn about the floor.

He blinked again, that soft gesture. “Have you said all this to her? Those alternatives?”

“Oh, trust me, there's nothing left unmentioned.”

“And what did she tell you were the reasons?”

“All she said was that we're doing it. There are no reasons. ‘Because, ' that's why.”

“You're sure?” Something in his voice told me this was not a surprise to him, that he was merely verifying the information.

“Look, I don't know where you're going with this—”

“I think you deserve to understand what's behind our decisions. I know your mother's been reluctant to tell you, and she has her reasons, but I think you need to hear everything.” He gestured towards the stairs. “Please. Let's go where we can talk together, all three of us.”

He had my attention; that was certain. He seemed to think there were things I didn't know about this horror show, things I needed to know, things Mum had kept from me. That is,
more
things she'd kept from me. Wary though I was, curiosity got the better of me. I followed him downstairs to the sitting room and settled into my favourite chair, a big, overstuffed thing that we will no doubt leave behind. Legs tucked under me, huddled into this giant lap for comfort and protection, I waited whilst BM went to fetch Mum from the kitchen. I heard a teacup settle onto its saucer, and then a short, nearly whispered conversation.

“Em, it's time. We need to let him know the whole story.”

“Brian—”

“Em.” His calm voice took on—not an edge, exactly. It was a tone of finality.

“No, listen. I was going to tell him. That's why I followed him upstairs earlier.”

“Then let's tell him now.”

When Mum appeared, she looked almost meek. I couldn't make any sense out of it. They sat side by side on the couch, and BM took Mum's hand. It was an odd moment for this, but I took a good look at her for the first time in quite a while. She had more grey than I remembered, shot through her wavy auburn hair. It was pulled back rather severely at the moment, but at more relaxed times it flowed about her shoulders. As it was now, it exposed and perhaps even exaggerated small wrinkles I hadn't noticed. I've always known she was older than my dad, but only by four years. She's forty-six now, and my guess is that BM is about the same age.

I watched, and waited, whilst they settled. He looked at her, like it was her job to tell me the “whole story,” but she kept her eyes on their clasped hands. So he turned to me.

“You know that I'm divorced.” I nodded. “What you don't know is why. It has to do with my daughter. Persie has Asperger syndrome, which is a form of autism. I encourage you to look it up so you can understand more about it.”

He stopped, no doubt to see if I had any questions. What was going through my mind was that this explained the way Persie looked in the photo I had seen.

“My ex-wife had a very hard time dealing with it. A very hard time. She decided to leave me, and Persie, two years ago. Persie . . . well, she needs a lot of care. She is not what they call high-functioning, although a lot of people with AS manage to deal well with the rest of society. I can afford to provide her with the care she needs, but moving her anywhere would probably send her into a catatonic state. People with AS and related issues usually don't handle change well. So that explains why she and I can't move to London.”

This was definitely news to me. But Mum must have known. I risked a glance at her, but she was still staring down at her hands, and what I could see of her face told me that something about what BM had said was upsetting for her, which puzzled me. I mean, sure, it's a sad thing to have your child be like that (whatever “that” means; I will look this thing up), but it's not
her
child.

I looked at BM, since he was the one with all the answers. “Why is this the first I'm hearing about this?”

BM glanced towards Mum. “Em, I think you should explain about Clive.”

I couldn't help asking. “Who's Clive?”

It was obvious, even to me, that it took a huge effort, but Mum sat up straight. She looked at me and said, “My younger brother. You never knew him. You never knew
of
him, even. I wasn't planning to have any children, because I was afraid of having a child like him. A child with autism. It's more common in boys, and when I found out you were a boy, I was terrified. I didn't want you to be like him.”

She took another half-minute or so to collect herself, and I used the time to try and wrap my mind around what she was telling me. She'd said he
was
her brother. “What happened to him?”

Her answer was more of a story, and she ploughed forwards with it as though a pause would make it impossible for her to continue.

“He was three years younger than I was. Because of his autism, he was a burden to my parents and an embarrassment to me. I didn't want to have friends over, and I loathed being seen in public with him. I never understood how to act around him, and it seemed like every day I'd do or say something to set him off. One day when I was thirteen, our parents went out together for maybe half an hour, leaving him in my care. Something upset him, as usual. He locked himself in his room, and I just left him in there, relieved not to have to deal with him. When my parents came home, my father had to break down the locked door. Clive was facedown on his bed, nose buried in his pillow. He'd stopped breathing, or he'd suffocated. He was dead.” Her breath caught, and it was several seconds before she could finish. “I remember feeling incredibly relieved.”

BM handed her a tissue, and she blew her nose. “I didn't tell your father about Clive before we married. It wasn't until I was pregnant with you and found out you were a boy that it all came out, because I was so afraid for you. And I was so very ashamed.”

A really nasty thought occurred to me at this point. I ground my teeth to try and keep it from escaping, but it got out anyway. “So you married
him,
” I tilted my head towards BM, “out of guilt?”

Suddenly she was all composure. “Since you have raised this question, I married Brian because I love him, because he loves me. I am no longer the confused girl who couldn't face her brother's condition. In fact, now I know that not only
can
I face this challenge, but I actually welcome it.”

“You still get freaked out by locked doors. Do you really think being Persie's stepmum will make up for Clive? And even if it can, this purging pilgrimage can't wait a year? You're dragging me into this mess right now because . . . ?”

BM's voice surprised me. “That's quite a sharp tongue you have, Simon.”

Quick as a flash, I said, “It is. And the worse my life gets, the sharper it will be. Get used to it, or let me stay where I belong.”

For the first time since I'd met him, I saw a flash of anger on BM's face. And he was not the only one struck by what I'd said. It's true, I've always had a bit of an acerbic quality to my personality, but the last few things I'd said were over the top, even for me. It came from desperation. There was a headiness about it that made me feel a little dizzy.

Mum leaned forwards. “Simon, I'm sorry I waited so long to tell you about Clive and about Persie's situation. It's just that you were already so angry with me that I was trying to ration out how many things I told you at once. And not having told you about Persie, I tried to find a way to explain about Tink that would give me a little more time.”

It would have been decidedly unwise to say anything that smacked of intolerance for dear Persie, but I decided to play a certain card one more time. “You haven't answered my question. Why now?”

BM interjected. “Your mother and I can't spend the next year travelling back and forth to visit with each other, for two reasons. First, it upsets Persie immensely when I'm not home on a regular schedule. But it's not only Persie who has trouble dealing with my absence. I don't have the luxury of taking a week or two away every now and then. Exceptions can be made for emergencies or planned vacations, of course, but not for constant interruptions just because my wife and I live in different countries. In fact, I've already lost two clients in the past several months because they felt I wasn't available enough. Second, until your mother takes up residence with me, Persie won't have a chance to become accustomed to her. She can't adjust to irregular comings and goings. So either we live together, your mother and I, or we see each other once or twice a year for short periods of time. I'm sure you can see that only one of these options is acceptable.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and tried not to let my lower lip stick out in an obvious sulk. “So your business, and Persie's problems, and the fact that you can't live without each other for one year all add up to outweigh—oh, I don't know, the rest of my life.” I turned towards Mum. “It's like you set me up to have a great opportunity and then snatched it away right in front of me, as soon as I was ready to take hold of it!”

“What are you talking about?”

I sat up straight suddenly, as though struck by lightning. “Oxford! Good God, Mother, how many times do I have to say it? You know that only the
best
marks, the
best
preparation, the
best
résumé will get me in! And it's much harder for students outside the UK!”

She sat back dramatically. “Are you
still
worried about that?” Speechless, I made some kind of wild gesture with my arms. “Simon, how many times have we had this conversation? You know very well that all you need to do is to have a good year anywhere. It doesn't need to be at Swithin. St. Boniface is a very prestigious Anglican—”

“Episcopalian,” BM interrupted.

“Episcopalian public school—”

“Private school, Em. Public school in the US means government school.”

She let out an irritated breath. “A very prestigious International Baccalaureate school, right in Boston, a very cultural city with lots of serious music and literature and art going on. And New York City is not very far away. And you don't need to give up your citizenship, which means you can apply to Oxford as a British citizen. Besides, you might even be of
more
interest to them, having lived in the US.”

I'd already taken these things into account. I just don't want to leave. It's as simple as that. True, I placed a lot of emphasis on Oxford, tried multiple times to play that card because of Swithin's reputation, but that's because it's something concrete. My feelings? Well, they might be figuratively concrete to me, but it appears they are not important to anyone else.

I had only one card left, other than Graeme; I expected he wouldn't mean anything to her. “What about Tink?”

Mum looked wary. “What about her?”

“Is Persie really allergic? Even though you didn't tell me about that syndrome, you could have told me about her allergy. But you didn't. So is that another lie?”

Mum closed her eyes, and BM answered.

“You haven't seen yet what it's like to live with someone who has Persie's condition. She doesn't understand a lot of the rules you and I live by. I'm afraid she would not react well to a cat, and the cat could attack her, and if that situation got bad we'd have to get rid of the cat anyway. This, after transporting the poor thing all the way to the US. Tink is attached to you; it's true. But more, she's attached to her environment. She'll have to leave this house; that will be bad enough. Don't force her to endure international travel, probable torment by someone who doesn't know any better, and almost certain relocation yet again, to yet another home and another family. If we could even find one to take her. And anyway, when you go off to Oxford, you'd be leaving her alone in Boston. There
is
a quarantine from the US to Britain.”