Stains

It feels wrong knocking on your own door. Okay, so I haven’t lived here for years, but this is the house where I grew up. This is where I lived until I left for uni. This is where it all happened.

“Melanie, love!” Mum says. “Come on in.”

I’ve prepared things to say, just in case I have to explain myself. But now that I’m walking through the front door, I don’t want to lie. If she asks, I’ll say whatever comes out.

“You’ve got bags,” she says.

“Is it okay if I stay for a while, Mum?”

“Of course you can,” she says. “There’s plenty of room. I’ll be glad to have you as long as you like.”

I put down the suitcase and shrug off the backpack. I’m twenty-four. A grown woman. Why do I feel like crying now that I’m back home?

“Come here, love,” Mum says, taking me in her arms.

She hugs as tight as I didn’t know I needed. I won’t cry.

It turns out, when you show up at your Mum’s house, you don’t need a reason to be there. She’s glad to see you. She takes your bags up to your old room for you. Treats you like a guest.

It’s a little awkward standing there while she changes the already clean sheets, for the sake of freshness. It’s still my room, only missing all the clutter I left behind.

“All your old stuff is boxed up, love” Mum says, reading my mind.

“I can’t remember anything worth keeping,” I say.

Not Up All Night or Take Me Home. Certainly not Applejack or Rainbow Dash.

“Maybe not, but in a few years, a look back through all your old bits and pieces will bring the memories flooding back.”

Not sure I want any of the memories either.

“Did you clean out Mark’s room?” I ask, knowing he hasn’t been home in years.

“There’s not much there to clean out, really,” Mum says. “And he’s a bit younger than you.”

Younger, yes, by about two and half years. Mark is a grown man. He’s never going to move back in. And even though Dad’s dead, he’s probably never coming back for a visit either.

Mum insists on making dinner. I want to eat out, my treat, as a way of thanking her, but Mum won’t hear of it. She tells me I have to relax, while she prepares everything. No peeling, no filling the kettle, no setting the table.

I hardly know what to do with myself until she suggests I have a look at her new bathroom.

The wet room, she calls it. Walls, floor and ceiling covered in tiny little red tiles with white grout. White porcelain toilet and sink. One of those Indian-style bidet hose things. A sunken corner with a shower head and a clear screen on one side. Must have cost a pretty penny, but why not? I’m glad Mum can splash out now.

“Try it out!” Mum shouts from downstairs. For a moment I wonder if she’s referring to the toilet.

Soon enough I’m under the warm spray. Washing away the long day. Washing away my ex. I usually have my playlist on. But now it feels right to enjoy the moment without distraction. No thoughts. Only the jets against my skin.

I run my hands over my chest, down my stomach and to my thighs. Watching myself reflected in the glass. I’m young. I’m attractive, aren’t I? Somebody will want me again. I want to be wanted.

Under my fingertips I can feel the stubble coming up. Mum’s razor and gel are within arm’s reach. Fuck it. A makeover might make me feel better about my breakup, even if it’s only for me.

Forty minutes later, I make my way downstairs to find Mum plating up.

“Wow,” she says. “Have you got a date tonight?”

“No. I felt like making myself beautiful.”

Now that she’s mentioned it, I feel self-conscious in my fishnet off-the-shoulder top. Mum’s not used to seeing this side of me.

“You’re always beautiful, darling.”

She runs a thumb tenderly along my cheek, to my lower lip, gently teasing my mouth open. I flush at the intimacy of it. Her hand moves to squeeze my shoulder.

“The dark red lippy works well on you,” she says. “And I’m not just saying that because I’m your mother.”

I can’t tell if she is or she isn’t, but it’s obvious the compliment is sincere. My ex never said anything so lovely.

We eat the lasagne at the table. It’s as great as it ever was. Better for having gone without for so long. Each bite punctuated with questions about my work.

“You don’t have a boss?” Mum asks. “Or an office?”

“I don’t need them,” I say.

“So where do you go?”

“Anywhere I like. I work from home, usually.”

At least, I did when I had a home.

“Like a home office?” she asks.

“The couch usually. Or maybe at the breakfast table if I have a lot of materials to look at.”

“It’s all terribly modern,” she says. “More wine?”

I’d been permitted a small glass once or twice before, on special occasions. And I was no stranger to illicit drinking when I was a teenager, but here we are. Two grown ups, on the second bottle and having a great time.

“I half expected that you’d be bringing a boy home the next time I saw you,” Mum says.

“Who says I’m into boys?” I say.

She looks at me quizzically.

“You’ve mentioned boys to me before, I’m sure you have! When you were at uni.”

There were a few. She’s right.

“And I still remember the posters on your wall,” she says. “I know what it’s like to be a teenage girl. Or are you telling me you liked One Direction for their music?”

That hint of mischief when she says it.

“God,” I say. “Who are you and what have you done with my mother?”

“I’m only teasing! And I don’t care who or what you’re into, as long as you’re happy. But it’s a tradition, isn’t it? You bring someone home. Mums love to embarrass their kids by showing off some early photos.”

“That’s a real thing? I don’t remember any embarrassing photos.”

Only embarrassing moments. Horrifying moments. Painful moments.

“We’ll see how you feel when I dig them out.”

A promise of mischief, once again.

The mention of photos takes me back to those therapy sessions I had at uni. Free counselling at the Student Centre. That poor woman, used to dealing with homesickness and exam anxiety, and I went in there and poured out years of trauma and guilt. To be fair, she spotted my issues pretty quickly. You’re supposed to get in touch with your inner child. Forgive yourself. Simple as that.

I never did get around to doing the exercises. It helps if you have a photo of your younger self, and I wasn’t ready to face her. So I buried the feelings again and got on with life.

We wind down with a couple of hours of TV. Under the blanket on the couch, just like our old girls’ nights in. Sanctuary when Dad was out of the house. A touch of guilt at the thought of it. Mark didn’t get these nights alone with Mum. We were never one of those families where every kid was treated exactly the same. Are there any families like that?

I cuddle close to Mum. I feel small, but in a good way. Not protected, exactly, but safe. He’s not here. He’ll never be here again.

Mum presses me into her chest. I’ve missed this. Never thought I’d be here again. It’s the chance to be babied, just for a little while.

“Why is she with him?” Mum asks.

I realise I haven’t been following the plot at all.

“She’s way out of his league,” she says.

The woman on screen is certainly beautiful. A blonde, not like Mum and I, each a different shade of brunette. Mum darker, me fairer. I look up at her, seeing her through the lens of physical attractiveness. I’ve always known she’s pretty. And everyone says I take after her. Do men see her that way? I hope they still see her radiance like I do. I hope that it hasn’t all been stamped out of her.

“Sorry Mum. I was miles away.”

“It’s all right darling.”

She smiles that special half-smile that’s only for the two of us.

“You’re the artist of the family,” she says. “I’m sure you were dreaming up something wonderful.”

She kisses my forehead, leaving a cool trace of moisture.

“Let me know if you need a recap,” she says

“I’m happy just being here.”

“My little girl.”

And she strokes my hair as I snuggled into her breast once again, closing my eyes.

I don’t remember coming up to my room. The wine and the exhaustion of the day have taken away my awareness of the climb upstairs.

But I’m here, lying in bed, as Mum enters the room in her robe. She tucks me in and puts kisses on my forehead, left cheek, right cheek, nose and lips. Each with that wet ‘mwah’ that takes me back in time. I want to hug her again. The last time I was kissed in bed, it was a lie.