Or, of course—there was that memory, the first memory. The doctor putting Max into her arms. And her realizing that it was really all over, the whole giving birth thing, and it hadn’t been quite as difficult or painful as she’d feared. And Tom was grinning. And she’d spend so long privately worrying about this very moment—but when I’m actually there with it, with my own child, what happens if I don’t like it? Don’t want it? Can feel nothing for it? Max crying, and she crying herself with relief, that this tiny human being in her arms that had come from inside her and was a part of her was something she loved with all her heart, and she would love it forever, until the day she died.
Sometimes she’s so moved by the memories that it takes her a little while to realize that nothing is wrong, nothing is lost—that it’s Tom who’s moved out, and Max is still there, and alive, and well, and probably playing computer games in his bedroom. And it would only take a moment to go and see him, and look at him, and give him a hug. And she might even do this. And she might not.
Max is in trouble at school again. It isn’t his fault. (Oh, it is never his fault.) She shouldn’t be too concerned, but would she mind coming in some time and having a little chat with the head of year? This Tuesday? Wonderful.
The head of year, a decidedly ugly woman called Mrs. Trent, invites her to sit down, and asks her if she’d like a cup of tea.
Max is being bullied. Yes, that little spate of bullying that had taken place in the spring term had been dealt with; this was a different spate of bullying altogether. Mrs. Trent is just wondering if something at home is the matter. She knows there’s been problems, Max isn’t very forthcoming, but… Would she like some sugar? Here, she’ll pass the sugar. There you are.
“He still sees his father every other weekend,” she says. “That’s quite a lot. That’s more than some kids get when their fathers live at home.”
“How long has it been since you and your husband separated?” asks Mrs. Trent. She tells her. “And was it amicable?” Are they ever amicable, really?
“We just worry,” says Mrs. Trent. “Because Max is a good boy. But we just think. That with the amount of bullying he gets. We just wonder. Is he in some way inviting it?”
Of course he’s inviting it, she thinks. He’s weak. He’s weak, just like his father is. He’s one of life’s fuckups. You can see it written all over his face. Like his father, he’s never going to be anyone, or achieve anything. It’s like he’s got a sign on his back saying “Kick Hard Here.” What she says is, “What do you mean?”
Mrs. Trent gives a cautious smile. “Max doesn’t seem to have any friends. Not a single friend at all. Does he have friends at home?”
She thinks, I want the bullies to go after him. I want them to hurt him. Maybe it’ll knock some sense into him, make him grow up a bit. Is it wrong that I take the side of the bullies over my own child? Of course it is. This is the position he puts me in. He makes me into a bad mother. He makes me into a bad person. The little shit. She says, “He has friends. He has me.”
Mrs. Trent doesn’t seem very convinced by that. That cautious smile looks even more watery. She wonders if Mrs. Trent has children of her own. She guesses that she doesn’t.
What they agree is, they’ll both monitor Max more carefully from now on. In the classroom, and at home. Because maybe there’s nothing to be worried about. But no one wants this to become a situation anyone has to worry about. It all feels rather inconclusive, and she supposes Mrs. Trent thinks the same, and she realizes that Mrs. Trent probably only called this meeting because it was part of her job, she doesn’t really care what happens to her weak little son either. They shake hands.
Max is waiting for his mother on a bench in the corridor outside. He gets up when he sees her. “Well then,” she says. She knows she’ll have to come up with something better than that eventually. But right now it’s the best that she’s got.
“Are you cross with me?” he asks.
“No.”
To prove she’s not cross, on the way home she takes him to MacDonald’s as a treat. She watches him as he joylessly dips French fries into a little tub of barbeque sauce, the sauce drips onto the table. “Any good?” she says, and he nods. Then she takes him home.
“Is there something you want to talk about?” she asks, and it’s right before his bedtime, and she supposes she ought to have asked earlier, but she’s asking him now, isn’t she? He shrugs, and it’s such an ugly little gesture. Then he drags his heels upstairs to his bedroom and closes the door. And she thinks: remember the bike. Remember the wasp. Remember when he came out of you, shiny and brand new.
She recognizes it as the exact same shrug Tom gives her a couple of days later when he comes to pick up Max for the weekend. She thinks she should tell him what had happened at school, about the teacher’s concern their son has no one to play with; and there it is, that shrug, that’s where Max has got it from. She should have known.
“I’m sure he’s okay,” says Tom.
“And that’s it, is it? That you’re sure he’s okay?”
The shrug.
“What will you boys be getting up to this weekend?” She wonders if Tom is trying to grow a moustache or if he simply hasn’t shaved. But there’s no stubble on his chin, so he’s shaving the chin, and that means he’s deliberately not shaving under nose. Probably. She wonders whether it’s to impress some other woman. Probably.
“I don’t think we’ll do anything,” says Tom. “We’ll just hang. We’ll just chill. You know? Hey, superstar”—for Max has now appeared, and Tom has started calling him “superstar,” and she guesses Tom’s picked that up from a TV show—“Hey, you got your bag, you got your things? I was just telling your mum, we’ll just hang and chill this weekend, okay?”
She bends down to give Max a hug. She doesn’t really need to bend, he’s nearly as tall as she is now, she hopes the bending to hug him makes the act look more endearing. “You be a good boy for your dad, yeah?” He grunts, he hugs back. She doesn’t know why they’re hugging, she supposes it’s mostly for Tom’s benefit.
“And, you know, don’t worry,” says Tom. “It’s part of growing up. Being a boy. I know. I was a boy once!”
“Yes,” she says to that.
“And you,” he says suddenly, “You have a good weekend too. You’re okay, you’re doing okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Good,” he says. “Good. Well. Bye, then.” She never knows whether he’s going to try for a hug himself or not. Three months ago he’d knocked on the door, he’d been in tears. His girlfriend had thrown him out, and she could have seen that coming, she was practically half his age. (“Two thirds!” he’d protested. “She’s two thirds my age!”) “I’ve made such a terrible mistake,” he said, “you are the love of my life! I wish you could find some way to forgive me.”
“But I do forgive you,” she’d said, and she did, for the silly affair, at least, she did—“I do forgive you, which is why I’m not punching you in your fucking face.” And she’d closed the door on him. He’s never mentioned the incident since, and sometimes when he comes round to pick up Max he seems hurt and snippy, bristling with passive aggression, sometimes he just bounces about and makes jokes like they’re cool sophisticated adults and it’s easy and it’s fun to ignore all the betrayal and all the waste. In the last three months he’s never tried for a hug, but she knows it’ll happen, one of these days it’s coming.
And that’s it, Max’s gone, now starts her little fortnightly break. She gets Max on Saturday mornings, and he’ll be back for Sunday evening, but otherwise she has practically the whole weekend to herself. She feels lighter already. And she feels guilty too. What will she do with her new won freedom? She doesn’t know. She never knows. Maybe she’ll do some shopping this afternoon, maybe she’ll tidy Max’s room. She goes into the kitchen and has some cold cuts from the fridge, there doesn’t seem much point cooking when it’s only for her.