The End is Where We Begin by Maria Goodin (best books to read non fiction .TXT) 📗

You could have given us a chance…

Did I give up too easily? Could things have been different?

All these confused thoughts are making me feel increasingly and irrationally angry towards her for the stress she’s brought into my life. I didn’t want this when I set out to find her, and I sure as hell don’t need it right now. I’ve been going to the Canal House for years. I have friends there. It’s where I talk, laugh, offload. And now I feel unable to go there because she’s suddenly decided to settle back in town?

Sod it, I think, grabbing my wallet and phone. I’m not staying away just because of her.

When I arrive at the Canal House, I almost turn and walk straight out. Libby’s there, as expected, clearing glasses from tables, seemingly settled into her new role, and I don’t know what I’m thinking or feeling when I look at her but I wish it would just go away.

I head for a seat at the end of the bar, tucked in the corner out of the way. It’s no surprise to find that Stu and Irena are, as always, already clued up on what’s been going on in my life.

Before I sit down, Irena draws me in for a brief, firm hug. Her growing stomach feels round and hard and for a second it startles me. I could count on one hand the number of times I reluctantly felt Hellie’s stomach when she was pregnant, and we certainly had no reason to hug during that time.

Irena releases me and punches me affectionately – but quite hard – on the arm.

“We were worried about you!” she frowns.

“Crap couple of weeks, huh?” smiles Stu sympathetically from the other side of the bar.

It’s midweek and as the place isn’t too busy, Irena is happy to serve while I fill Stu in on the finer details of Hellie’s emails, Josh’s anger, my dad’s deterioration, my other dad’s dying wish to see me…

“Jeez,” whistles Stu, “it never rains but it pours, eh?” He leans across the bar conspiratorially. “You know what might cheer you up?” he asks, glancing behind me.

I turn to see Rachel and one of her Aussie friends playing pool on the other side of the room.

“I’m not sure that’s gonna solve my problems, mate,” I tell him wearily.

“Suit yourself,” he shrugs, heading off to serve a customer.

I’m gazing into my glass of lemonade, watching the tiny bubbles fizz, when I feel a presence beside me.

“Hi,” says Libby tentatively, edging onto the bar stool next to me.

“Hi,” I say without even looking up.

“I’ve been wondering how you are. I saw Michael and he told me about your dad… You know, not being your dad… And I was going to text you. I did text you, actually. Well, I wrote you about six texts, but I didn’t know what to say so I deleted them. They all sounded so inadequate.”

She talks fast, and out of the corner of my eye, I see her checking over her shoulder, scanning the room.

“How’s the new job going?” I ask, wondering if she’s anxious to get back to it.

“Oh, fine. I’m helping out in the kitchen mainly, clearing tables, waitressing, and then the painting, of course. Thank goodness it’s been dry the last couple of days and I’ve actually made some progress! Do you want to…? You should come and have a look…”

“Yeah, I will,” I tell her, a bit dismissively, “maybe another—”

“Oh sure! Another time, of course.”

We fall silent and I play with a beer mat. I was feeling better after my chat with Stu, but I suddenly feel my stress levels rising again. As if I haven’t got enough going on right now without… this. I wish she wouldn’t sit so close to me. I wish she hadn’t said those things the other night that made me think that if only I’d given us a chance we could have made it work. It’s bad enough to spend years thinking about what you lost. But to think you might never have lost it in the first place…

“I can’t imagine how you’re feeling right now,” she says. “You already had so much going on and now this. It must be so confusing.”

I tap the beer mat on the bar.

“Nothing’s changed really,” I shrug. I don’t feel this is true, but I want it to be.

“No, of course not! I mean, your dad’s still your dad, he still raised you, that’s what counts. Look at my dad. The biology’s all there, but can I really call him a dad? Being a dad isn’t really about DNA, is it? It’s about doing all the dad stuff.”

I don’t respond. This is too hard. I wish she’d leave me alone. For good.

“I’d been thinking actually,” she continues, “about asking you if I could visit him. He was always so nice to me. God, he really used to make me laugh! And he was so patient, answering my endless questions about how things worked, letting me try things out in his workshop…”

I’d forgotten how often Libby used to get involved in my dad’s “little projects”, as my mum called them. How he used to let her tinker with wires and gears and circuits, while I lingered impatiently, wanting her to myself.

“He used to like teaching you things,” I say, my anger towards her dissipating a little with the memory. “You had more interest than I did. And more aptitude.”

Libby glances anxiously over her shoulder again.

“Well, I don’t know about that,” she says quickly, “it’s probably no coincidence you became an electrician. I’m sure you learned a lot from him. But if you think it would be okay to visit him… I mean, if he’d like that…”

I don’t tell her that he probably wouldn’t know her. She clearly doesn’t realise quite how bad things are and I can’t blame her for that. But I’m touched by her offer. Generally, Alzheimer’s has an amazing ability to keep people at