See Through Me. Kevin Brooks

and Finch and I weren’t allowed to see her anymore.

      There was a period when I think Dad blamed himself for Mum’s death. If only he’d checked on her that morning, if only he hadn’t left without saying goodbye, if only . . . if only . . . if only . . .

      But at some point, I think he stopped feeling guilty. I could be wrong, of course – it wouldn’t be the first time – but as time went on, and things kept going from bad to worse, I got the feeling that Dad started blaming Mum for everything. He never actually said as much, but by this time he very rarely spoke about her anyway. If me or Finch asked him something about her – or even just mentioned her – his face would go blank, and he’d either just walk away or change the subject and carry on as if nothing had happened.

      On the day after the first anniversary of her death, he went round the house collecting all her stuff together – clothes, books, jewellery, shoes, boxes full of old photographs . . . anything that was hers and hers alone – then he loaded it all up in the car and drove off without telling us where he was going. When he got back home, the car was empty.

      I really don’t know what was going on his head, but there were times when the truth was so clear in his eyes that his feelings about Mum were unquestionable.

      It was all her fault.

      If she hadn’t died, he wouldn’t have been maligned and humiliated by the police, and he wouldn’t have had to waste his time dealing with Nan, and he wouldn’t have had to sacrifice everything now that Finch was so ill . . . he wouldn’t have had to give up his job, and he wouldn’t have had to dedicate his whole life to caring for his son . . .

      And now here I was, adding yet another burden to his shoulders, and giving him yet another thing to blame on Mum.

      But, like I said, I could be wrong.

      And even if I’m not, you can’t help how you feel, can you? Wherever your thoughts and feelings come from – your heart, your mind, your soul – it’s just as much beyond your control as everything else that makes you what you are. Blood, enzymes, hormones, proteins, cells, organs, neurochemicals . . .

      You don’t control any of it.

      It controls you.

12

      Dad was late.

      It was gone twelve-thirty when he finally arrived – a hesitant knock on the door, a muttered voice – ‘Kenzie? It’s me . . .’ – and as I got up from the settee, intending to let him in, the door opened just enough for him to poke his head through.

      ‘All right if I come in?’ he said.

      He was doing his best to smile at me, and I knew it was a genuine attempt rather than something he was forcing himself to do, but he just didn’t have it in him. As he stepped through the door and closed it behind him, I could see the turmoil in his eyes and the nervous hesitancy in his movement, and I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. Imagine how he must have felt – facing up to his mutant daughter, her disfigurement hidden beneath a ludicrous disguise . . . not knowing what to do, or what to say, or where to look, or how to feel . . .

      Who wouldn’t be bewildered by all that?

      He was carrying a holdall in his hand, and as he turned from the door and started speaking to me he couldn’t stop fidgeting around with it – swinging it against his leg, twisting the hand straps, bobbing it up and down . . .

      ‘I’m sorry I’m late, Kenzie,’ he said. ‘We’ve been having a lot of problems with the carers, something to do with their shift patterns or something, and then when I did get going there was an accident on the A13 –’

      ‘It’s all right, Dad,’ I told him. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

      ‘Where do you want this?’ he said, holding up the bag. ‘It’s your clothes and stuff, books, soap, toothbrush . . . I wasn’t sure what to bring . . .’

      He was talking too quickly, almost jabbering, and his eyes were all over the place. He kept trying to look at me, but there was nothing of me to see – my face wrapped up, my eyes masked by sunglasses . . . and I realised then that he had no way of knowing how I was. He couldn’t see if I was crying, smiling, angry, sad . . .

      But he couldn’t see my faceless skull either.

      And that’s how it had to be.

      ‘Where do you want me to put it?’ he repeated, still holding the bag, his eyes still darting around the room. ‘On the bed?’

      ‘Yeah, anywhere, Dad . . . it doesn’t matter.’

      ‘I’ll put it on the bed.’

      He went over and put the holdall on the bed, and for a second or two he just stood there, facing away from me, not saying a word. His head was slightly bowed down, as if he was staring at the floor, but after a few moments he slowly straightened up, and then – to my surprise – he turned round, came over to where I was standing, and put his arms around me.

      Dad was never any good at hugging. He didn’t like it, didn’t get it, and didn’t do it unless he really had to. And when he did do it, he did it really badly. So although I was surprised when he embraced me, I wasn’t in the least bit surprised at how stiff and awkward it was – his hands barely touching my back, his arms held rigidly, his body arched away from mine. It was like being hugged by a robot.

      ‘I’m sorry, Kenzie,’ he muttered. ‘I just . . . I don’t know. I’m sorry.’

      I didn’t know what he meant by that. I would have asked him – at least, I think I would – but by the time his words had sunk in, he’d already stopped holding me – if you can call it that – and now he was just pacing aimlessly around the room.

      The moment had gone.

      There were no more moments in the next half an hour or so. We sat down and talked – Dad in the armchair, me on the settee – but we didn’t really say anything. I asked him about Finch. He told me he’d been having breathing problems again.

      ‘What kind of problems?’ I asked. ‘The same as before?’

      Dad nodded. ‘But it’s lasting longer now. And it’s becoming more regular.’

      ‘Has Dr Moore seen him?’

      Dr Moore was our GP.

      ‘She came round yesterday.’ Dad shrugged. ‘She said if it keeps getting worse, he might have to start using a ventilator.’

      ‘Can he do that at home?’

      ‘He can if we can get hold of one.’

      He went on about ventilators for a while – how long it took to get one through the NHS, how much they cost to buy privately – and then he started telling me all about the problems with Finch’s carers, and as he droned on about shift patterns and new working practices, I just sat there, wondering why it had to be like this.

      He hadn’t asked me how I was . . . how I was feeling . . . how I was coping with this life-changing nightmare . . .

      He hadn’t asked me why I was dressed up like something from a horror film . . . why I felt the need to cover myself up for him . . .

      He hadn’t asked me what the hell was going on.

      He hadn’t asked me anything.

      And I knew that wasn’t right. He was my dad, he was supposed to care for me. He should have been sitting beside me asking me hundreds of questions and telling me that everything was going to be all right. And I knew that I should have been devastated by the fact that he wasn’t . . . and perhaps a tiny part of me was. But for the most part, the overwhelming truth was that I was glad he wasn’t asking me hundreds of questions and pretending that everything was going to be all right . . .