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Sometimes
one
Mum bought the house because of the divorce.
It was like she thought that buying a place of her own—without Dad, without the city around us and without any restrictions—would make her into something that she hadn't been before, or that I would drop at her feet and love her for moving me away from my friends, and my city, and my home. A part of me felt bad about yelling at her, and another felt even worse about the fact that we had to move in the first place, though there wasn't much to be sad about that other than the fact that "Mum and Dad don't get along anymore." Sometimes it seemed like Mikey and I were the reason that they split up, one of those stupid theories that the kids always come up with but never actually bring up because they're too afraid. Reality, for me, was that Mikey had brought it up, and it had been shot down shortly thereafter, though there had been a moment of hesitation on Dad's part. Mum liked to protect the two of us.
There was another reason that tugged at the back of my head, a thought that had occurred when she announced that we were going to be moving away from Newport, Cardiff, the sea. Dad got one of the cars, our dog, and half of the furniture and Mikey, my sometimes obnoxious little brother, while Mum got the house, the other car and half of the furniture and me, as though we were two pieces of property instead of their children. I could name more than one occasion where I had felt like that, like when Dad was parading Mikey out of the house just before they left, for the last time, and Mum was crying, and I was sitting at the top of the stairs--completely and totally helpless, but only because there wasn't anything I could do about that--and Dad just grabbed him, my ten year old sometimes obnoxious brother, and tugged him through the door. He had given me a look, his head cut in half by Mum preparing to slam the door in his face, and I sort of understood.
Understood the fact that, yeah, he and Mum had loved each other at one point or another, and they had decided to have kids together so that they could raise a perfect little family, but somewhere along the way they had fallen out, or realized that they actually hated each other. It was like one of those TV movies with screwed up families and wack-job kids that end up hacking people to bits, except for the fact that I wasn't planning on hacking anyone to bits any time soon. I was at peace with the whole situation when Mum brought up the move.
That was the thing that started the whole mess. She went on a trip to Scotland for a week during my holiday and then came back and said that she had, on a whim, purchased a pretty little cottage in a village in the sticks and she expected me to move there with her once the term ended.
What the hell, Mother?
The only thing I knew of Scotland was what I had learned from my history books, and that wasn't much to act on. Carradale, as the village was called, was on some peninsula and, according to Mum, still had the sea. My immediate opinion had been decided. Mum wouldn't let me not move with her, however, so my initial plan failed, and then Plan B, C, D, and E, failed as well, mostly in rapid succession when she shot down the idea that I moved to Germany to attend boarding school with Meggo instead of mucking about in the countryside with flees and pigs and farmyard animals.
"Oh, but dear," she had said in that stupid voice she used whenever she wanted to win me over, "the country will be good for the both of us. There's a cute little high school for you there, and I've already got a job lined up! It's the perfect arrangement for the both of us, I promise you."
"As if, Mum," I had muttered, in the voice I only used when I wanted her to shut up, "as if."
It was like she thought that buying a place of her own—without Dad, without the city around us and without any restrictions—would make her into something that she hadn't been before, or that I would drop at her feet and love her for moving me away from my friends, and my city, and my home. A part of me felt bad about yelling at her, and another felt even worse about the fact that we had to move in the first place, though there wasn't much to be sad about that other than the fact that "Mum and Dad don't get along anymore." Sometimes it seemed like Mikey and I were the reason that they split up, one of those stupid theories that the kids always come up with but never actually bring up because they're too afraid. Reality, for me, was that Mikey had brought it up, and it had been shot down shortly thereafter, though there had been a moment of hesitation on Dad's part. Mum liked to protect the two of us.
There was another reason that tugged at the back of my head, a thought that had occurred when she announced that we were going to be moving away from Newport, Cardiff, the sea. Dad got one of the cars, our dog, and half of the furniture and Mikey, my sometimes obnoxious little brother, while Mum got the house, the other car and half of the furniture and me, as though we were two pieces of property instead of their children. I could name more than one occasion where I had felt like that, like when Dad was parading Mikey out of the house just before they left, for the last time, and Mum was crying, and I was sitting at the top of the stairs--completely and totally helpless, but only because there wasn't anything I could do about that--and Dad just grabbed him, my ten year old sometimes obnoxious brother, and tugged him through the door. He had given me a look, his head cut in half by Mum preparing to slam the door in his face, and I sort of understood.
Understood the fact that, yeah, he and Mum had loved each other at one point or another, and they had decided to have kids together so that they could raise a perfect little family, but somewhere along the way they had fallen out, or realized that they actually hated each other. It was like one of those TV movies with screwed up families and wack-job kids that end up hacking people to bits, except for the fact that I wasn't planning on hacking anyone to bits any time soon. I was at peace with the whole situation when Mum brought up the move.
That was the thing that started the whole mess. She went on a trip to Scotland for a week during my holiday and then came back and said that she had, on a whim, purchased a pretty little cottage in a village in the sticks and she expected me to move there with her once the term ended.
What the hell, Mother?
The only thing I knew of Scotland was what I had learned from my history books, and that wasn't much to act on. Carradale, as the village was called, was on some peninsula and, according to Mum, still had the sea. My immediate opinion had been decided. Mum wouldn't let me not move with her, however, so my initial plan failed, and then Plan B, C, D, and E, failed as well, mostly in rapid succession when she shot down the idea that I moved to Germany to attend boarding school with Meggo instead of mucking about in the countryside with flees and pigs and farmyard animals.
"Oh, but dear," she had said in that stupid voice she used whenever she wanted to win me over, "the country will be good for the both of us. There's a cute little high school for you there, and I've already got a job lined up! It's the perfect arrangement for the both of us, I promise you."
"As if, Mum," I had muttered, in the voice I only used when I wanted her to shut up, "as if."
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