There’s something about hearing Mum’s kind voice, the voice I’ve been listening to since before I was born: It seems to wriggle past all my defenses, all the other voices, and get to the kernel of me. I can’t not listen to her. And I can’t not reply. This is my mum.
“It’s just…you know,” I say at last. “I messed up. All this trouble was my fault. So…” I swallow hard, avoiding everyone’s eye. “You know. So I don’t deserve to—” I break off and rub my nose. “Anyway. It’s fine. It’s all good. I’m supposed to be stopping shopping. So.”
“Not like this!” says Mum in horror. “Not like this, punishing yourself! I never heard of such a thing! Is this what they told you at that center? You don’t deserve to buy a pencil?”
“Well, not exactly,” I admit after a pause.
The truth is, at Golden Peace they said it was all about “getting shopping in proportion” and “spending meaningfully” and that the aim was to “find a balance.” Maybe “finding a balance” isn’t really my strong point.
Now Mum is glancing at Suze and Dad, as though for support. “I don’t care what happened in L.A.!” she says hotly. “What I can see in front of me is a young lady who’s dropped everything to help her friend…” She starts counting off. “Who found the address of Corey, thought of a way to get through to Raymond…What else?”
“Saw through Alicia,” adds Suze.
“Exactly!” says Mum. “Exactly! You’ve been a little star, Becky! You don’t need to feel guilty!”
“Becky, why do you think this trip is all your fault?” puts in Dad.
“Well, you know!” I say desperately. “Because I should have gone to see Brent sooner; then he wouldn’t have been evicted and he wouldn’t have disappeared….”
“Becky.” Dad puts his hands on my shoulders and looks at me with his wise-Dad gaze. “Not for one moment have I blamed you for this. Brent disappeared for many reasons. The truth is, he didn’t need to leave. I’d paid off his arrears and the rent on his trailer for the next year.”
He…what?
I stare at Dad, staggered—then almost at once realize: Well, of course Dad would have done something lovely like that.
“But his daughter never said…”
“His daughter may not have known.” Dad sighs. “These matters are complex, Becky, and that’s no one’s fault. And the idea that you would blame yourself for everything—it’s appalling.”
“Oh,” I say feebly. I don’t know what else to say. It’s like a great rock is rolling off me.
“And in light of this”—Dad steps forward—“please, my darling, let me buy you a pencil. You certainly deserve it.”
“No!” Mum steps in front of Dad before he can choose a pencil, and we all stare at her in surprise. “That’s not what this is about. This is about Becky. And what’s going on inside Becky.” She pauses, as though marshaling her thoughts, and everyone exchanges uncertain looks. “I refuse to have brought up a daughter who can’t buy herself a pencil, because she feels too bad about herself,” she says at last. “Becky, there’s not-shopping for good reasons. And there’s not-shopping for bad reasons. And they’re not the same.” She’s breathing hard and her eyes are glittering. “No one wants you to go back to the way you were. No one wants you to be hiding Visa bills under the bed. Sorry, love,” she adds, pink in the face. “I didn’t mean to bring that up.”
“It’s OK,” I reply, feeling my cheeks flush too. “Everyone here knows; we’re all friends.” I catch the eye of a woman in blue lurking nearby, totally eavesdropping, and she hastily moves away.
“But this isn’t the way to do it. This isn’t my Becky.” She gazes at me in concern. “Are you overdrawn?”
“Actually…no, I’m not,” I admit. “In fact, I just got paid for my styling work in L.A. I’m doing pretty well for money.”
“Would you like a pencil?”
“Um…” I swallow hard. “Yes. I suppose I would. Maybe.”
“Well. It’s up to you, love. You have to make your own choices. Maybe you don’t want to buy anything.” Mum steps back and blows her nose. “But no more of this talk about ‘not deserving’ it. The idea!”
There’s a short silence as everyone moves away a little and pretends not to be watching. I feel so, so weird. Everything’s reshuffling in my mind. Bits that have felt stuck for so long are coming free. It wasn’t my fault. At least…it wasn’t all my fault. Maybe…
Maybe I could get myself a pencil. Just as a souvenir. Maybe that beautiful purple one with the gray bird print and the pale-orange wood. I mean, it’s only $2.49. And pencils are always useful, aren’t they?
Yes, I, Becky Brandon, née Bloomwood, am going to buy myself a pencil.
I reach for it, and as my fingers close over it, I feel a happy beam spreading slowly over my face. A kind of warmth in my stomach. I have so missed this feeling….
Ooh. Wait a minute. So am I shopping “calmly and with meaning”? The thought passes through my mind and I pause, trying to examine myself. Oh, for God’s sake, I don’t know. I feel calm-ish, I suppose. As for “meaning”…Well. The fact is, this one little pencil seems to have taken on a ridiculous amount of meaning.
The thing is, it is a gorgeous pencil. I’m not just saying that. Suze said so too.
“Nice pencil, Bex,” says Suze with a grin, as though she can read my mind. Dad nods his head and Janice says encouragingly, “You’ll enjoy using that, love!” And basically I feel like I’m five years old again. Especially when Mum and Dad meet eyes and Mum says, “Do you remember the going-back-to-school shopping trip every September?” and I suddenly feel like I’ve whooshed back in time and we’re looking at pencil cases and I’m begging for a pink furry one and next they’ll be asking if I really need a new set-triangle thing, or whatever it’s called.
(The truth is, I bought a shiny new triangle thing every year and I never used it for any math sum, ever. Not that I will mention this fact to Mum or Dad.)
“And when we’ve bought our things, we’ll go and take some nice photos of the nature,” says Mum firmly. “That’ll clear your head, Becky, love. Doing something artistic. You can take a piccie of Minnie and me on a big red rock and we’ll send it to Elinor.”
Minnie? On one of those huge great rocks? Is she joking?
“Great!” I say. “Or, you know, beside a rock.”
We all head to the till to buy our items, and the lady in the feather-print dress looks delighted. And then, just as it’s my turn and I’m about to hand over my five-dollar bill, I see a big box of the same hand-printed pencils, marked SPECIAL OFFER: TEN FOR THE PRICE OF FIVE. And I pause.
Ten for the price of five. That’s actually a pretty good offer.
Let’s see…I do a quick calculation in my head. That’s ten hand-printed pencils for…$12.45. Wow. That’s not bad, is it? It’ll be plus tax, but still. And I’ve got an old twenty-dollar bill that’s been sitting in my jacket pocket forever, so I could give everyone a pencil as a present! Like a mascot.
“Bex?” says Suze, watching me hesitate. “Are you going to get the pencil?”
“Yes,” I say absently. “I am. Although actually I was just thinking, that’s quite a good deal, isn’t it?” I gesture at the box. “Don’t you think? Ten for the price of five? Because I was thinking I’d love to get you all a little souvenir, and, I mean, everyone needs pencils—”
There’s a kind of explosion next to me. I think it’s Suze. How did she even make that sound?