The Book Club

 

Before Sophie was born, I was part of a local Book Club. Margaret would come along too. It was in our local library. 

One of the members was having a little party. I decided I'd go along. I didn't go anywhere else. Margaret went mad when I got back. I remember that now.  I can't remember why, but she brought it up again recently with contempt:

 "And you left your pregnant wife to go to a party." 

I think she was just because there were some women there. Maybe I shouldn't have gone, but still.

 Didn't like the music. Stopped going anywhere because she doesn’t like anything and ends up spoiling it for me.

Maybe I just can't keep a job. Maybe he’s just nonuser. Maybe I just didn’t get on with anyone. That's what I felt. Maybe I was a waste of space. I began to harbour self-doubt again.

She made me feel small. On the attack. It’s got nothing to do with you. Don’t call Fault.

 They have no concerns, so it feels like he’d been fed a lie. Everything had been ok for eight years, they say. The medical team.

When I would go over to her place at the weekend, she’d often go to bed without saying goodnight.

Perhaps she should have stayed in the peach box.

Put me under the spotlight. Made me feel like there was something wrong with me. 

“You pissed them off. What were you saying to those two ladies. What you were saying to those nurses?" 

"You're disgusting. 

"Paint on the floor, so, don’t you say a word."

She spoke of memory loss, though the team told me that memory loss is rare.

“The paint. Look at all the paint on the floor. I’ve overlooked that. The kitchen, is it?”

“Well, I try.”

“Well, you’ve failed miserably,” she said.