Work Text:
DECEMBER: JANE
He's not eating.
My stomach churns as I glance – yet again – down the table to check on Charlie. He's picking at his meagre portion, moving it around his plate, but all I see him actually put in his mouth is a tiny bite of pig-in-blanket. I look back at my own full plate, spearing a bite of roast potato a little too forcefully with my fork, the squeal of the cutlery against the ceramic setting my teeth on edge. My writhing insides protest at the idea of actually swallowing any food, so I just let it hover there – halfway to my mouth – for a lot longer than I clearly should have, since Julio leans in so close I can smell the wine on his breath.
"He's okay, love,” he says into my ear, his voice barely above a whisper. I place my fork back down on my plate and pick up my wineglass instead, careful to take a delicate sip rather than the gulp I really want to take, painfully aware of my mother's eyes on me just to my right.
“He's not eating,” I mumble from behind my glass, knowing that Julio is listening carefully and will hear every word I say, but no one else will be able to make it out.
“Geoff said today would be hard for him, but it's only one day,” Julio says, his voice quiet and calm. “He's doing well, and one bad day is not the end of the world.”
I nod, setting my glass carefully back down on the forest green table runner, angling it just-so against my plate.
“No coasters this year, Jane?” Mum enquires, polite as you like, but I know her remark is barely concealing a criticism, as usual.
I swallow and look at her, forcing my lips into a tight smile. “Didn't really think they were needed with the table runner, Mum.”
My mother's face resembles a bulldog chewing a wasp. “Well, I would never lay a table without coasters,” she gripes. “You'll still end up with watermarks, darling, and then your table will be ruined.”
I grit my teeth for what must be at least the tenth time today, my jaw twinging. “Yes, well, I'll bear that in mind for next year Mum, thanks.”
I try my best to concentrate on my dinner, but my eyes are inexorably drawn back down the table to my son. His plate is still mostly full, and my stomach flips at the thought of him not eating today. Despite Julio's earlier attempt to soothe me, the dietician's strict instruction that it's very important that Charlie finishes all of his meals reverberates on a loop through my mind.
Before I'm even fully aware of what I'm doing, my knife and fork are clattering onto my plate and I'm pushing my chair back from the table.
“Jane?” Julio's quiet utterance of my name is at once a question and a warning, and I can feel his eyes on me as I walk the few steps across the room to where the children are sitting, but I don't look back.
“How's everyone doing down here?” I ask. “Everything okay?” I address the whole group of kids, but I know I'm only really asking Charlie. Judging by his enormous sigh and the way he practically throws down his fork, he knows it too.
Clara and Esther mutter affirmations, but Charlie's response is the only one I'm interested in right now.
“I'm fine,” he snaps, his blue eyes flashing. I hear Tori voicing her agreement, too, but I can only seem to look at Charlie, who is radiating anger.
Oh, God, I'm messing this up.
Again.
But he's my baby and I'm so worried about him.
I swallow past the sudden lump in my throat. “Okay.” I'm going for easy-going, but my voice comes out strained.
I don't know what else to say, and I'm clearly not welcome down here, so I turn on my heel and return to my seat.
“Stop getting up,” Mum says as I sit back down. “They're fine down there.”
I give another tight-lipped smile and curt nod.
What do you know? I think, bitterly. You could never see when I wasn't fine.
But I hold my tongue.
Like always.
I feel Julio's palm come to rest gently on the back of my left hand and gratefully grasp it with my right one, trapping his warm, solid hand between both of mine.
God, I'm so grateful for him.
He always knows just what I need.
Julio knows how much I struggle with my mother. How critical she is. How much it hurts every time she questions the way I'm doing something – especially with the children. I already know I get things wrong far too often; having her point out my many flaws just feels like an extra slap in the face every time. So to feel that wordless reassurance of his hand in mine floods my chest with warmth.
He's telling me he's here.
I'm not alone in this.
Somehow we get through dinner, Charlie eating around half of his small portion, while I manage even less. My stomach is twisted with anxiety and stress, and every further cut from my mother's sharp tongue knots it up even further, until I feel like I've swallowed a writhing mass of baby grass snakes, which constrict my gut and threaten to rise up my throat and choke me.
I wordlessly begin clearing the table, some family members, like Julio and – unfortunately – my parents, staying to help me, others wandering off into the living room. I watch, feeling utterly helpless, as Charlie's head of dark curls swiftly disappears, making my chest feel heavy.
He hates me.
I'm doing everything wrong today.
I'm just finishing washing up when I hear footsteps – Charlie's – behind me. I turn and smile softly at him. He looks furious, his dark eyebrows drawn together in a scowl.
“Hi, Charlie,” I greet him quietly, trying to stay calm, but inside my stomach is squirming again. “Are you okay?”
“No, I'm not okay!” he hisses. “I'm so sick of everyone talking about me!”
“I'm sorry, Charlie,” I try to placate him, as I throw the teatowel on the draining board and turn to face him. “Try to ignore.”
He scoffs and rolls his eyes so hard his head goes with them.
“Not everyone understands what you've been dealing with,” I remind him.
“So I just have to put up with ignorant comments from my own family?” Charlie fumes.
“We just need to get through the day,” I tell him soothingly. “We'll have some tea later, but that's not for a couple of hours. How about a snack? Is there a snack on your meal plan for today?”
I turn and grab his meal plan from the bookshelf behind me and scan it. He really needs to eat more. It'll settle him.
“I don't want– Can you stop pestering me about food right now?”
Charlie's tone hurts my heart and I freeze.
I'm messing this up. Again.
I'm vaguely aware of Tori standing in the archway, saying something about Mario Kart, but I'm losing control of this conversation with Charlie, and I can't tune in to her right now.
“I– I'm just aware that today has been a very difficult day for you, Charlie,” I say desperately.
He has to eat, why can't he see that?
“You only managed half your dinner, and the dietician said that's a concern.”
“You're not helping,” Charlie spits, his eyes dark with anger. “You're making me feel worse.”
This isn't working.
He's not listening.
“Fine!” I hear myself say, spinning around to throw the meal plan on the side. “I’m sorry I even tried.”
I stalk off, back over to the table to pick up the last remnants of Christmas cracker debris to throw them away, my chest full of an inexplicable seething rage. It's only when I hear the door slam and Tori's quiet sob ringing through the hallway that the tears come.
🐚🐚🐚
Julio bundles me into his arms as soon as he re-enters the kitchen and sees the tear tracks on my face.
“What happened, love?” he says into my hair. “I only went to the loo, and suddenly the door's slamming, Tori's stropping off upstairs and you're crying.”
“Charlie,” I sob into Julio’s cosy Christmas cardigan.
“What about him?” Julio asks softly, stroking my hair.
I pull out of my husband's embrace and wring my hands together. “He just never listens to me. I– I feel like I'm doing everything wrong.”
“Jane,” Julio says, his brow furrowed in thoughtful concern. “You're not doing everything wrong. This is just… hard.”
I swallow and look at the floor. “I… I didn't listen to him,” I admit in a small voice, my throat thick. “He was trying to tell me how he felt and I just made it all about food, which I know I shouldn't have done, but I'm just so worried about him. I can't watch him get so unwell again, Julio, I just can't.”
My breath hitches and I bury my face in my hands as the sobs escape my chest once again.
Julio runs his hands soothingly up and down the tops of my arms. “Jane,” he breathes. “He won't. He's doing so well. Today is just… difficult for him.”
I know he's right, logically. But God, I'm so scared I feel sick. Everything my boy has been through flashes like a slideshow through my mind and panic clutches at my chest.
“I'm so scared, Julio,” I whisper. “I’m so scared, like, all the time.”
Julio's arms come around me again. “I know, love,” he soothes. “Me, too.”
I'm not sure how long we stand there, just holding each other, but the sound of the front door slamming again makes us both jump. I peer down the hallway, hoping to see my boy's dark curls and his battered Converse on the doormat, but there's no one there, and Tori's coat is gone from the rack by the door.
Great. Now she probably hates me, too.
I sigh. “This was so much easier when they were babies.”
Julio huffs out a little laugh. “Well…” he muses, head cocked to one side thoughtfully. “I don't know about that.” He smiles at me, those deep brown eyes so full of warmth, a little more crinkled around the edges every year, but still just as beautiful as the day I met him.
I rest my forehead against his. “Love you,” I whisper.
“Love you, too.”
The next two hours are torturous – I know the kids are at Nick's because Sarah Nelson sent me a text to fill me in, but I still make my bottom lip bleed with how much I'm worrying at it with my teeth. I hate it when they're angry with me, but I just don't seem to know how to do things any differently with them. I'm really hoping that the family therapy we're due to start in January will help. As I say a stiff goodbye to my mother, it finally dawns on me that she is the reason I keep messing up with Tori and Charlie. She taught me how to be a parent – all criticism and no warmth – and that can't be good.
By the time the kids come home, I'm absolutely resolute that things will be different from now on. I see the ease with which Julio throws his arms around our son and feel the usual hesitation to show such physical intimacy, but pull Charlie into a hug anyway, however haltingly.
I want to change.
I want to be better.
I want to listen.