The Cactus

by Sarah Haywood

Standing in the reception area, waiting for my mother’s ashes to be brought out to me, I recalled that I’d felt quite differently about my father. I was seventeen years old when he died. In those days, I was less pragmatic than I am now—I’d liken my adolescent self to a young plant that has yet to toughen fully—and it felt important to me to see my father’s body. Perhaps it was because my relationship with him had been complex; perhaps because of the nature of his final years and demise.

I’ve always had difficulty falling asleep at night, even when not bombarded by noise pollution. The moment I closed my eyes, the irrational feeling creeps over me that something dreadful might happen if I’m not vigilant. As I tried to summon sleep, I thought about the years I’d lain awake as a girl, waiting for my father to return from the pub. My bedroom was above the front entrance and hallway of my childhood home, and I could tell from even the smallest sounds that drifted up through the floorboards what state he was in. If he found the lock with his front door key straightaway it was good; if he dropped his keys or fumbled to find the lock it was bad. If he closed the front door quietly it was good; if he slammed the door it was bad. If his footsteps across the hallway were light and even it was good; if they were heavy or irregular it was bad. If there was a gush of water being poured into a glass it was good; if there was a clink of a bottleneck against a tumbler it was bad. If he came straight up to bed it was good; if he started playing Italian opera at full volume it was bad. I sometimes wonder if Edward lay awake thinking the same thoughts. I don’t know. I never asked him.

What absolute rot. My mother wasn’t a stupid woman; she wouldn’t have given Edward the right to remain in the family home because of some perceived hereditary weakness. I concede that she often treated Edward like a tortured artistic genius who needed to be shielded from the harsh realities of existence, but in her heart she knew he was just a chancer who was after an easy life. We all have the ability to control our own destinies. It was apparent to anyone that Edward was a waste of space not because he was genetically preprogrammed to be, but because he’d decided to wallow in a mire of self-pity and self-indulgence rather than to clamber out, brush himself down and strive to become a hardworking, responsible citizen. And anyway, as my mother would have been fully aware, if Edward was biologically preprogrammed to have a weakness of character then so was I. After all, we have the same parents. My brother is nothing like my father, in any case. My father, on the occasions when he was sober, was intelligent, cultured and witty. Edward is none of these things. Further, and most crucially, my mother loved Edward and me equally.

“Have you had fun today, sweetheart?” she asks. “It’s been the best day, ever.” Her face is luminous. She switches off my lamp and softly closes my bedroom door, and I realize I’ve felt no anxiety, no humiliation, no helplessness all day. As the light through the curtains fades, there’s no shouting or screaming from downstairs. No doors are slammed. I don’t need to hide in the shadows at the top of the stairs in case I have to intervene between my parents. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t fall asleep, and I do. That’s my perfect day. I may have embellished the truth a little.

You might have assumed, from my references to my father’s manifold faults and weaknesses, that I didn’t care for him. If so, I’ve unintentionally misled you. I did. So, when my father died, I wasn’t quite my usual resilient self. For the first time in my life I needed the support of another person.

As you’re aware, I’ve always been the author of my own destiny. We can choose how to define ourselves, and I define myself as an autonomous and resourceful woman. What I lack in terms of family and other close personal relationships is more than compensated for by my rich inner life, which is infinitely more constant and dependable.

“As far as I’m concerned you don’t have to be all, or even any, of those things to call yourself a feminist. What it boils down to is knowing that women are equal to men, and living that knowledge. It’s about ensuring that that equality is recognized in the home, in the workplace, in public life. And it’s about acknowledging that we all—women and men—are strong sometimes, weak sometimes, coolheaded sometimes, emotional sometimes, right sometimes, wrong sometimes. Locking away your feelings and vulnerabilities has got nothing at all to do with it. That’s something else entirely.”

the cactus had evolved spikes, rather than leaves, in order to reduce the surface area through which it could lose water, while still providing some shade for the main body of the plant, often little more than a modified stem; many people, he said, wrongly assumed that spikes served only to ward off predators. He also remarked on the cactus’s thick waxy skin, its well-developed root system and its broad, succulent trunk, all of which facilitated the storage of moisture or the minimization of its loss.

Is it possible ever to know someone completely? To know all their thoughts and feelings, their hopes, their dreams, their sorrows and regrets, the parts of themselves they hide from public view?

Following my father’s death Christmas was a very different affair; we no longer had to listen out for the sound of his key in the lock, try to assess his mood or hide ourselves away.

“If you have sole charge of your own destiny no one can let you down.”

I was starting to wonder if, perhaps, the rational decision isn’t always the best decision.

I think that what set my childhood apart from Edward’s was that I was never loved, and my brother was.

“Seems we remember things differently yet again. But truth is subjective—everyone has their own versions. Maybe both of ours are equally valid.”

It’s not exactly a revelation. I suppose I’ve known for a long time, but I didn’t want to admit that I, just like everyone else, might be subject to such irrational feelings, feelings that shave away your outer layer of protection and render you exposed and vulnerable. Can I really allow that to happen?

Admittedly, it’s an odd time to be making a life-changing decision, but perhaps there’s something to be said for choices based on instinct rather than on meticulous design. I have a sense that I won’t regret it.

Failure, I can’t help thinking to myself. And then I think, but who gives a shit?