Here is the Beehive

by Sarah Crossan

always,

  while in me

  another person grew.

  When you came along I panicked at the thought of

  making even moderate alterations –

  what if you hated short hair, long nails, Nike trainers?

  I stayed still in time.

  ‘So long as you don’t cry once I’ve done it.’

  She unties her own hair and it falls down

  her back like a tease.

  ‘Tea or coffee?’

  She hands me a copy of Hello.

  Nora’s friend Allie dated a rock star for a while,

  very married,

  definitely leaving,

  and she trusted him until,

  at the hairdressers for a blow-dry,

  she saw a photo shoot of him

  in a magazine, posing with his wife on a beach in Bermuda.

  The wife was pregnant.

  Glowing.

  Katie brings a coffee.

  ‘Plans for the weekend?’

  I open the magazine. ‘My boyfriend’s taking me away.

  Don’t tell my husband.’

  She laughs.

  ‘What happens in the chair stays in the chair.’

  ‘The new style will remind him of his wife.’

  I open Hello and let her get on with it.

  She doesn’t ask any more questions.

  When you buy a rabbit,

  they never tell you

  what to do once the thing

  stops eating and drinking,

  hardly moves any more

  and looks at you with agony eyes

  as though you’re some sort of animal God who could

  breathe new breath into its rattling throat.

  ‘It isn’t kind to keep her alive.

  I’ll take her to the vet,’ Paul says,

  stowing Jump

  in a cardboard box with some straw.

  Ruth is already crying.

  Jon says, ‘Can we get a puppy?’

  ‘Why don’t we wait and see how she is later?’ I suggest.

  ‘It’s a bit macabre to do it on Halloween.’

  The kids survey Paul.

  Ruth says, ‘I love her.’

  She puts her hand into the box but is bitten, screams.

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘She’s dying,’ Paul says gently.

  Ruth runs out of the room.

  Jon follows, yapping like a dog.

  ‘Don’t put her down,’ I plead.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Ana,

  are you trying to upset everyone?’

  ‘Why can’t you be kind to me?’

  I am crying too now.

  I do not want anything killed.

  ‘To be honest, Ana, you don’t really

  respond all that well to love.’

  He pets the rabbit. She is completely still.

  ‘I’ll be back soon,’ he says.

  And he is.

  Back within a couple of hours, the box still in his hands.

  Jump is nibbling on a radish but looks much smaller, fluffier.

  ‘Miraculous recovery,’ he tells the kids,

  eyeing me a warning stare.

  They are pleased.

  I wanted to brush the ears of

  a blue roan cocker spaniel

  on long evenings,

  have something to welcome me home

  with unabashed excitement.

  I would have trained it to sleep

  in the kitchen at night,

  never nip strangers or

  piss in the herb garden.

  But you hated pets:

  their fur, breath, friendliness.

  And so I never got a gun dog.

  I didn’t want to have to give it up once you and I

  found our way to one another.

  I couldn’t give you another excuse

  to stay away.

  My Polish neighbour,

  the nurse on early mornings

  with a delicately boned face

  and a loud alarm,

  is hanging laundry.

  I saw her from Ruth’s window

  and dashed down

  two stairs at a time

  with some already-dry shirts.

  ‘Hey,’ I say

  through chicken-wire fencing

  and a holly bush.

  ‘Hello,’ she says.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Good. You?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Good.

  Mother’s chores are infinite.’

  I have never cared

  enough to ask her name

  and realise it’s a bit late now.

  ‘You’re in medicine, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m a nurse.’

  ‘Ah, yes. At the Whittington?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I should go to A&E later.

  My neck is so sore.

  I’m in agony actually.’

  I cannot see her expression.

  Slowly, she pegs a tea towel to the line.

  ‘Yes, you can do that.

  Or take ibuprofen

  and call your GP tomorrow maybe.’

  ‘No good asking you for drugs then?’

  I laugh. It’s worth a try.

  Painkillers and a cold gin

  would take the edge off.

  I could make lunch

  and iron the uniforms,

  face a family film at the Odeon later.

  She mostly has her back to me.

  ‘Hope you feel better,’ she says. ‘Bye-bye.’

  Next time I will remember to ask for her name.

  I hardly heard from you when you holidayed in Corsica.

  It was the second year of us;

  we were calling every day,

  meeting weekly.

  WiFi was awful,’ you said on your return.

  ‘And I couldn’t get a second to myself.’

  You knew I didn’t believe you.

  You’d read three books

  and contacted your junior architects.

  Each one of those ten days,

  seven,

  four,

  one,

  was a test,

  imagining

  sunscreen oozing between Rebecca’s fingers

  as she lathered your back

  to prevent melanoma stealing you away,

  not knowing you’d be taken anyway.

  So quickly.

  No warning.

  Gone.

  Nights were worst.

  Time for bed,

  bodies lying close in the dark,

  feet touching.

  How often did you resist her?

  ‘Always,’ you said.

  I pictured it all:

  the colour of the sun loungers,

  the other hotel guests.

  I waited for my phone to ping,

  to know I hadn’t been obliterated entirely.

  I went on holiday too.

  Lanzarote. Lisbon. Skegness.

  But I phoned you, didn’t I?

  I waited for Paul to slide into the pool

  or to take the kids to the toilet.

  I said, ‘I just wanted to hear your voice.’

  ‘I miss you,’ you replied.

  I never set you aside or tried to torture you.

  I never made you invisible.

  Tanya strides into my office.

  ‘You know when we forged sick notes for PE?

  Well, would it be terrible to do that now?’

  ‘To forge a doctor’s sick note, you mean?

  Do you need time off?’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘Would you ever sign something

  on behalf of someone else?’

  ‘With no power of attorney? What’s going on?’

  I glance behind her at the open door

  and wonder if she’s about to confront me.

  ‘Passport form,’ she says. ‘I don’t think it’s terrible.’

  I
unclench my jaw.

  ‘Can you get caught? You might.

  You’re not as smart as I am.’

  ‘I am prettier though. Since you hacked off all your hair.

  You look like Annie Lennox, you know.

  And Annie Lennox looks like a dog breeder.’

  ‘Bring it in here, and I’ll sign it,’ I say.

  ‘You already did. That was what I meant.’

  She flounces out. ‘Thanks, babes!’

  ‘Utterly pointless forgery.

  You’ll get debarred!’ I shout.

  ‘Don’t worry, Orphan Annie, I’ll say I sought legal counsel!’

  You called me Rebecca once,

  by mistake,

  and it would have felt like a punch

  but as we were in the middle of an argument,

  it was actually OK.

  ‘My hands might be cold,’ Dr Myers says,

  making me stand,

  bend,

  stretch,

  pressing her fingers against my skin,

  prodding the pebbly discs in my spine.

  I gasp – a show of bravery – shut my eyes.

  ‘I go to the gym a couple of times a week,’ I lie.

  She scrolls through my history.

  ‘You’re on citalopram,’ she says,

  her voice even.

  I straighten my skirt,

  tuck my vest back into it.

  ‘How’s that working for you?’

  Her eyes stay fixed to the screen.

  ‘Fine,’ I say.

  ‘Well, I could probably do with a higher dosage.

  Maybe something else for panic attacks.’

  ‘Right.’

  Her desk is piled high with paper of assorted colours.

  She is wearing too many rings for a woman

  with a good education.

  Her forehead is full of Botox.

  Dr Myers is older than I am and

  I could tell her everything, I think, and she would not blink.

  ‘You’re a teacher,’ she says,

  glancing at the scuffed toes of my shoes.

  I nod, I don’t know why,

  and allow one corner of my mouth to curl,

  a gesture that lets her feel she’s read me,

  seen what all this neck pain is about:

  work, an abysmal state system.

  ‘Half-term soon,’ I say,

  wondering if Paul will expect me to take time off

  when there’s no need – he’ll be off anyway.

  ‘Don’t remind me. Thank God for kids’ clubs.’

  She clicks her mouse,

  once, twice.

  ‘You need to keep up with the gym, which

  will help your mood, and pain relief.’

  ‘Of course.’ I wince lightly,

  hoping I’m not overplaying it.

  Sometimes I ache for you.

  But otherwise my body is fine.

  It is my head that needs these drugs.

  ‘I’ve started fencing,’ I say.

  I have always wanted to try it,

  and I might, now I’ve said it.

  ‘I’m prescribing painkillers.

  Stronger than over-the-counter.

  Only take them as needed,

  and come back if

  you get further numbness in your arm.’

  I hold on to the printed prescription without

  thanking her.

  Gratitude would imply it was what I’d come for.

  ‘And I need more of my pill,’ I tell her.

  ‘Ah, yes, right,’ she says, squinting at the screen

  then up at the wall clock.

  ‘Give me two secs.’

  Outside the air is musty and uneven.

  A cat is pissing next to the wheel of my car.

  ‘I never intentionally hurt you,’ you said.

  We were hunched near a man-made lake in Milton Keynes,

  had spent sixteen satisfied hours together

  and now this,

  a performance I could have predicted,

  could not have prevented.

  Do not be cruel, I told myself.

  I told myself, Be reasonable. Be charming.

  ‘Really?

  Remember when you admitted you’d fucked Rebecca?

  Did you forget that?

  Telling me, I mean.

  Not the actual fucking.

  You’d recall doing that.

  You’re just back from a cosy family holiday

  so fresh memories too maybe.

  Call of duty and all that.

  Wine helps, I find,

  though children

  are a hindrance.’

  Your right fingers flinched

  like you might have had it in you to hit me.

  Honestly, it would have been a comfort.

  ‘I’m sick of this, Ana.

  Every time.

  Every single time.

  Why can’t we just enjoy one another?’

  You walked to the water’s edge

  and back again.

  A swan bobbed up from between tall reeds,

  honked and flapped.

  ‘I love you. Isn’t that enough?’

  My high-heeled boots

  sank into the sludge of soil and goose shit.

  ‘No.’

  I wanted you to tear

  the world to shreds

  to get

  to me.

  I wanted to be chosen.

  It was the first time I screamed.

  Into the clouds, sending the swan for cover.

  ‘I can’t do this any more,’ I cried.

  ‘You love me, but it’s her name on the certificate.

  Please help me. Tell me what to do.

  I can’t carry on like this.’

  ‘And I can’t make your choices for you, Ana.’

  ‘Tell me what to do.

  You or not you.

  Stay or go.

  Tell me.

  Tell me.’

  You pulled me into your shoulder.

  I coughed and snotted on your shirt.

  ‘It’s eleven o’clock. We better check out.’

  I tried to keep hold of your hand

  when you shifted gears on the way home,

  but it was impossible not to let go occasionally.

  Paul said, ‘How was the conference?’

  ‘It gave me a migraine,’ I said,

  and tossed my soiled clothes into the washing machine.

  ‘I need new hiking boots,’ I say,

  holding my old ones aloft,

  knocking their soles together,

  the mud cracking,

  peppering the floorboards.

  ‘I’ll order you a pair,’ Paul says.

  He has just finished a pile of marking,

  is on his way out to the carwash,

  has agreed to take the kids for pancakes too,

  so I can catch up with housework.

  ‘I’d like to choose my own,’ I tell him,

  adding the boots to a bag for Oxfam,

  along with some unused barbecue tongs

  and a Barbie doll with Sharpie scribbles

  along her limbs.

  He is wearing straight-cut jeans.

  His hair is growing too long.

  I am not sure why he needs to dress so much like his dad.

  I reach for the mop

  but spend the free hours idle

  on the couch.

  When Paul arrives home he hands me a box –

  inside

  a pair of high-end hiking boots

  with clean pink soles.

  Their newness squeaks.

  ‘Ten per cent off,’ Paul says,

  watching me slot them back into place,

  cocooning them in crackling paper.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Paul asks.

  The children are behind him, waiting.

  It was a surprise.

  I am meant to be
smiling.

  ‘Nothing, they’re nice.’

  I’d jumped up to make stew as they arrived

  so go back to chopping onions.

  In bed he says, ‘Lovely grub earlier, thanks.’

  ‘Don’t patronise me, Paul,’ I say.

  He switches off the light and turns over,

  too bored to look at me.

  ‘I’m happy to have an argument, Ana.

  But I’m on a trip tomorrow so I need some sleep.

  You mull over exactly what I’ve done wrong nowand email me.

  I assume you won’t be home early enough

  tomorrow to have a real conversation

  or feed the kids or help with their homework.

  Sound good?’

  ‘Feed the kids with the food I shopped for, you mean?

  With the food taken from the fridge I clear out every week

  and cooked in the oven I clean?

  Sure, I’ll email you.’

  I want to tell him

  about us, you,

  shock him into giving a shit.

  I look at rentals on my phone,

  weigh up the idea of leaving,

  and wish to Christ I was a better person.

  You read Wills, Probate & Inheritance Tax for Dummies

  so you could listen

  to me talk about my work and understand.

  At the time it seemed a strange thing to do –

  a way of having opinions,

  typical man –

  and I was threatened.

  Looking back,

  I must remember

  you are not Paul.

  ‘Can I have Ready Brek?’ Jon asks.

  I have fried bacon.

  I have warmed a frozen baguette.

  The clementines are peeled

  and placed in Tupperware for break time.

  The kitchen reeks of good parenting.

  ‘You can have what I’ve made,’ I say,

  presenting him with breakfast.

  ‘But I want Ready Brek.’

  ‘No,’ I tell him,

  because the dregs

  will dry against the bowl like concrete

  and I will have to scrape them away with my nails.

  Jon starts to cry.

  ‘Can he have a cheese string then?’ Ruth wonders aloud.

  For siblings they are unnaturally kind to one another

  and I don’t like it, this army of two,

  the odd habit they have of holding hands

  around other people,

  wanting to sit next to one another,

  sharing desserts with absolute fairness.

  ‘He can have bacon and a roll.

  He can have bacon or a roll.

  Alternatively, he can have nothing.’

  Jon cries harder.

  Paul comes into the kitchen looking fresh.

  He has an interview for a deputy headship.

  ‘What’s wrong, mate?’

  He leans in to his son, away from me.

  ‘I’ve made hot breakfast and it’s a fucking Tuesday.