She wept for Jonathan, she wept for herself.
A soft paw brushed against her cheek, and she felt Boogie hug back. Startled she tried to pull away, but he hugged her tighter and whispered… “Mommy, I miss you. Come back, just follow Boogie, he’ll show you the way.”
Sarah lay down upon the bed, closed her eyes and followed Boogie.
Bleep…Bleep….Bleep…Bleep… incessantly pulled her from sleep.
“Sarah. Sarah can you hear me?” a familiar voice washes over her.
Sarah slowly opened her eyes, her vision dark and slightly blurred at first, as if she was looking through smudged sunglasses, began to clear. She could hear the monitor beeping the rhythm of her heartbeat. She saw wires and tubes coming from various apparatus, and her right leg suspended over the bed in some sort of a sling. She looked toward the source of the voice, confused and questioning.
Karen stood next to the bed. She was smiling, even as tears rolled down her face.
“Welcome home baby sister.” She said as she clasped Sarah’s hand tightly.
Sarah stared at her in disbelief, not sure if Karen was real or just another memory.
“What…?” Then images began flashing through Sarah’s mind. The “Walk” sign. The screamed warning. Pushing Jonathan out of the way. The agonizing pain as the van struck her and sent her flying over its roof. Most of all Jonathan’s scream: “Mommy!”
“Jonathan?” Sarah’s eyes plead with her sister.
She smiled. “Look” she says gently, pointing to the other side of the bed.
Daring to hope she turned and there Jonathan stood, his little blonde head barely high enough to see over the bed. Clutched in his arms was Boogie and they were both smiling.
“Jonathan!” overwhelming joy came rushing through her, filling every hole that his absence had created. Sarah devoured him with her eyes; taking in every detail she could, praying this was not a dream. She lifted her hand to touch his face dragging the IVs along. She caressed his face. He was real. He was alive.
“Mommy!” Jonathan’s excited voice was the sweetest sound she had ever heard. “Aunt Karen said you needed our help. She said I should talk to you; tell you stories, like you do when I’m sick. That’s why I sent Boogie to help you, ’cause he helps me when I’m sick.” He was smiling, so proud of himself.
His face then clouded with confusion, “Mommy? What took you so long?” He asked.
Sarah placed her hand on Boogie’s soft head. “Boogie and me,” she said quite seriously, “we were fighting the Dark Side.”
“Cool!” Jonathan exclaimed, his face lit up as he carefully climbed on the bed and threw his arms around her.
She tearfully breathed in his scent…snips and snails and puppy dog tails…
Table of Contents
Post Christmas Blues
By Brian Gray
United Kingdom
Jan –u -ary. The precursor of the black abyss of winter, of harrowing sad grey days and bone chilling circulation, freezing under the blanket as the downers feverishly try to kick in.
Warmth. I need warmth, but the heating does not fire up for another hour and it’s more than my life’s worth to tamper with the timers: and the hot drink Nicki reluctantly left me before stomping off to work, has gone claggy-skin cold, not unlike the looks she now constantly reserves for me.
If January is the harbinger of winter, then it was almost certainly the death knell of Christmas. My fault as usual: totally out of my face the whole season to be jolly tral la lal la la, laa la la la laa. And who paid for this mind bending binge that I had promised so faithfully not to perform? Becky, our one and only offspring and future "Social Service" report subject matter. Food and present money blown away in a cocktail of gold, frankincense and mirth. Still she forgave me for it, gave me a kiss on Boxing Day and asked if I was alright. Now there’s a kid who understands addiction, and that cuts me up. I promised I would make it up to her somehow. No forgiveness from Nicki though, it would need a deep thaw to surface her spring.
The slam of the brass plate on the letterbox tells me that the postie has been. Not my concern, I leave all that agitation junk to Nicki, but at least I know that the heating will come on within fifteen minutes, provided he was on time, and that will at least give me an hour's worth of much needed warmth. Creature of habit you see. Count the days, count the weeks, the months and the years, but count them with what – apathy, trepidation? Take a day at a time young man, a day at a time.
I shuffle from the bed, the coarse blanket still clung tightly around me, and pad down the stairs. Ignoring the brown and white envelopes on the cold bare hall floor, I make my way into the kitchen, switch on the kettle, and then into the lounge, plonking myself before the giant silver grey monster that is my only window on the world. Threadbare carpets, sparse seventies furniture, my old mum's rocking chair – a true sign of borderline poverty, but we are not down to the floorboards yet. But here it is, the token widescreen telly with DVD and surround sound system, compliments of Nicki’s mate at the social and the wangled emergency loan – for Becky’s educational needs, apparently. Now that’s a scam.
I watch the cartoon network for a while, and then remember that I was making a drink and so shuffle off into the kitchen again. And then it hits me, jolting my senses, snapping me into real world reality.
Nicki’s handbag.
In her rush to get out the door she has left her world behind, all contained within a small black leather pouch that never leaves her side. It contains every item that helps her through life and sustains the existence of her and Becky’s well-being, sometimes me included. If I touch this then I am truly dead, but the temptation, the sheer possibility of power is too much for me and the steady slide of the downer takes a back seat as I flush with a surge equal to any "e" on a techno binge. Whatever is in the bag is not for me, but whatever is in the bag, however small or trivial will, I know, change my day, give me some powerful relief against its tedium. It may be a fiver to wile away a couple of rounds in the pub: it may only be a couple of quid for a bacon sandwich and a paper. It will certainly be trouble from Nicki, but what’s new.
I put out my hand and feel the worn leather sides, a warm glow of euphoria bursting through me. Nicki never leaves her bag, and it has been too late for her to realise and come back for it. But she might ring me as soon as she gets to work, in fact she will ring me with dire warnings to life and limb. I rush to the phone in the lounge intending to disconnect it, the sudden exercise of brain co-ordination and physical effort draining me. But it rings before I get there. I don’t want to answer, I want that drink, and I want that bacon sandwich. I drop to my knees shivering involuntarily, the shrill tones cutting into me.
Aren’t you going to answer it? A voice. A familiar voice wiping through the avenues of my brain seeking recognition, a home to latch onto. The downer is confusing me and the euphoria of discovering the bag is charging up my system, so I am suffering the effects of highs and lows simultaneously. The phone rings incessantly and I can sense Nicki at the other end pleading with me to pick it up.
Aren’t you going to answer it? That wretched voice again, echoing around the room. The room that is now freezing cold. My vision blurred, my vision, the spinning room, my vision, my mother in the rocking chair, looking at me in that way she always did when I had done something particularly wrong. I want to be sick.
I am sick.
The feelings pass. The phone has stopped. My mother’s apparition has gone. I collect my thoughts together. Must be the downers. Kex has cut them with something and I am dropping like a stone and soaring like a bird and hallucinating all at the same time. I reason with the fact that I could not possibly have seen my mother and I now reason with myself that perhaps the bag did not exist either. All one long guilt trip.
Crawling carefully into the kitchen, for I am still a little weak, I look up onto the work surface were I first saw the bag. But it is still there and so I have to begin a new set of thought
processes all over again. This is slow, this is so agonisingly slow.
But it does get easier. With renewed strength I eventually stand up, take the bag and begin to examine the contents. The phone in the lounge begins to ring again, but its urgency no longer grates upon my nerves. I find Nicki’s mobile and check the credit: some left. Then I find her purse, the credit card slots stuffed with saver coupons, and one pound seventy in coins in the compartments. Bacon sandwich then.
Then that same cold chill engulfs me again as I dig deeper into the bag. I find a letter, an official letter all folded neat, a letter from the Benefits Office informing Nicki that her claim for special needs for Becky has been successful and a cheque for three hundred pounds will be sent under separate cover in relation to the back payments. I glance down the hallway and focus upon the mail on the floor. It has to be there. It has to be, and if it is, it will not be bacon sandwich time, it will be Christmas all over again. It would be my chance to keep my promise and make it up to Becky. Slowly I walk towards the pile of mail but my path is blocked.
My mother.
It’s okay. It's okay, I have learnt to deal with these symptoms of hallucination at therapy. I tell myself she’s not really there and ignore the apparition as I hesitantly walk straight through it.
A sudden clammy shiver ignites every nerve in my body and for a brief moment I am a child again and my mothers voice is admonishing me, don’t you do it, son, don’t you do it.
But then as a child, and now as an adult – I take no notice and I do.
Picking up the mail I discard the junk and the obvious bills and yes there it is the one that will contain the giro-cheque.
Three hundred pounds.
Ignoring the after effects of the cold clamminess prickling my skin I generate positive warmth and begin to formulate my plans to make amends for spoiling Becky’s Christmas. No drugs. No alcohol, just presents for Becky and Nicki and a Christmas tree and trimmings and real food on the table. See if I don’t.
It was easy getting Becky out of the nursery. A young nursery assistant wasn’t going to argue with me and the supervisor was out at the time so the girl did not check the records. She knew I was Becky’s dad alright, she did not know that I was not allowed to pick her up. I wish I had remembered to bring Becky’s coat though, it was freezing and her flash of childlike excitement at going home soon passed. She began to whine.
Still, once I got this giro cashed then we could both go to the supermarket and buy everything under one roof and have some dinner in the café. Also Kex worked there in the café and I needed to have a word in his ear about what he was cutting me in those downers.
A bit of a comedienne was Kex, sussed out the café’s clientele a long time ago and as he was cutting in on drugs anyway he decided to experiment with some of the old codgers that got their breakfasts there in the mornings. A bit of weed mixed in with their bacon and eggs worked a treat, better than any fix the NHS was giving them. It was quite funny watching some of those miserable old gits suddenly lighten up and start springing around the supermarket all jolly and spaced out. One even got done for shoplifting a dozen boxes of condoms. But Kex was not gonna be a comedienne with me and that’s for sure, downers are downers and are supposed to bring you to rights, but those he sold me must have been aborted with some hallucigen.
With three hundred quid in my back pocket I’m at the supermarket café. I get Becky a drink and a doughnut to warm her up and stop her whining. She sits sullen for a while, but perks up a bit when I tell her all the exciting things we are going to buy and that we are going to have Christmas all over again. Kex is not in; he had to go to the dentist or something, but would be in later. I wait for a while savouring my mug of coffee, but then decide to give up the ghost. I need to start the shopping. Whilst I have been musing, Becky has wandered off to some of the other square laminate tables. She is sat at one in the corner laughing. I set off to pick her up, but she kicks up a fuss screaming in my ear that she wants to play with the funny lady, the lady sat in the corner. I tell her not to be daft and that no-one's there. "Yes there is," she says defiantly, still kicking up a fuss with everyone looking, "I want to play with Madge."
I almost drop Becky to the floor. Madge was my mother’s name. It’s hard to concentrate, my head is pounding. I get down to Becky’s level, she looks a little apprehensive. "Listen," I says, "there was no one there, right?" Becky nods and her bottom lip quivers slightly. I take her tiny hand and head into the supermarket. Becky mutters something under her breath, it sounds like – "she’s disap-poin-ted with you daddy."
Still shaken I grab two trolleys, one for toys and one for food. I tell you that Kex is really in for it.
This is more difficult than I thought, where's the logic in these places? I can’t find anything I want and it's not helped with Becky’s constant whining, and her constant whining is not helped by the looks and stares of the other shoppers and some of the staff. At one point Becky disappears altogether and I totally freak out tearing down the aisles searching for her, knocking some old codgers shopping basket out of their hands. Then the manager appears. A weedy nasal little shit powerful in his retail domain. He has Becky with him and is not at all polite to me, his customer, acting like I was some sort of shoplifter or something. I was going to politely tell him to f off, we knew each other from past exchanges, but all I did was nod dumbly and shirk out an apology and take Becky back from him. He could hardly believe his eyes, but to tell the truth neither could I, because as he laid down his retail law, I was not even focussed on him, I was focussed on the figure over his shoulder, her accusing eyes boring into me, just like I was six years old again.
Keeping Becky on a tight rein I try to focus on the shopping, but end up buying anything and everything, trying to avoid the store managers’ beady eyes and half a dreaded eye open for my persistent hallucination. Becky was a virtual prisoner in my ever tightening grasp, poor kid she would have been better of in nursery and for a moment I begin to wonder at the logic of what I was doing, and maybe the apparition of my mother was some sort of warning. But that’s drugs for you, make you paranoid.
Then at last logic bounces back and there was a saving grace. A young couple approach me out of the blue, professional looking types with some sort of posh uniforms, asking if I knew that the store had a crèche and would I like them to take Becky and place her in there whilst I finished my shopping, all part of the service and all that. Well it struck me that the manager must have sent them, maybe he did have some sort of decent streak to him after all.
I bend down to Becky. "Do you want to go and play in the crèche whilst daddy finishes off the shopping?"
"Will Madge be there?" was all she said. I nod absently. So these really nice people start to walk off with Becky. At the top of the aisle I spot the store manager and give him the thumbs up to indicate he was not such a bad guy after all. He just looks at me as if I am mad. I wish he had not done that, it made me all paranoid again. For one brief moment I thought of going and getting Becky back and getting out of there, there was some nagging doubt swimming around in my chemical mind, something to do with Becky, something she said, but no, I was nearly done, I wouldn’t be much longer.
A few more items and I was hitting a real low now. I was slowly loosing the will to go through with this. Slowly losing track of time. And that stupid suicide song by REM kept winding through my head or was it on the stores PA system? Hardly techno. And then I remembered that it was the song I chose at my Mother's funeral, just me there, the undertakers and the vicar. And I remembered that a week before how she told me that although she loved me, I would always be a disappointment to her and she could not understand where she had gone wrong. You have a chance she said, you have a good woman and a beautiful child – don’t throw that chance away.
Well I wouldn’t would I? I had ballsed up at Christmas I admit that, but this was my way of making amends and perhaps I was subconsciously tuning into my past and my relationship with my mother
and that was why she kept appearing to me like this, maybe it was a sort of endorsement.
But then I realised what that nagging doubt was. I was the one hallucinating. I was the junkie – so how could Becky see Madge?
Oh shit, Becky!
It wasn’t an endorsement. Two police officers stand before me, time had somehow moved on. A third woman officer was restraining Nicki who was shouting something at me. The store manager stood behind them looking concerned.
"Can you hear me Michael?" Asked the young copper, "I am asking you a question. It’s important that you tell us where your daughter is."
"Crèche" I mumbled through my fog, not taking in the scene of sheer confusion and terror around me.
The young copper looked at the store manager, who shrugged his shoulders and shook his head from side to side.
He tries again. "Michael, where is Becky?"
I looked at him for a moment not knowing why he was there, and then beyond to the now distraught Nicki, and then past the store manager and a sea of crowded faces and there in an unnatural distance was my mother holding Becky’s hand, and they looked so happy as they turned and walked away.
"She... she is with Madge," I said, and dropped the half price Christmas cake into my trolley. Becky used to love Christmas cake.
Table of Contents
Another Country
By Susan Watts
United Kingdom
I was six years old when my grandmother died. She was fifty-three. I remember that I thought of her then as ancient and that the first news of her death did not much disturb me. She had gone to bed with my grandfather after a quiet evening spent in front of the television. Nothing was unusual. This was the way they spent their evenings. They lived their lives according to routines and habits. By the morning she was dead. Sometime during the night the life had drifted out of her, or maybe it was she who drifted out of life. In any event when my grandfather woke for work at his usual time of six o'clock she was gone.
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