Where the Stars Fall

by Ana Simons

  “You better stop scaring your brother,” my mum says, rocking Marianne on her hip, clearly trying to suppress a laugh.

  Olivia too, she’s laughing so hard she’s crying.

  I guess women are indeed meant to be loved, not understood. Oscar Wilde, right?

  “Don’t take it too seriously. Your sister did absolutely fine,” my mum adds.

  Sue goes on, nonetheless, “So, after a couple of months of wiping bums, looking like shit, surviving on a couple of hours of broken sleep, and thanking God there’s coffee, you’ll look at yourself in the mirror and you start questioning yourself what possible good reason there is for you not to just run away. Smacking my brother hard in the head may also cross your mind a few times – after all, he was the bastard who got you into this situation in the first place!”

  “Oh, that’s reassuring to know. Thanks.” I turn to Olivia and hold her closer. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. You’re getting married into a seriously crazy family.”

  Olivia looks up. Our eyes lock and she smiles, a little smile in response to my words.

  Yes, I’m marrying her. Definitely.

  “I’m sitting outside with Dad now. He’s the only sane person in this house.”

  “And that’s it! They’ll basically suck the life out of you!” Sue squeezes Olivia’s hand. “But no need to get your knickers in a twist, lovely. Somehow, you’ll both manage to flip the survival mode switch and one day, out of the clear blue sky, you wake up all groggy and, Oh. My. Goodness, it’s seven in the morning and they actually let you sleep. And you rush and trip over everything, terrified something isn’t right.

  “And then they start to give you a tiny flicker of a smile, squeeze your finger with their little hands or do any other endearing thing and it hits you. Like a wrecking ball. They’re the bright spot in your life and you can’t live without them anymore. That’s when everything starts to fall back into place…

  “But then, of course, you can’t sleep again because you become an obsessed loony who needs to check every thirty minutes if they have suddenly stopped breathing. And you won’t let anyone with a cold come near! And if they wouldn’t put you away in a mental institution, you’d soak every stranger in antiseptic gel sanitizer too.

  “Yeah, we all go nuts when we have kids! But it will pass. Someday. Eventually...”

  37 MEANT-TO-BE STORIES

  “HEY, YOU SHOULDN’T kick with your toe, mate!” I tell Josh as I approach the goal post in the back garden. He’s getting ready to take a penalty kick. “It’s always with the laces, remember that! Come on, let Grandpa rest for a little while, I’ll play with you!”

  My father nods in agreement and, with some effort, leaves the improvised football field and sits on the deck.

  I position myself in the middle of the goal and look sideways, out of the corner of my eye. My father is watching us, smiling, and the sight of him, so weary and vulnerable, shakes me to my very core.

  Suddenly a lot of words start to swirl in my head. Ball in and out of play. Offside. Score lines. Sidelines. Wall pass. Wing-back. Midfielder. Centre forward. Winger. All words I’d already learned by Josh’s age.

  On Saturdays, sometimes Sundays, I always sat with my father to watch every Arsenal match. And, sure, he also did a good job teaching a few tricks to me. We played together for quite a long time – at least until I began to beat him.

  “Come on, mate, give Uncle Goalie your best shot!”

  He doesn’t say anything. His eyes are focused on the ball.

  “So, how’s it going to be? Want to strike with power or place it in the corner?”

  He glances up at me and narrows his eyes.

  “Good. Take a good look before you get the ball, check where I am.”

  He gets ready…

  “Keep your head down, Josh. Focus.”

  And he kicks as best as he can and scores. With a little help from his friend here.

  Four or five goals later, he’s absolutely thrilled and begins to jump like crazy and run around the garden yelling, “Josh McReary just scored the winning goal and the whole stadium is chanting his name! What a striker!”

  “Well done, mate!”

  He high-fives me and asks out of nowhere, “So you finally got it, huh? How the rubbing thing works?”

  “Mate, you’re as red as a tomato!” And muddy and drenched with sweat. “Why don’t you go inside, rest a little and let me chat a bit with Grandpa?”

  “No! First, you tell me!” He takes my hand and pulls me to the swing set. “But at least did you do it right?” he asks, swinging slowly, his big inquisitive eyes fixing mine.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you ask for a baby boy as I told you?”

  “Well, you see, it was a buy-one-get-one-free deal, so I don’t know. They didn’t let me choose.”

  His nose crinkles up in a frown and then he kind of pouts. “I bet they’re sending you another pair of mini moos, you’ll see.”

  I try hard not to laugh. This kid.

  “You know, your sisters were sharing the same bag, that’s why they look alike. But Olivia has two little bags in her tummy, one for each baby, so we may even get a girl and a boy!”

  The possibility seems to settle him.

  “You know Jane? The ginger-haired girl from my class? The one we used to meet in the swimming pool? They’re saying she’s pregnant.”

  I arch an amused eyebrow at him. “Oh really? But how on earth did that happen?”

  Looking away, he shrugs. “How would I know? I just hope it’s not mine. This family has enough babies already.”

  I swallow back a laugh. “You’re right, mate. You should wait until you grow up.”

  He stops swinging and looks up at me, on his face a sad, almost compassionate look. “I’m really sorry for Olivia.”

  “Why’re you saying that?”

  “Come on, I’m not a baby anymore. I know it already.”

  “What then?”

  “To make babies you have to rub straight in the bagina!” He gives me a duh look. “Mum said it hurts a lot to get the babies out of there, so my guess is it can’t be fun to put them in there either.”

  I’m taken aback for a moment.

  Letting his shoulders sag, he concludes, “That’s why I’m glad I’m a boy. That’d really suck!”

  There’s a horrified expression in his eyes and, seriously, after listening to my sister today, the topic doesn’t make me laugh much either.

  “But when are the babies coming out?”

  “Around May. That is, if they don’t decide to come a little bit earlier like your sisters did.”

  “When’s that?”

  “Just in time for Emma’s birthday, Champ.” I stroke his hair. “Going to sit with Grandpa now, okay?”

  “Dad. How’re you feeling?”

  He adjusts his back to the chair. “Fine. Just a bit tired. But it’ll pass.”

  It won’t. Pain and nausea are being controlled and managed, but fatigue has been the worst and most distressing symptom of his condition. There have been days I feel he’s already tired of being tired and it’s so difficult to watch him wither.

  “You cold? Want me to get a blanket?”

  “I’m fine.” Forcing a smile, he taps on my leg. “Look at you: my boy is going to be a Dad! That will be one heck of an exciting ride, you’ll see.”

  But he won’t.

  Since we broke the news earlier today, he was happy about it, but he’s also been quieter than usual, probably trying to cope with his own frustration. The awareness that he won’t be around to watch them all grow is tearing him apart, we all know it.

  He raises a finger. “Don’t forget to ask her to marry you! Ask her nicely, think of something special. They all love those things, she’s no different!”

  “I can’t do that, Dad. We just got back together.”

  With a mocking glint in his eyes, he says “You’re right, if it’s becoming a bit of an issue for you, don’t ask
her. After all, you two just met, you might not even adore her since as far back as you can remember. And, of course, it’s not like she is carrying your children or anything!”

  He cracks a loud laugh and then stops abruptly, to lay his hand over mine and look at me with a serious stare. “Only ‘when it’s gone, you’ll know what a gift love was. You’ll suffer like this. So go back and fight to keep it.’ McEwan. But you know that already, don’t you?”

  I nod.

  “This might be the last piece of wisdom you get from your old man: life takes many twists and turns and you two have been on this winding road for such a long time now. So maybe it’s about time you jump in with everything you’ve got and do everything within your reach to keep what you have now. Ask her. Make her feel special. Because she’s that already. No ifs or buts – life’s too short for that.

  “And then, in the end, you might even have a great love story to tell your kids. You know why? Because sometimes, even if life makes you drift apart for a while, there are stories that are just meant to be. And yours might well be one of those.”

  I smile, a pained smile. “But I almost screwed it all up, Dad. I need her to trust me again.”

  He waves his hand, minimising it. “Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  “I did lie to her.”

  “Bugger off, that wasn’t even a decent lie! And let’s just cut the crap, everyone lies. Every day. Thing is, sometimes we lie, not because we’re bad people, but because we’re trying to prevent a bigger problem, just that. It’s always a tough call, but the intention is what really counts. Now, did you lie because you planned on cheating on her?”

  “Course not, but still. You know it’s not right.”

  “Yeah, tell me I have a twisted sense of morality, like I care at this point! Listen, if we always told the truth, all the time, where would that take us? If you said the exact words that come to your mind, what would the consequences be? That’s easy: you’d end up alone, maybe even injured in the hospital or locked up in prison.”

  He continues with a funny voice, “Morning, Jake, you sodding idiot! Hey, Millie! What the hell happened to your hair? And one last one, especially dedicated to your loving grandmother: So nice to see you, Martha, you old nag. Why are you always nosing around?” He snorts. “Bugger me, if it wasn’t so dramatic, it’d be hilarious!”

  The two of us can’t contain ourselves and chuckle quietly. Then he concludes, “In the end, we’re all a bunch of hypocrites, that’s what we all are. We lie to everyone’s faces but call it ‘filter’. Such a fancy label, isn’t it?

  “But, hey? I’m not telling you to lie to the mother of your children, we clear? Omitting silly things to protect the ones we care about is one thing, keeping secrets that could tear them apart is a totally different story.” He leans forward to give a pat on my thigh. “Now, make your father proud and be a good man, will you?”

  I nod, vacantly gazing at the branches of the weeping willow whipping vigorously in the breeze. Leaning back, with eyes closed, we remain silent for quite a while.

  As I lift my head to feel the cold wind, I am taken back in time. To Cranleigh, to the many Christmas mornings Dad and I spent hiking to our favourite spot, an old bench under an older tree overlooking the stunning views of the Surrey Hills.

  To our old country house – ten acres of land that had belonged to our family for several generations. The place where we’d built memories for many years, memories of happy times filled with so much love and laughter.

  Until Rogers turned it all into a personal vendetta and took it from us.

  My throat clenches as I turn to stare at my father, looking so frail. Inadvertently my hand curls into a fist, with the awareness we might never recover what was rightfully his ripping me up inside.

  The sound of my phone ringing cuts through my thoughts. I pull it out of my pocket and check the screen. O’Crowley.

  I consider tapping the decline button and calling him back later, but I’m too curious not to mention impatient, to just sit back and wait. Instead, I reply with a text message,

  Saturday, October 31 | 12:25

  Can’t talk right now. Any new developments?

  O’Crowley | Saturday, October 31 | 12:27

  That Stuart guy? He agreed to an interview.

  That would be the fake director of one of Rogers’s shell companies. I smile inwardly, hoping we’ve dug up enough dirt to make the bastard’s life a living hell. Even if there’s insufficient evidence to hold him, I can already imagine the tabloid headlines, the damage they’ll do. “Britain’s notable philanthropist’s shady secret life exposed in new documentary”.

  He’s always thought of himself as untouchable, and in a certain way, he might be – such complex tax avoidance schemes are harder to prove than ever – but watching him drawn into a scandal of international proportions would give me an immense sense of satisfaction.

  ‘It’s not what you know, it’s who you know,’ Rogers used to tell me all the time. The memory makes me smother a subtle, contented grin. Ironic how the common adage turned out to be more than just another piece of popular wisdom, how it also unveils a lot of universal truths about human nature. He was right, having the connections got me in touch with the right people.

  But he failed to assess other variables. Like fear and greed. How quickly people will talk to save their own skins. How others are always so willing to sell themselves to the highest bidder.

  “Everything all right, son?”

  After a nonchalant nod, “It’s a bit chilly out here, why don’t we go inside?”

  “You know what a wise man once said? Before setting off on revenge, you should always dig two graves: one for your enemy and one for yourself,” he says, his weary eyes fixed on mine. “You think I don’t know what you’ve been up to, but I do. And it’s time for you to let it go, Son. Some things just aren’t worth the time or trouble.”

  I look at my father, slowly rising from his chair, and the feeling of satisfaction quickly subsides. The taste of revenge turns bitter in my mouth. Bitterness mixed with frustration. Because either way, we’ll lose.

  SIX WEEKS LATER…

  38 PROPOSALS

  “THAT WAS SO ROMANTIC, Brian Anderson! That was everything I’ve ever dreamed about all of my life!” Olivia angles her head at me, on her face a sullen frown. “Oh, crap! Here it comes again…”

  She throws her head back into the toilet bowl and my heart falls into the pit of my stomach. I’m on my knees too, half awake, half asleep, already waiting with a bottle of cold sparkling water by my side.

  Why the hell people call it morning sickness, I don’t know, because it’s just past midnight and we’re already here, in the land of nausea and vomiting. And it’s been like this for almost a month now.

  She comes up again, looking as pale as if she was about to pass out.

  “Here, sweetheart.” I hand her a towel. “Liv, for crying out loud, look at you! It’s not easing off. How can you–”

  “But it will. We just have to give it some time.” Her voice sounds strangled as it passes her lips.

  A few instants later another wave hits her.

  I come closer to hold back her hair. “Still, that’s very stupid. Romantic or not, you’re not going anywhere. What kind of crazy idea is that? It doesn’t make any sense that you–”

  “You’re wearing that cologne again? Go away!”

  “No, I’m not. I’ve also made sure no one else in the neighbourhood is wearing it either.” God, everything makes her queasy, including me. “Maybe if I get you something to nibble...”

  “Oh, Christ no. No food.”

  And that sets it off again. Crap. Why isn’t she like my sister, who could ward off any nausea simply by shoving a cracker down?

  A good half hour later everything seems to have calmed down. Leaning her head back against the tiled wall, she looks exhausted and kind of green.

  “Here, Fiona. Have a few sips.” I hand her a glass of water.


  She smiles a little. “Looking like an ogre again, huh?”

  “Yeah. A cute ogre, though. A cute and very stubborn ogre. Come here.” I pull her gently and sit her between my legs, her back against my chest so that I can soothe her a little.

  And get back to the conversation I was trying to have before: I want her to move in with me, but she’s reluctant to accept that’s the best option for everyone.

  “I just hope I don’t develop hyperemesis. That’d be terrible.”

  Hyper–what? My guess is that I should know already what the hell that means. It’s probably in that book she gave me, the one I’m still reading. Slowly. Very slowly.

  That thing is a drag.

  Pregnancy Sucks for Men, that’s what I’ve been secretly checking. I borrowed it from Mark. It was his holy bible and, apparently, served its purpose just fine. And Being a Great Dad for Dummies, too. They’re probably not very scientific, but who the fuck cares when they explain to you in plain English what’s going on here? It’s the crazy pregnancy hormones; it feels as though she’s being held upside down while having a hangover and being seasick at the same time.

  “Yeah, that’d be awful...” I improvise and go along with the context.

  Pregnancy jargon is tough, and experts advice in this situation would be to never tell them you have no bloody idea what they’re talking about. They’re very sensitive as it is, and there’s no need to piss them off when they’re so emotional already. Instead, and if you wish to live, you fib. Yes, just a little. At one in the bloody morning, there’s no need to make things more difficult than they already are.

  “For goodness sake, why won’t you just take the goddamn tablets? I’m certain if you do, the babies won’t come out ugly, will they?”

  “You’re right, I can’t go on like this.” She sighs, agreeing.

  I begin to rub her shoulders, trying to make her relax. “Yes, do that. And try to take a couple of sick days and stay home. I can stay with you in the mornings, we could step outside and go for walks together. The fresh air would do you good.”