by Lee Isserow
Taking a deep breath, and trying to push down all the resentment that had been bubbling during the drive, I knocked on the door. Tried as hard as I could to force a neutral expression to my face that wouldn't start an argument immediately.
A minute or so later, the door opened. My father, Keith waiting beyond the threshold. He was in a wheelchair, had been for the last four or five years. He once said it was from a car crash, and proceeded to blame the other driver, failing to mention that he had been drinking, and the other driver was a tree. He sat in front of me in silence, looking smaller than I remembered, thin and frail, but the familiar grey eyes looked up from behind thick glasses. A mess of white hair clung loosely to the top of his head. It was likely combed in the morning, but took on a life of its own as the day went on. Dandruff lingered on the shoulders of his thick navy sweater, the same sweater I always pictured him in when his image was conjured forth from memory.
“You alright?” he asked.
I didn't know how to respond, biting the inside of my lip to keep from hurling years of pent-up abuse at him, or collapsing into a heap at his useless feet.
“Can I come in?” I finally asked, as my patriarch eyed me up and down, a scowl slowly forming on his brow.
“She with you?” he asked.
I sneered briefly, then pushed the expression back to neutral. It was too soon to get into a fight.
“No.” I said.
He lingered for a moment, then rolled himself backwards, the door swinging open as he withdrew into the house.
“Shut it properly.” he shouted, as he made his way to the living room. “Don't slam it!”
I rolled my eyes as I turned, swinging the door shut, the latch bouncing on the door frame, bouncing the door back towards me with a loud clunk.
“I told you not to slam it!” he shouted from deeper in the house.
I tried to hold my tongue, cursing him under my breath as I turned the latch and used my shoulder to shove the door closed.
“How have you still not got that fixed?” I asked, as I walked into the living room.
“Ain't got the time.” he said, flicking the television on.
“You have nothing but time.” I spat back venomously at the old man, knowing full well he had spent every day since my mother left him wallowing in the house, surviving on his over-abundance of savings, on top of stacked up disability allowances and his pension.
“Real nice.” he said.
“Sorry.” I said, pretending to mean it. “Do you mind if we turn that off?”
He looked over to the television, ChallengeTV rerunning an episode of The Price Is Right from the nineties. Reluctantly, he flicked the mute button as the audience cheered in silence, vignetted in a yellow border with animated flashing lights. I tried to contain my anger as the old man continued to watch Bob Warman walk out in silence and accept a microphone from an assistant before addressing the contestants.
“Keith.” I said. Taking a moment to compose myself. “Dad.” I corrected.
He glanced up, catching an undoubtedly stone cold expression in my eyes.
“I need your help.” I said.
“Never thought I'd hear you say that.” he said, with a scoff.
“Never thought I'd say it.” I shot back.
We looked at one another in silence as I tried to find the words.
“How's your kid coming along?” he asked. “Popped yet?”
“God, I hate that expression...” I said, stifling a chuckle, as I remembered saying the same thing to Lisa months previous, for which I was rewarded with a tuneless song of “Pop popping pop pop poppy popping pop pop.” that went on for close to five minutes.
“Y'know what it is yet?” he asked.
“A girl.” I said. “Another dyke, no doubt.” I continued, mocking his voice, and the response I was certain would be coming.
He smiled and rolled his eyes.
“Ain't got a problem with you, darlin'.” he said, looking away. “Just don't think it's right to be marryin' up and makin' babies an' all that. Not if you're... like you are. Ain't natural.”
“I'm not here to argue.” I said, through a sigh and gritted teeth. “I need your help.”
“You gamblin' again?” he asked.
“No!”
“What is it then?”
“I need...” I couldn't say it. Not to him. I didn't want to let him see me like that, vulnerable, weak. He'd like that too much.
“Money?” he asked. “Thought you two were livin' it up, big jobs'n all?”
“We are. But we don't have enough savings...“
“For what?” he said, staring me down.
I couldn't tell him. I wouldn't tell him. It was bad enough I had to come to him cap in hand and ask for money, but if I were to tell him what had happened, I knew it would just lead to a tirade of 'Wouldn't have happened if ye'd have been normal and married a man.', which I wasn't going to go through, not again.
“It's for the baby. For Lisa and the baby. For your granddaughter, who's going to be in this world before you know it, who deserves to not be hated by the only patriarchal figure she'll likely have in her life.” I took a breath. “Assuming you want to be in her life...”
The words trailed off, and I stared at him, unblinkingly, hoping the message would sink in.
The old man looked to the floor, then glanced at the television as Warman continued to converse with the three contestants. He took a moment, sucked at his cheeks as he ruminated, and turned back to me.
“Come here t'give me a lecture is it?”
I kicked at the wheel of his chair.
“It's not always about you!” I screamed. “It's never about you. We're not a fucking reflection of how you are as a father, or a man, we're just who we are. It doesn't make you a pussy because your daughter is gay, I don't get how to drill that into your skull!”
“Real nice.” he snarled. “Come into my house and shout at me. Kick my chair, tell me I'm a pussy?”
“You're not even listening to me!”
“Oh, I listened real good. Calling me names because you live an alternative lifestyle and it doesn't sit right with me.”
“It's not an 'alternative lifestyle'.” I spat. “Have you seen the news? Same-sex marriage is legal in the UK, Ireland, the US, it's not like it's a fad, it's happening all around the world!”
“Don't make it right...” he said, flicking the volume back on the television.
I grunted with anger as I stormed out of the living room, swinging the front door wide open and slamming it behind me with an almighty crash.
I stomped to the car, sat behind the wheel and slammed a fist into it, wanted so hard to be able to cry. But my tear ducts were dry, sealed shut from griefs past, unwilling to cooperate.
“Fuck!” I screamed, as I banged my hands on the steering wheel again, throwing punches at its centre mass. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
3
Lisa knew she had been dumped on a bed, but didn't know where, or for how long. Hands tied behind her back, legs tied together, the mattress under her was uncomfortable. She was used to four inches of memory foam, which she knew meant she was spoiled, but this bed was awful. It sunk in the middle, springs poking in to her, and she couldn't comprehend how anyone could sleep on it.
She couldn't see her surroundings, just white linen that was placed over her eyes. It was a makeshift blindfold, she could tell from the way it was cut, jagged and frayed at the very bottom of her vision. At least they had taken the bag off her head, she thought, even thought they made it clear it was because they were afraid their prize would suffocate.
Tilting her head up, she tried to look around the room, but couldn't get a clear view of where she was. She attempted to get up, or at least roll over and reach a sitting position from which she might hop away, but the nine months of pregnancy hadn't left her at her most agile.
Nina had spent most mornings of the last few months making fun of her, asking if she wanted to join her for a run, or
calling her mid-jog to tell her about something she saw en route. She sent pictures or videos of the other runners and dog walkers that they had gossiped about on the runs they took together before she started showing. As soon as she visibly 'felt' pregnant, she decided to stop running. Lisa knew it wasn't going to risk the baby for some time, but something about seeing the bump made her want to hold off from shaking the little thing about inside her. A maternal instinct that she hadn't expected to creep up on her so soon.
She had wondered if Nina was having the same emotional reaction to the pregnancy. A part of her wished that they could share it, alternate days or split it, four and a half months each. Give her a chance to have the same hormones rush through her body, to feel the life kicking about inside. She wouldn't call Nina 'hard', but she certainly wasn't a sweet, gooey caramel centre of a person.
She used to be. Not totally soft, but she was once more malleable. The death of her grandfather had dealt a blow, and she hadn't been the same since. But Nina was still the woman she loved, the woman she wanted to be with for the rest of her life.
Lisa's thoughts were brought back to her situation by an argument developing somewhere else in the house. Behind the door, maybe down the hall or down the stairs. She held her breath and tried to make out the voices.
“Well?” shouted a woman.
“Give me a bloody minute!” a man shouted back.
Lisa could hear the familiar tinkling tones of her phone turning on, then the double-beep she so often heard when she forgot to charge it and it died on her.
“It’s dead.” said the man.
“Do we have a charger?”
“Did you take the fucking charger?”
“No, I didn’t think --”
“Well that’s just great...”
There was a loud noise, a bang, like something had been thrown hard.
“Don't fucking throw it!” shrieked the woman. “We can't do a fucking thing if it's broken!”
“Don't tell me what to do!”
“Well, let's think this through...”
“I’ll buy one tomorrow.”
“You’re not going to leave me alone with her up there.” said the woman.
“A pregnant woman’s hardly going to put up a fight...” he said back, with an ugly, bellowing laugh.
“I don’t want to be alone with her...”
“So you go!” said the man, “We don’t have to have a fucking fight about it!”
“This isn't a fight. You'll know when it's a fucking fight.” she threatened.
“Jesus woman!” said the man. “Not everything has to be so dramatic!”
There was a pause.
Lisa wondered if they were pausing to embrace. That's what she and Nina would do whenever they had a disagreement. Although they had never raised their voices to one another like this couple did.
She hated to admit it, but a part of her was judging the man and woman, assuming that this was just how their relationship was. Moments of calm adrift in an angry, tumultuous sea.
“Fine. I’ll go.” the woman said.
“Ok. Good.”
More silence.
Lisa struggled again with her bonds, wondering if she could kick out of whatever was holding her feet together. It was soft, didn't feel like coarse rope. She wondered if it was nylon, the type of rope that stage magicians used, recalling a documentary revealing the secrets of magicians, in which they said nylon rope was the magician's favourite, because it was stretchy, could be easily untied. She didn't know much about rope or knots, and hoped her captors didn't either.
There were no more voices from downstairs. She tried to picture what the arguing couple might look like, imagining the people behind the voices. She was never very good at that kind of thing. She used to think that This American Life's Ira Glass sounded like he was maybe five foot six and rotund, until they saw him live in Chicago in 2009, and all six foot something of beanpole graced the stage, big geek-chic glasses that she never thought his voice would wear. That kind of thing always happened to her, almost every client she first spoke to on the phone was yet another example of her inaccurate mind's eye.
She wondered what was happening if the couple was no longer speaking, and daren't linger on the thought that they might have found themselves overcome by emotion, or lust for one another in the excitement of their crime. Perhaps making out, or more, whilst she was tied up on the bed.
If that was the case, if she was the instigation or aphrodisiac for a carnal act, Lisa started to fear that they might move their lovemaking towards the bedroom, carry out the act in her presence for an extra thrill. She tried to shake off the thoughts, turn her mind to anything else.
The ropes at her ankles and around her wrists commanded her attention. She tugged her feet and hands apart, hoping that a stray end of rope might come within the grasp of her fingers and toes. She might not have been as agile or mobile as she once was, but she wasn't going to just sit there and be a victim.
4
The next day, a diminutive woman walked along the high street and entered an electronics shop. She bustled through the aisles, looking frantically at the racks and shelves, hooks and pegs lined with electrical paraphernalia, trying to find the section for phone chargers. After finally arriving at the correct section, she surveyed the numerous options lined up, eventually picking one and making her way to the counter. She approached the young man at the cash register, his eyes fixed on its screen, barely acknowledging that a customer was approaching as he chuckled to himself.
The woman waited patiently for his attention, crows feet perched anxiously at the sides of her exhausted eyes. After a moment of waiting to no response, she placed the phone charger she had taken from the rack on to the counter, causing the clerk to sigh as he proceeded to take a minuscule bluetooth earbud out of his ear.
“Will this work for a Samsung?” she asked.
“Yeah. That’s ninteen-nintey-nine.” said the clerk, his eyes fixed on the register's electronic display.
“For a charger?! What the fuck?” she spat.
Another chuckle from the clerk, which sent quivers of anger through the woman's body.
“That’s what it costs.” he said with a shrug.
“Goddammit...” she said, handing over her card to the bespectacled man.
His eyes shifted briefly from the screen to the card as he placed it in the slot of a keypad, returning his gaze to the screen as he waited for it to beep, confirming it made a connection to the payment service. If he had looked up, he might have noticed the woman's eyes nervously twitching back and forth between him and the CCTV camera installed above the counter, staring down at her with an unblinking onyx eye.
“Shit. Let me have that back.” she said, grabbing the card out of the reader.
She reached into her bag and rummaged around for cash, finding a scrunched-up twenty pound note.
With another sigh, he checked it against the light for a watermark, then ran the payment through and placed it in the register, handing her back a single penny. The woman grabbed the charger before he had a chance to put it in a plastic bag, and walked to the door with a hurried pace.
“You're welcome...” he said, sarcastically, momentarily lifting his eyes to the door before settling them back on the screen.
“Fucking thank you, you fucking dick.” the woman said, as she swung the door open, slamming it behind her.
The clerk was immersed in the screen again, an iPad Mini lying on top of the register's display. He put his earbud back in, giggling to himself at the episode of Adventure Time playing out in front of him.
The woman walked along the high street and stopped, frozen in fear, as a white Tesla Model S pulled up on the opposite side of the road. She turned around sharply, and swiftly made her way back along the road, eventually taking the first corner to get out of sight of the driver as she got out of the car.
She looked over her shoulder occasionally, to make sure she wasn't noticed or being followed. shuf
fling around the block, going in a big circle, a twenty five minute diversion for what would normally be a ten minute walk. She didn't mind taking the long way home, especially if it meant she wasn't followed.
As she came to her house, she felt in her pockets for the keys and took a moment to catch her breath, wait for the colour to return to her face. She would act normal, even in these times that were far from normal, and she certainly wouldn't tell her husband that she might have been seen.
5
When I woke the next morning, orange post-dawn light was beaming down though thin wisps of clouds hanging over the home Lisa and I had been building together. I had slept on the couch, and woke to find my muscles aching from having spent the night curled up across the two-seater. I couldn't bring myself to go upstairs, to see the bedroom in the state it was left the day before. The last thing I could remember from the night was sitting on the couch, thinking through the few remaining options I had to come up with the money demanded by the kidnappers. My body must have eventually given in to fatigue. Couldn't recall putting my head down to go to sleep, let alone actually making the decision to sleep.
I stretched out my arms, feeling a click in my shoulder blade that didn't feel healthy, but ignored it. There was too much to do. Had to set out on the first step of the vague plan that had come together before I passed out.
Trying to hold in my grief, I made my way up the stairs, piling up the beloved books that had been left lying on the floor of the landing, to make way for the pull-down ladder that led up to the attic. Climbing the steps that Lisa always said were far too rickety and steep for her liking, I found her guitars. Two Stratocasters and a Gibson that she had always said she'd get back to playing, but had been gathering dust for longer than I could remember. I put them on the landing and picked up the books that would likely be the most valuable, then after some deep breaths to prepare for something my gut told me I'd regret, I entered the bedroom and gathered up all the jewellery the two of us owned. Placing all the valuables and books in a black leather holdall that cost a couple of hundred when we bought it from a boutique by Green Park, I struggled with it and the guitars down the stairs, and added my laptop from the study to the pile of swag, proceeding to put everything in the back of the car.