Drift Stumble Fall

by M. Jonathan Lee

  I have to accept that there is no positive answer to my question. I have never heard the answer ‘superb’ or ‘exceptional’ or ‘outstanding’. ‘Not bad’ is a good result as far as I’m concerned. It’s a hibernating bear answer. And it looks like we are not going anywhere today.

  I sip my tea and watch her run warm water through her fingers. Her pyjama bottoms have shrunk a little since she bought them in the summer, to the extent that her bottom is currently gnawing on them. It’s as if she can read my mind, because at that moment her right hand comes down and she extracts them. Her hand leaves a wet patch.

  “So, what are you up to today?” I ask.

  She turns toward me. “Nothing,” she says. “I’m tired.”

  “Thought you’d want to build a snowman.”

  She breathes in through her nose, a slight laugh with a hint of a sneer. “You’ll not get me out there,” she says, pulling up the Roman blind. The snow continues to fall at pace and I am suddenly compelled to go back out into the garden.

  “Cleared the drive,” I say. “It’ll be covered again soon.” “Yeah, probably.”

  “Bit pointless then.” “I suppose.”

  She’s on her tiptoes, wiping condensation off the window with her pyjama sleeve. Her arse takes another bite from her pyjama bottoms. She’s peering at something through the window.

  “Did you do that?” she says. “What?”

  “The snowman?”

  “Nope. Hannah built it.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “She did. Seriously.”

  “And put the carrot on?” she says, turning to me. I push myself up from the table and walk over to the window. “No way!” I chuckle, peering at the carrot, which is about a foot too low for where a nose should be. It points up to the sky.

  The snowman is happy. “Jesus, Rich. Grow up.” “It wasn’t me,” I protest.

  Lisa is about to speak again when her face suddenly drops. The scream that comes from the lounge is guttural. Like a last breath. Like somebody is standing on somebody’s throat.

  We both rush into the lounge and I find that my instincts were right. Hannah is the throat-stander, Oscar lies beneath on the floor. His face has turned a light shade of purple. Lisa runs over and grabs Hannah’s wrist and pulls her toward the sofa. Hannah begins screaming. Oscar stays where he is, seemingly paralysed from his ordeal.

  And then he begins.

  He’s angry and his cries are ear-splitting. He is repeating something about a blue crayon. It’s hard to make out his words. Cliff hops down from the sofa and quietly leaves the room. I desperately want to follow him. Hannah screams back. Louder, more aggressive.

  The noise is increasing from both sides. Neither is listening to the other. There is something about a crayon, and Oscar points to the gap behind the arm of the sofa. To the place where, I see, we appear to have acquired a mural of a beach scene scrawled in crayon. I can vaguely make out sunbeds, oversized people on the sand and what I believe is a red beach ball. The ocean needs completing.

  My eye catches Lisa’s and she follows my line of vision. And then it’s her turn to shout.

  CHAPTER_FOURTEEN

  And so I sink beneath the surface.

  I turn the hot tap with my big toe. I’ve found that if I stretch my big toe backwards and my second toe forwards, it brings on instant cramp in my foot. My toes seem to freeze and I can’t move them at all. The cramp brings with it a tight pain which is very satisfying.

  My toes return to normal and I pull my feet under the surface of the water. From where I am lying, I can see the snow fall outside through the window to my left. It seems to have slowed down.

  We are fortunate to have a large bathroom. It’s actually oversized if anything and is the largest room on the second floor. It’s much larger than the master bedroom and is second only to the attic. It used to be even larger, but the toilet was separated from the bathroom and now this enormous room features only a sink and the bath in which I lie.

  There is also a large pine cabinet in the bathroom. It’s the type that you would see in a country kitchen, with plates on show, stacked in rows. We don’t have any plates on ours (there didn’t seem much point in a bathroom) but we do have a multitude of shampoos, conditioners, shower gels, face creams, hand creams, bubble baths. They all sit on the surface of the cabinet alongside a small portable CD player. My lifeblood.

  The CD player spins, the music just loud enough to drown out any noise from the rest of the house. I wait for the current song to finish and take advantage of the gap between the songs to listen intently for Lisa, the children. All seems to be quiet.

  I close my eyes and listen to the next song begin. Bruce Springsteen is certainly selling me Nebraska as a holiday destination. For a moment, I am relaxed.

  I hate baths.

  Saying that, though, I usually bathe eight or nine times a week.

  It is purely a form of escape. It is the only way that I can remove myself from the rest of my life without being questioned in any way. Plus, the bathroom is the only place in the house that it is reasonable to lock yourself in. We don’t have this benefit in any other place in the house. I have often thought that it would be great to have locks on all doors, and if you didn’t want to be disturbed, you could simply click the lock. I once mentioned it to Lisa but she seemed less than impressed. I used to go out for a drive to escape. I’d usually have an excuse prepared for why I had to go to the shop at that exact moment. Cigarettes was the best excuse, because as an addiction Lisa couldn’t deny me needing to go, like, right now. Often, I didn’t need any cigarettes; I had packets and packets of them in my glove compartment. It was just a way of getting out. Just for a bit.

  That worked pretty well until Lisa fell pregnant with Hannah and she told me directly that I was not going to hold my child unless I stopped smoking. She didn’t even want the smell of smoke transferring from my clothes to our child. So I stopped, and my means of escape disappeared, only to be replaced by a never-ending urge to smoke again.

  I spent a few years persuading myself that as a new father I shouldn’t need to escape. Who would wish to escape having everything they ever wanted? Not me. No, I wanted to witness everything. First proper laugh, first word (‘pliish’), first steps. And so I did. But always with one eye on the door.

  Nothing seemed to be as magical as everyone else made it out to be. I wasn’t sure whether it was something to do with my daughter. Maybe she wasn’t as good as other people’s children. Maybe her first steps weren’t as good as those of the other children at nursery. Their parents cooed and waxed lyrical about every move their kids made. I didn’t quite get it. Lisa, though, did the same. I watched as she shared stories of Hannah’s achievements. And I realised then that Hannah wasn’t faulty. It was me.

  I tried my best to enjoy my surroundings, and to be fair, it wasn’t all bad. We had nice days out at the park or the zoo. The usual stuff. I did still manage to escape from time to time using the urgent visit to the shop as my excuse. Toilet rolls worked best. But as Hannah got older, she insisted that she travel with me. Lisa agreed it was a good idea. And so my escape drives were thwarted because part of the reason I needed to get away travelled alongside me. It was like a drug addict leaving town with his dealer in the car.

  After Oscar was born, my need to escape increased to previously unsurpassed levels. The second time around I hoped it would be different. I tried much harder to enjoy the historic events. The first steps, the first word (‘Dad’ this time), the laughs. But a large balloon would inflate inside me, and I feared that if I didn’t get out of the room right at that moment it would burst, scattering my organs and skin across the ceiling like some grisly firework party. I had no means of escape. Nowhere to go.

  And that’s when I discovered baths.

  I slide my body down the bath and submerge my head completely beneath the water. I stay under, vaguely aware of a mouth organ hidden somewhere behind the swishing and swirling of the water in my
eardrums. I wait there until I feel that I could drown and then return to the oxygen above. I gasp and splutter, pulling air back into my lungs.

  I lie back in the bath and repeat the usual routine. My exposed knees are cold. The taps are on. My feet are burning. The water is too hot at that end of the bath. I pull myself further up the bath. My shoulders are cold. I turn off the taps and slide back down. I’m hot. I’m sweating. It’s uncomfortable in here.

  Then the song describes the lunar landscape of the American Midwest and I am captivated. My thoughts turn to the atlas and I picture the United States. The song refers to a state right in the middle of America. In the heartland. Endless options whichever direction you choose to take. Nebraska is my hall. A place you can get to from anywhere and leave to anywhere.

  A place where you can be alone.

  As I cross the landing, clothed in just my towel, I don’t hear any sound from downstairs. Right on cue, the floorboard creaks beneath my foot and I hope that the children don’t realise that I’ve left the relative safety of the bathroom. Usually, if they hear me they come running upstairs and my life here begins again. Immediately. With no warning.

  I close the bedroom door quietly behind me. I’m a little out of breath and I sit on the edge of the bed, panting. I feel slightly dizzy; I think it’s something to do with the heat of the bath. I listen intently and can hear no sounds at all from the house. I wonder for a second whether Lisa has taken the children out somewhere, but the heaviness of the snow outside suggests not. The digital clock radio tells me it’s just after three, and I suspect that Oscar is having an afternoon nap. Probably joined by Lisa. I lean back on the bed, my feet touching the floor.

  As usual, I’ll stay here until I hear voices approaching and then I’ll get up and dressed. I breathe quietly so as not to alert anyone to my availability. I lie entirely still so as not to make any accidental sounds. And here I will stay.

  Hiding.

  Until they come to find me.

  CHAPTER_FIFTEEN

  So, if it’s okay with you, can I be him?

  It’s twenty past four when I finally hear a sound downstairs. It’s Hannah. She’s laughing. I’ve been staring at the light fitting for nearly an hour and a half.

  I pull myself up into a sitting position and remove my towel, then I grab my pyjama bottoms from beneath my pillow and pull them on. The streetlights are beginning to flicker into life outside, and I stand and go over to close the curtains.

  I notice that the curtains are already closed in the house across the road. For once, Bill isn’t there. The lights are on and I can feel the warmth of the glow that creeps out around the edges of the curtains, framing the window like a picture. I wonder what is happening in the quietness of their house. I suspect that they are reading or watching a programme about nature together.

  I somehow remember Lisa telling me that they haven’t got any children, although I’m sure they have a son, a man who arrives almost daily to see them. I’ve never seen any grandchildren, though, and I assume that aside from his daily visits, the house is permanently quiet. It sounds idyllic to me. The freedom of being able to do what they want whenever they want acts as a magnet to me, pulling me in. Wishing I was Bill, wishing I had his life. His warmth. His peace. His consistency. The feeling that every day is steady. Emotions that never waver from the constant. No binary existence for him. As I hear Hannah’s footsteps come up the stairs, I conclude that if I could click my fingers right this moment and have Bill’s life instead, I would. I don’t mind trading forty years of my life to be him. I would take the tranquillity of their life, a lifetime of responsibilities behind them. Just them now. And then I realise that they have their own private Nebraska right there in front of my eyes.

  “Daaa-aaad?” says Hannah as she pushes the bedroom door open. It’s that long, enquiring tone, the I’m-about-to-ask-you- to-do-something-for-me voice.

  It’s enough for me to decide right at that moment that I have to leave.

  CHAPTER_SIXTEEN

  Right, I mean it, I’m not messing about. Seriously, I’m not.

  The rest of the afternoon passes without incident. Hannah and I go outside to clear the snow from the drive for a second time. Lisa’s parents telephoned to say that they wouldn’t come if the drive wasn’t clear. It seemed like the perfect opportunity for me to take a tumble down the stairs and fake a spinal injury, but I stopped myself. I thought Lisa would see through it.

  Oscar has spent the day in front of the television. After tea, Lisa takes both children upstairs and baths them before preparing them for bed. Oscar climbs into bed, and I lie alongside him. He approves the book that I have selected and I begin reading.

  At the end of certain sentences, I stop reading and let Oscar fill in the blanks. Today, my pause is left hanging. There is silence in the air. I notice Oscar is struggling to keep his eyes open, so I continue reading. He is obviously too tired to join in today.

  I begin to miss out words and skip sentences, hoping to get to the end of the story quicker, but in half-somnolence Oscar somehow notices, so I am forced to begin the book again.

  As I finally reach the last page (this time having truly read every word), I hear a light snore and close the book. I shuffle off the bed and push the button on his lamp so the room is lit only by the night light across the room. His face and hair are lit in gold, and I stroke his cheek, noticing that the bump on his head never grew to any size. I watch him for a second or two longer, wondering whether his dream of Banksy or defacing some other property has yet begun. I picture him in his dream, wandering the palaces of Europe armed with his crayons, scrawling on sixteenth-century furniture.

  As I pull his bedroom door closed, I am greeted on the landing by Hannah. She smiles.

  “Is he asleep?” she says.

  I nod and she smiles again. I can tell that she feels grown up that she is still awake. On a Saturday, we usually let Hannah stay up a little later and watch whatever the television channels churn out as entertainment. I have no doubt tonight will be yet another talent contest, or a bunch of extras from English soap operas being covered in all manner of reptiles and insects in a hole somewhere in the Australian outback. Hannah makes her way downstairs and I follow, watching her ponytail drip water down the back of her nightie. It looks like she’s just finished a brutal workout at the gym.

  We go into the lounge and turn on the television, and Hannah snuggles up on the sofa alongside Cliff. I close the curtains and light the candles on the mantelpiece. Then I go into the kitchen and fetch a glass of banana milk and a small plate of Jaffa cakes for Hannah. I place them on the coffee table and she smiles at me. I remove a bottle of beer from my back pocket, unscrew the top and sit down in my chair.

  Lisa arrives with a large glass of white wine and sits down next to Hannah. We all face the television. The adverts play to the room.

  “Is Oscar asleep?” Lisa says without turning to me.

  Why would you buy any other car?

  “Yeah, he was falling asleep while I was reading,” I say to the side of her face.

  She nods as if that was the answer she expected. “He’ll be tired out,” she says, somewhat obviously. “Yeah,” I say, “he’s had a long day.”

  New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc wine, now three for only ten pounds.

  “Hmm. Are you tired, Hannah?” she says.

  Hannah doesn’t answer. I doubt she heard the question. Her head moves up and down with Cliff’s breathing.

  Lisa shrugs and then turns to me. “You had a good day?” “Yeah, it’s been alright.”

  “Good.”

  Over ten thousand top movies on demand at your fingertips. “Loved the snow,” I add. Her head begins to move very slowly towards the television. She nods and a brief smile flashes across her face. I can tell I’ve lost her attention.

  At only seven ninety-nine a month.

  “Can’t believe it’s…” I notice she nods again. “…still coming down.”

  Available to watch
in three separate rooms. For a limited time.

  “I’m thinking about leaving the country,” I say. There’s no risk here. I know she isn’t listening.

  Her brow furrows and she holds her finger up to pause my speech.

  Set up your account now, and watch films instantly.

  She opens her mouth and no sound comes out. She’s still listening.

  Just log on to –

  “We should get that, Rich. Can we afford it?” she says, turning to me.

  “Er, yeah, I suppose.”

  “Cool. Can you set it up tonight so we can pick a film?” “Er, yeah. I’ll just have to check that the broadband is –”

  She turns away again. “Shh,” she says, pointing to the television, “it’s starting.”

  I pick up my phone and search for a map of the USA. Then I remember that the atlas is on the floor next to me, so I pick it up. It opens straight to America. I leaf back through the pages to where there is a useful guide that describes the demographics and geography of each of the states. I take a gulp of my beer and begin to read.

  From time to time Hannah giggles as various acts take to the stage eager to show off their talents to the judges. I notice a dance group and a magician. I read about the vast plains of Nebraska, the violent thunderstorms in springtime, the hot, humid summers and the bitterly cold winters. I read that the capital is Omaha, that the official population of the whole state is less than two million yet it is nearly twice the size of England. Each word seems to draw me in. Like magic pulling me into the atlas, transporting me thousands of miles away.

  Hannah screams excitedly. It makes me jump. I look over at her; she is staring at the television screen, her eyes wide. She’s out of breath. “That was brilliant,” she gasps.

  “Wasn’t it?” says Lisa. “I thought he was going to fall.” “So did I,” replies Hannah. “Did you, Dad?”