by Hiba Basit
‘One,’ she starts to whisper. ‘Two.’ Annette looks down and watches this strange girl gazing up at her, with suddenly more hope in her eyes than she’s seen before.
David locates a table with a summer umbrella and sits down. A brilliant warm breeze blows around him and he unclips the top buttons of his shirt to get some air around his collarbone. In the distance, he notices Annette walking near the water. Her feet and legs vanish beneath the sand, only to rise up again, unchanged, whilst the pebbled sand dissolves back into the salty seawater. She has a long white work dress on, which attaches itself to her body.
‘I’ve ordered for both of us,’ he says, giving her a kiss. ‘Grilled chicken with black bean cobb salad.’
‘Mm, sounds delicious!’ The waiter places a large bottle of spring water on the table. David watches her as he unclasps the lid. Handing her a glass, he touches her face and rubs his thumb around the bottom of her eyes.
‘You look tired. What happened tonight?’ She gently removes his hand from her face, keeping hold of it on the table, next to her glass. Though she smiles at him, he senses her frustration.
‘Mary asked for some leave and I forgot to organise a substitution for her.’ Images of Alex crumpled against the ward corridor wall flash in her mind and the guilt comes rushing back.
‘Why didn’t you find a substitute tonight?’
‘That’s the funniest part,’ she says, not looking amused. ‘There was no auxiliary staff to fill her place. It means I need to go back tonight.’
‘That’s odd,’ David comments after a while.
‘What is?’ Annette asks.
‘If there’s no substitute tonight, can’t they just call someone to come in and do a night shift?’
‘Yeah, but I’m here now so I may as well take over.’
David lifts an eyebrow. ‘Right, even though you don’t have to?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Sounds like you might be getting attached to this girl,’ he comments.
‘Maybe,’ Annette whispers. Her eyes meet David’s, and she can see he’s intrigued and concerned, and that he’s raising a red flag in front of her.
She shifts their glasses to the side as the food arrives. They eat in silence for a while. Cries of seagulls and the far-away sound of the waves mingle together, effortlessly mixing in with the clatter of the pots and pans in the kitchen and the sizzle of the stove.
‘What is it?’ Annette asks, noticing a pensive look in his eyes. As she observes the light-set wrinkles beneath his eyelids, she feels her own eyes fold in. She rests her head in her hands, exhausted by the night’s events.
‘Your hospital could go down in the scaling,’ he says. ‘You should talk to Ellie.’
‘I had a word with her earlier. She should be reorganising the rota right now. I’m still to blame for the lack of a proxy though. I don’t know how it slipped my mind.’
‘What were you doing at the hospital anyway? Don’t you have the afternoon off?’
‘Yeah, I just wanted to finish some reports off.’ David rolls his eyes, which she chooses to ignore. ‘Anyway, so I’m walking out of the office and the girl’s sprawled in the middle of the corridor.’ Annette remembers the small silhouette of Alex. She remembers the tight grip of her small damp hands and the wet patch she’d tried to cover with her blanket.
Once they were in the light, Annette had felt childishly mythical as she sat Alex on the bed and told her she was going to make everything better.
‘What was she doing there?’ David asks, nudging her back into the present.
‘She had a bedtime accident. By the time I got her ready for bed, I knew I’d have to stay with her. I just can’t believe she was left alone today. Someone doing rounds must have realised she didn’t have a nurse with her!’
‘Relax. It’s not like she was on suicide watch or anything.’ Annette shoots him a look. ‘Shit! Oh Annie, that’s bad! It’s lucky nothing happened.’
She agrees, sipping her glass. ‘By the way, I hate to bring this up.’ A grin spreads over her face as she takes another sip of water. ‘You remember how you continued bed-wetting into your teens?’
David, fully alert now, quickly scans the company around him and hushes her.
‘Annie, Dr. Lacrosse is sitting to the left of us. Keep your voice down!’ He can’t help smiling, though, as he hisses at her. She grins back.
‘It’s dark. I doubt he’d notice we’re here. I just want to know how you stopped.’
‘I performed surgery on myself to correct my bladder control,’ he says, pretending to be in a strop.
‘No, really, what kind of preventative measures did you take to control it? What did the doctors advise you to do? What did your parents suggest?’ He racks his brain, trying to remember. She pictures his mind turning into an avid flashback of events from the past. She watches as he narrows his eyes, as if the images are rolling past too quickly for him to recall his thoughts and transfer them into words.
‘Well,’ he says eventually. ‘My parents tried everything: restricting liquids before bedtime, keeping a bright light switched on, bed-wetting alarms, which, by the way, I slept through. What else? Nasal spray, pre-sleep meditation, everything, you name it! But the thing that did the trick was a waterbed. I’m not kidding! A big night-pool coloured waterbed worked, in fact, it cured me overnight. I loved it so much, I didn’t want to ruin it. I’d mentally set a timer in my head and I’d get up, walk to the toilet and wee on my own.’ Annette shakes her head, amused by the anecdote.
‘I’d think a waterbed would want to make you pee more. It’s liquid your sleeping on, after all.’
‘I don’t think it was the liquid I was focusing on. It was more the fact that I felt comfortable when I fell asleep on it. I simply drifted off into a good night’s sleep when I was on it, bathroom light on or not, eight glasses of water drank or not. I felt it was mine to look after, it was under my supervision, and I was in total control.’
She narrows her eyes as a thought strikes her.
‘Has she always wet the bed at night or is this something new?’ he asks.
‘I don’t know. Periodically recurrent, I’m hoping.’
‘Why don’t you conduct a search on nocturnal enuresis? It will give you some tips on prevention.’
‘I’ll try that. I have a fairly good idea of the cause. Bed-wetting is just something that can affect a child’s self-esteem and I don’t need anything more doing that.’
‘Well, if I see you dragging a waterbed from the parking lot into the hospital,’ he says, wiping his fingers on a napkin. ‘I’ll understand you maxed out all other options and, as a last resort, used my ingenious method of resolving bed-wetting by bringing along a bed that’s technically already wet.’
‘Honestly, performing self-conducted surgery suddenly seems like a better idea.’
Dr Lacrosse, making his way past, stops to greet them. David glances at his watch.
‘You should get back. Come on, I’ll walk you.’
As they walk across the beach, David takes Annette’s hand in his. She glances down and notices how soft his grip is compared to Alex’s earlier firm grasp. Unintentionally, the thought makes her pull her hand away.
‘What’s wrong?’ David asks, stopping.
‘Nothing.’
‘What is it?’
She falters. ‘Do you ever feel we’ve had it easy? That we’ve been too lucky?’
‘I think we’ve both worked hard to get what we want.’
‘Why did we work hard and reap the rewards when others don’t?’
A gust of wind blows around their feet, pushing them towards each other. Even next to David, Annette feels a sickening feeling start in the pit of her stomach.
‘I just feel so lucky. Too lucky sometimes!’ She mumbles the last words quickly, a lump forming in her throat.
‘Listen.’ His face is inches away from hers. ‘I don’t know the answer to your question. But your luck is not going to run out, if that�
�s what you’re worried about.’
‘I don’t know. I’ve had this weird feeling, for a while now, that things are about to change.’
‘Annie, you’re one of the most passionately driven and irrefutably selfless women I’ve ever met. You’ve always made your own luck, and so luck will always be with you.’
She smiles and holds onto him as they walk away from the pounding waves. The fat lump lodged in her throat rises and falls and she foolishly thinks she’s about to cry. She buries her head into his chest and lets out a sigh. He holds her close and rests his head on top of hers.
‘Annie, you’re tired from tonight. I’ll run you a bath when you get home in the morning.’
He grabs her into a hug and they walk towards the footpath. Already mentally preparing for her session with Jacob tomorrow afternoon, she rests her head against his and closes her eyes, letting her own instinct and loving husband guide her to where she needs to be.
Chapter Twelve
Jacob looks pale under his blue ocean print shirt. Today, he is refusing to co-operate with anyone, apparently. He sits rigidly on the wooden bench against the wall, head in his hands and his knees crossed. Annette contemplates whether to interact with him or leave him to his own devices for a while.
‘Jacob, are you not feeling well?’ He doesn’t respond, oblivious to her voice. ‘If you’re feeling poorly, we can cancel.’ He finally shakes his head and then turns away from her. Well, this is stepping into new territory, she thinks. Jacob is never silent, he’s a right chatterbox. And, in the next moment, she’s proved right.
‘Do you want to play houses?’ he suggests tentatively.
‘Good idea.’ She walks to the other side of the room with him and sits next to the doll house on the bench. Jacob starts decorating the rooms of the house with finger-sized people and props.
‘This is a newly-installed kitchen,’ he announces, placing the plastic stove upright.
‘That’s nice. What colour is your new kitchen?’
‘Pink.’
‘Did you paint it pink yourself?’
He shrugs timidly. Annette notices his mouth start to twitch, as if he’s got something stuck in his teeth. She changes the topic. ‘Shall I prepare the garden?’
He shrugs again, immersed in flattening the white silk duvet over the bed. He arranges it with meticulous care, taking all the time he needs. She watches him through the window of the doll house and is surprised by his fervent concentration. Looking at him from the side, his eyes are suddenly huge, the pupils exposed and shiny like marbles. They sit above the bottom of his eyelids, jittering in their shells. Jacob’s lips are set in a firm line as his fingers incessantly lift the square of the duvet, smooth it over the bed and then lift and smooth it again, and again, and again. He sways back and forth as he focuses on his rhythmic bed-making hands.
When she is certain that he is going to sway and fall on top of the house, she reaches out and places a hand on his. He instantly stiffens and freezes, the swaying stopped in its tracks. She gently guides his hand away from the house, keeping it in her own. ‘What are you thinking, Jacob?’
He pulls his hand away and walks over to the picture board. Without even examining the contents, he turns towards her and raises his chin in defiance.
‘I’m not on the board,’ he says.
‘That’s right, you’re not. Do you remember what happened when I suggested we take a photo? You got really upset, didn’t you?’ He nods.
‘A picture is permanent.’
She thinks about this. ‘Don’t you like it when something is permanent?’ Jacob stays silent. She gets up and walks over to him. ‘I want to tell you something,’ she says, kneeling down towards him. His hair is parted flawlessly to the side and his eyes twinkle as he eagerly waits to hear what she has to say. ‘I’d really like you to be in a photo with me. It would make me very happy.’
The twinkle in his eye lingers for a second longer and then vanishes. He turns away from her and glances up at the board again. Running his hands over the photos and drawings, he eventually finds his way to her desk and her coffee cup. He traces the words as carefully as he can, making sure to stay within the lines of the bubble writing. For me, he reads. For me. He grabs hold of the mug.
‘One day,’ he whispers, so softly that she thinks she may have heard it in her head. ‘I will be up there, one day,’ he echoes, with his face buried over the mug and his fingers tightening and reddening around it, as if he’s about to shatter its contents and vanish with the shattered red-lettered pieces.
***
Annette decides to leave her car in the hospital car park and walk home. The warmth of the breeze blowing around her is refreshing. Instead of taking the pedestrian route along the sea, she picks a shortcut through the in-roads. She reminisces over how a day that appeared to be going downhill in her session with Jacob actually altered its course near the early hours of the evening. Not only did Abigail recount most of the incident she witnessed at Green Orphanage, she also admitted that she required weekly sessions of therapy in order to become the reputable social worker she once was. Admittance was always one of the key breakthroughs in recovery. Later in the day, she received a call from a social worker working with St Anne’s, informing her of a family who had adopted five children from their department, three of them brothers going into the same family.
She felt excitement as she looked into the family and discovered that they were perfect matches for the children in care. As if the day couldn’t get better, she realised, with a warmth filling her, that one of the adopted kids was Maddie, who had been unduly put into ten different foster homes over the course of eight years, which caused a series of behavioural problems prior to her admittance at St Anne’s.
The Harrisons, who were adopting her, were an amazing family. Never having had the opportunity to have their own children, they were persistent in fostering any child they could share their love with, but Maddie was their first adopted child.
As Annette passes the local college, the sight of Melissa’s eldest daughter, Mali, making her way towards the school exit, distracts her away from her thoughts. Mali catches sight of her as she turns to shut the school gate behind her.
‘Hi,’ Annette calls, sauntering towards her.
‘Hi, Annie!’ Mali stands on her tiptoes to embrace her and then bounces back down. She heaves her bag higher up on her shoulder and smiles broadly, exposing her teeth behind her peach lips. ‘Have you finished work?’ she asks.
‘No. I have to get back in a bit. What after-school activity were you doing?’ Mali looks puzzled for a second.
‘Oh, that,’ she says enthusiastically, nodding to herself. ‘Gymnastics.’
‘Who were you practising with? I didn’t see anyone else come out.’ Annette tries her best not to sound interrogative. Mali turns both of her lips in and rubs them together, as if she’s just applied a coat of lip balm.
‘I stayed back to do a few exercises.’
Annette is not sure what’s going on, but Mali is acting strangely.
‘OK, do you want to grab a soda? I’ve got just enough time,’ Annette says.
‘Sorry, I have to babysit the little rodents again. But I’d love to go shopping with you again!’ She leaps on her tiptoes and kisses Annette before turning to leave.
‘I’ll be around any time you need me,’ Annette calls, but Mali is already walking away from her, in the direction of her home.
***
Santana pulls her jacket tight around her, squeezing it to warm her body up. The cold wind rips through her clothes and hits her stomach, near her ribs, sending shivers scuttling down her spine and forcing pimple-like goosebumps over her arms and shoulders. She curses her choice of attire. No wonder her mother doesn’t drop everything and rush to see her when she falls ill.
She walks adamantly now, dismissing the hail and the ominous grey-black clouds following her steps. It’s only when she nearly slips in her boots on the tilted pavement and in an atte
mpt to save herself, lands in a pile of sick and slushy black water, that she looks up at the sky, considering the abrupt change in weather.
As she passes the local playground, the rusty iron gate swings to and fro, as if undecided whether to let any more visitors inside, considering the sudden twist of events. The slam of metal against metal and the eerie creak of its hinges makes her stop in her tracks and stare in bewilderment. For a moment, she looks as if she’s about to stomp towards the gate and yank it apart from the iron-clad fence. Then, as if she’s changed her mind or remembered something unexpected, she shifts her gaze from the direction of the park, stuffs her hands deep in her pockets and almost runs towards the end of the street. Her heart stomps in her chest, under her corduroy jacket, as she lifts her wet feet, the weight of her soaked shoes slowing her down to a slow-motion heavy tread. Her strands are already a tangle of mess, flying over her face, swirling around her neck, being fed into her mouth. She flips her head around, hearing the distant call of her name.
Through the dirt whirling in the turbulent air and the rubbish upturned and blown in heaps across the earth, Santana slowly locates the whereabouts of her caller. She is about to wave when she catches sight of something in the air and she desperately motions for her uncle to run towards her. She tries to call him over, but he seems preoccupied with something else. His eyes are no longer on Santana, his voice no longer beckoning her.
Santana runs towards him but just as she takes a step forward, she is stunned as a gust of wind pushes her five steps back. She stands still for a moment, swaying with the wind. Then, she tries to move towards her uncle again and manages to take a few more steps across the pavement before she is panting loudly and looking up anxiously to relocate him. The force of the wind is frightening, the recent onset of hail and sleet hitting her in sharp bolts all across her face and hands. Water runs out from her eyes as she shields her face from the atmospheric residual.