Closure

by Jacob Ross

  Padma nudges her sunglasses onto her forehead as she approaches the clinic.

  It irks her – letting her standards slip. She and Toby have been slipping for a while now. In nine months and sixteen days she will be thirty-four. She will drop the job, drop Toby too; go somewhere else; do something more rewarding. She’s had enough of the city smugness, the arrogance and the ugliness underneath. She knows she’s part of it, has been for the past fifteen years… the screwing around, the coking up…

  But maybe today is just a bad day. On Monday morning she’ll be kicking ass again.

  Alternating light-blue and cream walls. Two large windows. A marl-blue, three-seater settee. Two matching armchairs. Three sterilised pastel-green blankets on the day beds, one against each wall. Each cubicle has a door leading to the operation room. A polished coffee table displays women’s health leaflets, helpline cards, antibacterial gel and a used-up tube of pink lip-gloss. New-smelling blue carpet. The long landscape photograph of the Peak District echoes the cloudy sky through the windows at the back of the clinic. Tea bags, sachets of instant coffee, stacked plastic cups and a silver kettle sit on a small table in the far right corner of the room. Tina, Ornella and Padma avoid each other’s eyes.

  Tina’s legs swing over the armrest of the wooden armchair. She is staring out of the window. Her black earphones sit on her blue high-fringed hair. She opens her coke, guzzles half the bottle.

  Ornella sits upright on the settee, a pillow at her back, reading glasses resting on a thick blue book with gold lettering on the spine. She is mouthing words, looking up occasionally.

  Padma leafs through a Hello magazine, then dumps it on the table. She leans back in the cushioned armchair and crosses one Kurt Geiger boot over the other. She really could do with a line.

  She stares at Ornella with assessing eyes, then swings around to face her. “What are you reading?”

  Ornella ignores her.

  Padma prods again. “You’re praying, aren’t you?”

  Ornella’s lips stop moving.

  “Don’t you think it’s a little late? You can’t un-pregnant yourself, you know.”

  Ornella rests her gaze on Padma. Says in a deep unhurried voice, “My name is Ornella Philips.”

  Padma sits back. Ornella holds her gaze, unsmiling.

  “I’m er, Padma. Padma Desai.”

  “My praying bothers you?”

  Padma twists her silver ring, pulls down the corners of her mouth. “Reminds me of my mother. Probably still prays every morning.”

  “I see.” Ornella shrugs. “It’s strengthening. Especially in times like these.”

  “Well, I prefer being practical. I…”

  “You are made of stone, I guess?” Ornella raises her eyebrows.

  “Well, people get all gushy in situations like these, I mean irrational, you know?”

  Padma pushes herself off the chair, a rush of heat simmering under her skin. She walks over to the table by the window. “Would you like some tea?”

  “White, four sugars. Thanks. I have five children and can’t afford another.”

  It’s a lie that slips out too easily for Ornella’s liking.

  Padma pours hot water into the cups. “You do it and it’s done. That’s all there is to it. That’s the way I see it.”

  Ornella says nothing. Padma hands her the sweetened tea. “I don’t let guilt control me like these religious escapists who…”

  “Were you raised religious?” Ornella enquires quietly.

  “Me? Uhm. Kind of. I don’t practice any more. My mother, I mean… we are Hindu… she probably still prays for me everyday. Me, the lost one.” Padma pushes her ring down into the soft web between her fingers. They sip in silence. Fragments of guitar music escape Tina’s earphones.

  Ornella looks at her. “And so… you’re here.”

  “I really ought to have known better. I was…”

  “Drunk?”

  “I don’t drink.”

  “Drugs?” Ornella’s directness unnerves Padma.

  “A little.” Padma finds she lies too easily. “It wasn’t safe to drive and it was late. So we went back to his. And you know how it is.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Mm! I forgot you’re holy.”

  “Adventist, actually. Seventh Day.”

  “Amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it? We are getting rid of what’s inside us. Isn’t that it? Abort and go. Wonder what your adventurer friends would call you?”

  “Stop it.”

  But Padma is unrelenting. “I see sluts everyday: the bosses, the little worker bees, me; we all sell ourselves to Mammon. We do.” Padma gets up suddenly and walks to the toilet. She is there for a while, then returns smiling.

  Tina’s mobile vibrates. She yanks it out of her yellow skinnies and grins at Sherbet’s face. Sherbert’s sticking out her studded tongue.

  “Hey, Sherby. Yeah, was just thinking about you too. Alright. No, not nervous. Anytime now. I wish they’d hurry up. It’s past the hour. I was just listening to my songs for the next gig. It will be mega. You gonna pick me up? What now? But I haven’t had it yet… Sherby. Sherby. Sherbs! I am not listening to this again. Just get off my tits, will ya… What! Scared? You’re scared! Of what? I don’t need more drama in my life.” Tina makes a mental note to keep this as a song title.

  “Sherby, Babes, I will be fine. Don’t fizz, ok? What? It’s got nothing to do with Cosmos! Hang on a minute. Hang on, hang on! What you mean you think he knows? What’s he been saying? What? Sherbet! YOU DIDN’T! Hello? You’re breaking up. I can’t hear you. Hello? Shit.”

  Tina’s tries to call back but gets an engaged tone.

  Then her phone rings again – the film music from Jaws. Tina stares at the screen for a while, swipes it.

  “Yeaaahh, Cosmos, what you want? ’Course, I’m fine.” She drums her fingers on her thigh.

  “Well that didn’t bother you when you fucked off during the interval… So what if I threw up; it’s not the first time, is it? One vodka too many… I’m with Sherby. Alright with you?… What you mean I’m lying… So what. You’re watching me now? Stalker! … None of yours where I am, who I’m with, what and how I do it. GET IT?… ’Course I’ll do the gig. And you better not fuck off again, otherwise you can stay fucked off… ’Course I mean it. I don’t need more drama in my life.” Tina sees this as a definite sign that she must write this song. She shuts off the phone, swearing under her breath. She thinks of calling Sherbert back, but changes her mind when a nurse walks into the room.

  “Ms Tina Cohen.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Would you please get yourself ready and sign the consent form? I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

  “Okay.”

  Tina speed dials. “Sherby? Yeah I am on. In ten minutes. Yeah he’s bloody stalking me. Just keep your mouth shut, OK? Your brother is a perv. Sorry. Didn’t mean it like that. Thanks, Sherby babe. Course I’ll be alright. Stop fizzing. Yeah in two hours. Love ya. Mega.”

  Tina goes to her daybed, draws the curtain and sits down. She’s glad Sherbet called. Fact is she really needed it. She feels nauseous again. She takes an almighty gulp from her coke, closes it and chucks it on the bed. She takes a deep breath and changes into the hospital gown, revealing a tribal pattern around her ankles, her stage name “TinaRUN!” on her inner thigh and a scorpion with raised tail under her navel. She takes the consent form and signs it without reading.

  Tina hears a soft knock, and the nurse enquires from behind the door, “Ms Cohen, are you ready?”

  Tina walks from her daybed, opens the door and enters the operating room.

  Padma and Ornella go still for a moment.

  Ornella takes out her rescue drops, opens the bottle and downs the contents in one gulp. She feels empty and is still shaking.

  “Ornella, sorry about my sarcasm. I…”

  “It’s not that, Padma. It’s, it’s…”

  “What? That your husband doesn’t know?” />
  “He doesn’t.”

  “So? He won’t be the first.”

  “It’s… it’s not that.”

  “What is it, Ornella. You haven’t been raped, have you?”

  “No-no-no! Thank goodness, not that.”

  “Come on tell me. Your God won’t judge you.”

  Ornella is surprised by Padma’s words.

  “Can’t you work it out with your husband? He may be delighted. You managed so far with five kids…”

  “No Padma, he’ll be hurt.”

  “Excuse my being thick, but are your children not his?”

  “Of course they are. But since his illness… it’s been tough. The last three years have aged us.”

  Ornella looks directly at Padma and Padma reads her.

  “Oh sweet Lakshmi and Krishna in one! You had an affair! You got a lover? She’s got a lover! A looover!” Padma softly sings and shakes her bangles Bollywood style. “You are deep. Check you, Mrs Seven Days.”

  “I was at the end of my strength.” Ornella looks away.

  “And needed a really good shag. So you DO know.”

  “I don’t know how I can face him. I betrayed…”

  “No, Ornella,” Padma breaks in. “You were exhausted and needed support. Who would punish you for that?”

  Padma gets up and sits beside Ornella. She places her arms around Ornella’s big shoulders.

  “You are kind…”

  Ornella and Padma are still leaning into each other when they hear a door open.

  “Mrs Ornella Philips?” The nurse stands in front her. Ornella looks up fearfully and sighs.

  “Please get yourself ready and sign…”

  “Sorry I can’t. I just can’t.”

  “Mrs Philips, no one is forcing you. You can change your mind.”

  “Of course, I didn’t mean to… I need… I’ll just…”

  “Mrs Philips you have plenty of time to think it over… Ms Padma Desai?”

  “Here.” Padma responds promptly.

  The nurse looks at her. “In ten minutes?”

  “I’ll be ready.” As Padma gets up, the ring she’d loosened earlier drops onto the floor. She picks it up and slips it on her finger. She draws the curtain and undresses. She reads the consent form, signs and dates it. For some unexpected reason she thinks of her mother. They’ve not spoken for almost three years.

  Padma is greeted by two masked faces in surgical gear.

  “Please make yourself comfortable.” A male voice points to the reclining bed. “We will give you a general anaesthetic and you’ll just count backwards from twenty.”

  Padma lies back, her bony body settling into the moulded plastic curves. She has been here before on a chair like this, doing the practical thing. It felt right then. It doesn’t now.

  Padma lifts her legs and pushes her body out of the chair. “I’ve changed my mind,” she says.

  The female doctor takes off her mask. She nods at Padma. “It’s alright, Ms Desai. It’s alright. If you are sure?”

  “Yes I am. I am. I am.” Padma walks into the waiting room and says to Ornella. “I changed my mind.”

  Ornella lies on the same chair now, drifts off, sedated. The operation takes longer then expected. When Ornella comes round, she overhears snatches of conversation “…twins… thorough.”

  Padma is waiting for Ornella. She helps to ease her onto the daybed. Padma hands her a small square of paper. “Call me,” she says. “Please do.”

  Ornella takes the paper between two fingers, looks up at Padma, then slumps into a deep sleep.

  Tina is still in bed. Panda eyes. Glazed over. Hot and sweaty. There are complications. Sherbet’s arrived. She’s holding Tina’s hand. “We’ll give them a good reason why you had to cancel. You’ll pack out the gig even more next time. You’ll rip the roof of the sky.”

  Sherbet cools Tina’s forehead with a cold, wet cloth.

  Ornella sits in Shannon’s car. They speed past miles of glued-together houses; dusk is settling over them. Ornella is staring out the car window, into herself. Next Saturday she’ll be back at church.

  Padma is in the park. She slides out her phone. Her heart bangs in her ears as she dials. A noisy pause. Music and voices in the background.

  “Hailo… kauna hai…” a voice hesitant – her mother’s.

  “Mamiji?”

  “Padma? Apa vastava mem yaha kya hai?” Padma’s mother’s voice is shaky.

  “YES, it’s me, Mummji. Your Padma.”

  “Oha, maim tumhem yada kiyah ki kaise!”

  “Yes me too. I missed you endlessly.”

  LOUISA ADJOA PARKER

  BREAKING GLASS

  So here he is again, like a damn lost puppy with its tail between its legs, his fingers closed around his keys, psyching himself up.

  The green door’s been battered by the sea air and the paint’s peeling off, exposing the faded wood underneath. He’s been meaning to paint the place for ages; give everything a new coat; fresh start.

  Akeem is shaking like an alcoholic. It’s a door – what’s the matter with him? All he has to do is open it and step through.

  She’d thrown him out again last week; rang yesterday saying, I miss you, baby, come home. Yeah, it hasn’t been a full week but it’s still a kind of homecoming.

  He can’t wait to see Josh’s face light up with his wide, toothy smile, or for Danni to throw herself into his arms. These are the things that tear at his heart.

  He opens the door and steps inside. Zoe isn’t in. The house is filthy: takeaway boxes all over the kitchen table, with pizza crusts like badly lipsticked smiles. The overflowing bin stinks of dirty nappies, cigarettes and beer. The ceilings and light fittings are mustard yellow, like the stains on her fingers. He wonders why he’s never noticed this before.

  Akeem runs his hand through his hair; it’s getting too long; practically a full Afro. For years it’s been Zoe who’s cut his hair. Maybe it would be better to ask his mum.

  He runs hot water into the sink over the crusted plates. He pours in too much washing up liquid; bubbles stick to his elbows and he shakes them off irritably. He leaves the plates to soak, empties the bin and fills more black bags with rubbish, tying the tops to stop the seagulls and foxes getting in, although he knows it’s futile. Then he opens all the windows as wide as they can go.

  What is it that brings me back to her every time? It’s not just her pixie face or the way she looks up at him with those wide-spaced green eyes. It isn’t even her tiny waist, so small he can fit his hands around it, and often does. Nor is it the way she rocks against him, hipbones banging against his in the bitter-sweetness of the night, or the way she sucks on his lips, his tongue, his fingers.

  If only he could figure it out, isolate the single thing that binds him to her; smash it to pieces, he’d know how to leave her for good.

  Of course, he still loves the kids to bits. Always will. He could still be a father to the children – her daughter and his son – if he left. He never thought he would be the sort of chap to put up with crap from a bird. Before he met Zoe, he didn’t think he was the type to settle down.

  His mum had always said that a woman should stay thin if she wanted to get a man and keep him. Went on and on about it as though it was a religion. Some of this must have seeped into his brain because when he’d started hunting round his seaside town for a girl he wanted to sleep with more than once, his checklist had been:

  1. Pretty.

  2. Thin.

  3. Good in bed.

  4. A Good Laugh.

  Zoe was all of those, with blonde hair that shone like gold threads in the sunlight and almost reached her waist when she wore it loose. Her skin was a shock of semi-translucent white against his gold-brown.

  Before he met her, there was nothing he liked better than a night out with the lads, bundling into someone’s car and caning it down winding roads to a nightclub, or walking in a pack along the seafront. Those nights had stretched out in fr
ont of him like a motorway, full of possibilities and danger.

  The night he’d met Zoe, the sea was glittering like a sheet of black glass with the white moon hanging over it. She was stumbling along the beach on her own, wearing a cropped T-shirt and jeans, her hair in a high, swinging ponytail.

  When she saw the group of lads she stuck her fingers in her mouth and let out a long wolf-whistle. They’d gathered round her like wasps around a bin. But she went home with him, and it was him she chose to stay with. For a while, he felt truly blessed.

  Later, his mates joked about pussies and how hers whipped him. They’d laugh over a pint whenever he managed to get out for a night, “You’ve changed since you met her, mate; come party with us.”

  But he could never stay out long, worrying about what chaos she’d be causing without him. Zoe blew through her days, and his, like a cold, strong wind.

  Josh – the baby she’d somehow managed to carry in her tiny pelvis – was the reason she’d stopped polluting her body with drugs and drink for two whole years. He’d worried every day that something would tip her over the edge and she’d be off again, wanting to drink and sniff and fuck her sorrows away. But the baby was born in one piece, not addicted to anything other than the breast-milk she fed him. Zoe looked beautiful in those moments, their child in her arms, his hands opening and closing like a sea-creature. Akeem’s heart would flip over when he saw his son’s spiky lashes, jet-black like his own, resting on the perfect curve of his cheek.

  In the first few months he’d watch over the boy for hours, making sure his little rounded belly was rising and falling.

  “The baby’s fine, Akeem,” she’d say. “It isn’t going nowhere. Come downstairs and roll a spliff.”

  “Why do you do it, Zo?” he often asked. “Don’t you want something better? Something more?”

  “More than what? What else is there to do in this shitty town apart from cleaning the car every Sunday or watching soaps?”