The Enumerations

by Máire Fisher

  He has no choice but to obey, to do as the Dark instructs.

  168.

  Day 59 / 02:33

  Dreams of running, balancing, keeping time, those are getting easier to talk to Ms Turner about – but ever since conjuring up fantastical clouds, since opening the door, he’s been having a new dream.

  I told you. Danger is lurking everywhere.

  A thick, sludgy coil edges forward.

  Noah’s standing in the middle of his white room. The scales are in place and his family are at the table, everything as it should be, and then – faster than ever before – in comes the Dark. It’s around his ankles, at his knees, pressing onto his chest, around his neck and into his mouth, nose, eyes, ears.

  He can’t see, smell, hear, taste. He can’t feel anything between his fingers. The senses Ms Turner tells him to rely on are gone; the Dark, deeper than any night, has stolen them.

  There’s no hope of light returning unless … Unless he can make it to the wall.

  But his hands are tied. He can’t reach out. He’s brought to his knees, lower, until he’s crouched in the middle of his room. He cannot tap out for help. He’s panting through his nose, shallow, fast, irregular. If he opens his mouth, the Dark will take all his breath. It’s seeping in through his pores. It’s drowning him.

  A glint of grey, a blink of an eye, and Noah’s sight returns. Rancid breath close to his face and he can smell again. The pressure at his throat eases, claws no longer dig so deep. With a laugh the Dark dissolves and takes with it his white and shining room. No scales waiting to hold his life in balance. No table. No mother, no father, no sister.

  He’s floating in bleak nothingness, asleep, dreaming, battling to wake up.

  The more Ms Turner smiles, tells him they’re gaining ground, slowly but surely, the deeper the dream-time Dark grows. Noah will have to tell her this soon. But now, as his alarm shrills, he wakes, gasping for air, frantic to beat out 5s on every part of his body.

  He fumbles for his senses.

  1.The sheets are soft.

  2.He needs to brush his teeth.

  3.He hears himself gasping.

  4.He forces his eyes open to see his Family Tree, lopsided on the white wall.

  5.He lifts his arm and breathes in the bitter smell of fear.

  One by one he lets his senses fall away until the Family Tree fills his vision. He stares at it and remembers Juliet saying, ‘I’ll help you, Noah, I promise.’ Something to hold on to in the Here and Now.

  That’s all very well, but what about your plan? You’ve enrolled your sister now. Hardly sensible.

  Here and Now, Noah reminds himself. It’s taken him 16 minutes but he’s managed to use Ms Turner’s technique and it’s holding him calm. That’s something, at least.

  169.

  Mum never protected him. Dad didn’t either: Dad died. Gabriel’s pretty sure that’s what happened to him. Dad’s dead and Mum’s gone and Gabriel can’t join them. They thought he was going to die too, but he didn’t. He’s here and he’s alive; thirteen years old, stuck in a children’s home.

  Little Man, he remembers Mum calling him. My Little Man. He didn’t want to be her Little Man, and now all he wants is to be a normal boy. He wants to play with his little sister in a normal house, with a mum and a dad and a room of his own and no chores and no punishments and no one watching his every move. That’s all Gabriel wants.

  170.

  Juliet’s at the breakfast table before Noah. Usually he’s there well before the others, giving him time to make sure his knife and spoon and fork are in place, getting to the front of the queue before the eggs are all messed up and the butter is smeared with marmalade and toast crumbs. She watches him as he walks, measuring his steps.

  There’s something slow about him this morning, as if he’s swimming on the surface of a dream. He joins the short line of people in front of him, slotting into place behind Wandile. Juliet catches his eye and mouths a concerned ‘All right?’ at him. He nods and blinks, almost yawns, still trying to shake himself awake.

  When he finally makes it to the table, Juliet leans across and whispers. ‘I’ve got something to tell you, Noah. It’s important.’

  ‘Okay.’ He nods.

  ‘Now,’ she says, ‘before group.’

  She shuts up then, which is unusual at the best of times. She’s looking at Morné and Sadie, her face serious.

  171.

  Day 60 / 08:15

  Noah should pay Juliet more attention, but he’s more concerned about catching up on the minutes he’s lost oversleeping. He’s promised Ms Turner he’ll try to stop doing this, and it does work, quite a bit of the time. He’s managing to stress less about the odd minute here and there, even (occasionally) the odd 5, but this is a big chunk of time. He’s thrown his timetable out by 18, if not 19, minutes. That’s a lot of recalculating and readjusting to work in if the rest of the day is going to run smoothly.

  As he stands up from the table, Juliet’s at his side. ‘Walk with me, Noah?’

  He looks at his watch. ‘I can’t. Sorry. I’m late.’

  No time for talking, no time to dawdle. Minutes to make up, chores to hurry through before it’s time for exercises. He’ll talk to her at their usual time.

  Things are slipping. You need to put some real time in. Make an effort. Show you really care.

  Noah stops. He should walk with Juliet, he should do what Ms Turner urges – practice a nonchalance he can’t feel as he disregards the jibes and the hectoring. But he can’t. 20 minutes now, 21 if he doesn’t hurry. Too many seconds to ignore.

  172.

  Kate’s in bed, the sheet pulled over her t-shirt and baggy shorts. Cool, easy to sleep in. It’s not like she needs sexy nighties. Their bed has become a place for sleeping, reading, relaxing after the hard day is done.

  Dominic’s next to her, staring up at the ceiling.

  ‘Dom? Are you okay?’ He’s not, she knows, and nor are they, but it’s something to ask, to try to get a little closer to him.

  He pats her thigh absently. ‘I’m fine. Let’s go to sleep.’

  She wishes suddenly, fiercely, that he would leave his palm there, warm on her leg.

  Warm and wanting, yet her mind is wandering, moving closer and closer to thoughts of tomorrow and going to see Noah. And Mr Bill.

  Will he be there? Kate doesn’t know whether to hope that he will be or pray that he won’t. Thoughts of Dominic’s hand, of Mr Bill and his strong body, melt into one. Kate closes her eyes.

  Mr Bill has no place in her life. Noah is the only one who matters. That’s what Kate tells herself as her breathing deepens.

  173.

  It’s three in the morning and Dominic is in his study. Alone for two precious, silent, undisturbed hours.

  The pressure from Noah is growing. An email every other day from his son now, all asking questions. He’s a bright boy. His brain might have been strangely wired in some ways, but the parts of it that function, function well – too well, in fact. The questions his son asks are accurate, pointed, shooting straight to the heart of things.

  ‘There must be records of your birth, at least,’ he wrote in his last email. ‘Like I said, Dad, your id would be a good starting point.’

  Anger rises in Dominic as he reads. Why can’t the boy take no for an answer? Instead, he has to deal with this persistent, relentless nagging, picking away at his past, determined to uncover …

  He leans back in his chair and closes his eyes.

  What? What could his son uncover? And if he did, would it matter now? The past is past. Long gone. Buried. Nobody cares any more. For some people, though, the past is as alive and meaningful as the present. It carries unhealed wounds, as raw and sore as if they had been inflicted yesterday.

  174.

  Day 61 / 18:22

  ‘My dad says these people, you know, the lesbians and gays, the BLTS—’

  ‘LBGT,’ says Willa quietly, putting down their fork. ‘Lesbian, Bisexual, Gay,
Transgender. LBGTQ, if you want to be more specific. There are other terms too. I can direct you to a good website to explain—’

  ‘BLT, LGB – whatever. He says we need to legislate against them, not for them. Stop them infiltrating our society. He says they’re sick and if we don’t do something, the sickness will spread.’

  Noah can’t believe Sadie just said that. Nor can Willa. They’re looking at her in amazement, like she’s a strange creature who should be caged before she bites and the poison spreads.

  She’s slouched forward, her eyes glinting. Sadie isn’t as dumb as she makes herself out to be. Her whining, her ‘poor-me, pity-me’ is deliberate, aimed at making everyone hear, see and reassure her.

  Now, though, she’s taken her attention-seeking to a whole new level.

  Willa’s face is white. ‘Does your father often talk like that?’ they ask.

  Juliet’s furious. ‘Do you have to share all this crap with us, Sadie? I can’t tell you how tired I am of your “My father says” bullshit.’ She picks up her knife. She’s eaten her chicken, and now she uses her knife to separate the bones.

  ‘First your father says that the present government should never have come to power. Then he says that abortion is a crime. But Sadie, when you think about it, is it? Is it really?’ One small bone parts company from another. ‘Imagine how much better this world would be if you hadn’t made it to the nine-month mark.’

  Sadie squawks in protest but Juliet holds up her knife-wielding hand. ‘Let me finish. Ms Turner isn’t here to bitch at, so you can just listen to me.’

  Willa looks over at Juliet. ‘Don’t,’ they say. ‘Please, Juliet, don’t.’ They’ve put a lot of effort into getting ready for supper, their hair styled, a faint blush to their cheeks, their eyes ringed with dark eyeliner. ‘You’ll just make it worse.’

  ‘And if she d-d-d-doesn’t?’ Wandile asks. Juliet’s hand drops of its own accord.

  Wandile who never talks, hasn’t said a word in group since he talked about bullying, looks at Sadie. ‘I f-f-f-eel so s-s-s-s-sorry for you, S-S-Sadie,’ he says.

  ‘Sorry?’ Sadie yelps. ‘Why should you feel sorry for me?’ Then she goes for it. ‘My dad says you shouldn’t even be here. Not in a facility like this. Especially with me. I’m his only daughter, after all.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Wandile. ‘It’s a sh-sh-sh-shame you have him as a f-f-f-father. A great shame.’

  Suddenly Willa laughs. ‘You’re right,’ they say. ‘You’re so right, Wandile. Sadie’s cursed with her father, I’m cursed with mine.’ They pick up their napkin between thumb and forefinger and use the corner of it to wipe the tip of each finger. ‘I suppose quite a few of us are?’

  Noah nods. It’s not like his father’s loving every little thing about him right now.

  ‘My father left when I was seven,’ Simon says. ‘It’s just me and Mom-and-Gran at home now.’

  ‘You mean Mrs Regular-Bowel-Syndrome?’ Juliet asks.

  ‘That’s her,’ Simon says. ‘The one and only.’ He’s smiling. ‘Loosening up’ is what Juliet’s been saying and Noah can see what she means.

  Wandile’s nodding too. His father’s one of those guys who wants his son to be a copy of himself, a perfect mini-me.

  ‘If only your father was a little kinder, Sadie,’ Vuyokazi says. She picks up a crust from her side plate and nibbles, small mouse-sized bites.

  ‘My dad is kind,’ Sadie says. Her voice has lost its little-girl whine. ‘My dad is very kind. He loves me. I’m his precious girl. Just because you don’t have nice fathers, don’t take it out on me. I’ve got the best dad, hey Morné, haven’t I?’

  ‘Have you had enough of your chicken, Vuyokazi?’ Morné asks.

  She nods and slides it onto his plate. Then she looks at Sadie. ‘I don’t think your father is kind,’ she says. ‘Why don’t you ever talk about him in group?’

  ‘I do!’ Sadie yells. ‘I tell you about him all the time. What he thinks, what he says, what he says about me.’

  ‘Yes,’ Vuyokazi nods. ‘But you never tell us what he does.’

  These people. Seriously, how much longer do you have stay here?

  Noah’s head fills with noise for the first time that day. He can’t listen, though he’s trying to hear what Willa’s saying.

  Willa’s being kind, kinder than Sadie deserves. ‘Shame, Sadie—’

  Sadie spits at them, her mouth loose and ugly. ‘What do you mean, “shame”? I don’t want your pity. I don’t want any pity from a screaming faggot. That’s what my dad calls people like you: “screaming faggots”.’

  Willa doesn’t say a word, nor do they drop their head. Sadie’s staring at them and they stare right back, until she looks away. ‘That’s what my dad will say when he comes to see me on Sunday,’ she mutters. ‘What’s that screaming faggot doing here, Sadie? What’s this place coming to?’

  ‘That’s what I’d like to know, Sadie,’ Juliet says, ‘because they sure as shit dropped the bar when they let you in.’

  Do what you need to get out of here. Tell that Turner woman anything you have to. And whatever you do, get away from this table.

  175.

  Maddie worries. She’s tried every way she can to find another clue for Noah to solve the mystery that is Dad, but nothing’s worked. She’ll have to report back to him and Juliet and say she’s failed. Noah will understand, of course he will, but still. She can’t help but mope around the house on a Saturday afternoon, wishing she could be the one to find the Big Clue.

  At first, when she hears the noise, she thinks it’s the radio or the tv, but no, there it is again – her dad’s phone.

  ‘Mom,’ she calls, but of course Mom’s not there. She’s taken the dogs for a walk. Dad’s not home either. He’s at work, had to rush to the office to sort a few things out.

  It’s louder now, more demanding, but Maddie turns away from its persistent “Answer-me! Answer-me!”

  Invasion of privacy, that’s what answering the phone will be. You don’t go digging into your mom’s bag, your dad’s space is his (and Maddie has already invaded that). Answering his phone …

  But what if it’s an emergency? What if he needs something urgently? If only Mom was here, but she’s not, and now it’s ringing again and it sounds frantic …

  Beep = Danger

  Beep = Worry

  Beep = Alarm

  Beep-Beep-Beep = Alarm-alarm-alarm.

  Maddie turns and runs into the office. Her dad’s jacket is hanging off the back of his chair, the light linen vibrating with frustration.

  ‘Answer me! Answer me!’

  So, Maddie does. She reaches into the inside pocket, takes out the phone, slides the green icon across and puts it to her ear.

  ‘Hello,’ she says.

  176.

  Maddie doesn’t know what to do with this information. Who should she tell? If she tells her dad, what will he do? Will he find a way of ducking it? Carry on not telling the truth, not explaining?

  Noah is the one who needs to know. If she tells him, though, what will happen? She could tell her mom, but what then? The air between her parents is as good as ice. They say things like ‘Please pass the butter’ and ‘Don’t forget to call the dentist’, but that’s about it. So how could she possibly tell them that a woman phoned yesterday afternoon and asked to speak to her dad and said his mother – Dad’s mother? – was asking for him and would he be able to get there during the week to see her because she (Dad’s mother!) had been very agitated and seeing him always calmed her down.

  When Maddie had answered the phone and heard a voice talking about her dad and his mother, she’d stumbled and stuttered and said yes, yes, she’d pass on the message, adding sorry, sorry, because the woman sounded so stern, like Dad had behaved really badly in class and only Maddie was there to apologise.

  Her dad, who always said he had no parents, that his parents were dead. Her dad, whose id number Noah wanted her to try and access, so that he had a starting point for
filling in his family tree – the side with no names, no family stories, no ancestry.

  But that wasn’t all. As one relative sprang up on her dad’s side of the tree, another branch sprouted. The stern voice at the end of the phone had asked if Mr Groome could please come to see his mother again, and then added, ‘Her daughter says she’ll be here, as usual.’

  ‘Her daughter?’ Maddie had said. The old lady’s daughter … Dad has a sister?

  ‘Yes,’ said the voice. ‘Mrs Davenport. She’ll be here tomorrow, so if Mr Groome can make it too, that would be most satisfactory. Now be sure to pass on the message, dear.’

  ‘I will,’ said Maddie.

  So, yes. Two new relatives. Not new buds settling gently into place, but – wham! – solid, fully grown branches, leaving Maddie standing in the office, phone in her hand, wondering what to do, and who to tell.

  She’s confused, and then she’s angry. Incredibly angry. All those years of feeling sorry for her dad because he had no one. All the times Noah asked for his help, for details for his family tree. Noah’s frustration at not being able to complete his project. And her father, knowing what that is like for Noah. Like a tooth with a cavity that’s become infected, which your tongue can’t stop worrying at until you get to dentist and he cleans it out, fixes it up. That’s what their father has done. Left Noah with a jagged, aching hole.

  Who else might be waiting, peering out from behind the leaves? In Maddie’s mind, her father starts to grow roots in the soil, branches above his head. And, above him and next to him a mother and sister she can tell Noah about.

  Maddie and Noah have a second grandmother. They have another aunt. The problem now is working out how to meet them. Maddie knows that they will though, and soon. Noah will think of something, she tells herself.

  She stares at the phone, at the digits glowing on the screen. And then she realises … the answer is, quite literally, staring her in the face: The number of the place where Dad’s supposed to be going … to visit his mother.