Seeing Red

  I guess that everyone has gone to bed as I close the door behind me. The house is dark and quiet. I creep up the stairs with the lights off. It’s not like I don’t know where I’m going, after all. On the landing, I see a blue light flickering under Madeleine’s door. She’s watching TV. Or – more likely – she’s fallen asleep watching TV. We both have a habit of doing that. Like I think I’ve told you before, I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve woken up to find some endlessly risible shopping channel beaming at me.

  My door clicks as I open it, and I’m about to step inside when Madeleine calls out to me as quietly as she can.

  ‘Tom, is that you?’

  I push her door open a little and pop my head inside.

  ‘Sure it’s me. Who were you expecting, Richard Ramirez?’

  She ignores my wise-ass remark.

  ‘Have you got a minute?’

  ‘Sure.’

  I lie on the bed next to her. The room is dark except for the flickering light from the TV, and she’s still dressed in jeans and a tee-shirt. This is very unlike her, so I know that she has something on her mind. Perhaps she’s ready to talk to me about it now.

  For a minute we just lie there while a rerun of Seinfeld plays out on the screen, but neither of us is in the mood to laugh.

  ‘Tom…’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I’m in trouble.’

  Next thing you know, she’s crying and she’s turned to me and her arms are around me so that all I can do is hold her and her face is buried in my shoulder and she’s sobbing fit to break your heart. All I can do is stroke her hair and try to comfort her. There’s no point saying anything because she’s sobbing so much she can’t listen. I have to let her get the worst of it out of her system. But I’m sick with worry now because I’ve never seen Madeleine like this. I realise that I’m not even worrying about Sylvia any more because Madeleine is right here and, well… and well this is my Madeleine and she needs me to focus on her.

  She can’t sob with that kind of intensity forever and eventually it subsides. And we’re just lying together and I’m still holding her and stroking her hair and old Seinfeld is still making sarcastic wisecracks with his dumb-ass friends on the TV.

  ‘So come on then; tell me what’s happened that’s so bad.’

  She pulls herself away from me and she’s looking at me. She’s holding me with her eyes like Sylvia had done earlier and she’s very serious.

  ‘Oh Tom, I don’t know what to do.’

  She starts to cry again so that I can see the sparkling tears run down her cheeks but she’s not sobbing this time. I reach across to wipe the tears from her face with the back of my fingers.

  ‘Hey, what can be so bad? It can’t be anything that money can’t fix can it?’

  I’m trying to make a joke, get her to lighten up a little so that she can open up and tell me what’s going on. But really, it’s not such a stupid thing to say. We certainly do have plenty of money and there are plenty of problems that money can fix. It’s unfair, I know, but it’s true. It really is. We can’t help being the children of wealthy parents.

  ‘Tom… I’m pregnant.’

  I’m not kidding; she just comes out and says it. Just like that. But what can I say? I mean, part of me is glad that it’s just that and nothing worse. At least she’s not in trouble with the law or anything. All the same, I’m numb with shock.

  ‘Does Mom know?’

  This is a really stupid question because I can tell that she hasn’t told Mom, but I have to say something.

  ‘Christ no! I can’t tell her. I can’t tell anyone. I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘You’re going to have to tell her. You’re going to need help, you’re going to need someone…’

  ‘I can’t tell her! She thinks I’m going to college next year. It’s all she ever talks about. She’ll go wild.’

  Well, actually, while I’m still in shock, I’m rational enough to know that Mom is unlikely to wig out over this. But I can imagine all the preaching that Madeleine is going to have to endure. Mom can make her disappointment last for a long, long time.

  ‘Does David know? How does he feel about it?’

  Yes, of course I’m assuming that David is the father; my sister is no cheap slut. And at this point I’m realising that this is all too much to burden a sixteen year-old boy with, so I want someone else to be there for Madeleine. But when I look at her, the tears are running again.

  ‘David won’t talk to me. He won’t even take my calls.’

  Well, David is a bastard. I can come to instant judgements like that. And more especially where my sister is concerned.

  ‘But he has to take responsibility with you. He’s in this with you.’

  I feel like going round to his house right now and making a scene, I swear to God that I do.

  ‘He said that he’s too young to have his life ruined.’

  Well I know that David’s family have big plans for him and everything – it’s a burden that the children of wealthy families have to bear, as Madeleine and I know only too well. But just who does this asshole think he is? This is my sister!

  This is a lot to throw on my plate and I can feel myself growing up prematurely as the tears roll down Madeleine’s cheeks. I know that I can’t let my anger show because it just won’t help her.

  ‘Do you want to keep the baby?’

  This is a harsh question to ask at this point, but I don’t know what else to say.

  ‘God no. I can’t. Oh Tom, I can’t, I can’t.’

  She’s holding me and sobbing again. So I let her sob it all away, until after a while she’s calm again.

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Will you come with me?

  I’m suddenly cold because I know exactly what she’s talking about.

  ‘Come with you where?’

  Like I don’t know.

  ‘To the clinic. Next Saturday.’

  ‘What clinic?’

  ‘I’m going to have an abortion. It’s all I can do, Tom. It will be best for everybody.’

  Well she’s certainly made her mind up fast. I guess this is not like choosing a new pair of shoes, but I’m reeling all the same.

  ‘Christ Maddie, are you sure that’s what you want?’

  ‘It’s for the best, Tom. Trust me it’s best for everyone. I want to make an appointment for next Saturday. Will you come with me Tom? Please say that you will. Please.’

  Well, in all my life I’ve never been able to say no to Madeleine and whatever I think, I’m not going to let her down now. Not that I care either way about the baby myself, you understand. As a matter of fact, babies leave me cold, they really do. They are all ugly, despite what their parents think, and beyond that they’re just noise and stinking smells and responsibility. I guess if that point of view doesn’t change, I’m not destined to make anything like a good father myself, but I don’t care about that right now.

  ‘What about Mom and Dad? Won’t they want to know where we’re going? It’s going to be hard to hide that from them. You’re not going to be yourself when we get back home, let’s face it.’

  I’m not trying to put her off; I just want to know what she has in mind.

  ‘That’s why I want to have it done next Saturday.’

  She says it like she’s talking about getting a pedicure.

  ‘Mom and Dad are going to be away for the weekend. There’s a weekend house party. They are going to be gone from Friday night through Sunday.’

  She really has been giving this some thought. I’m wondering just how long she’s known that she’s pregnant. And I can’t help thinking of her having to go through all this on her own.

  A wicked thought flits through my mind about the party that Mom and Dad are going to. They do this from time to time and I have my suspicions concerning just what kind of party this might be. You probably already realise that I suspect it to be a swingers’ party. The thought of them satisfying their d
egenerate lust while their daughter is breaking herself up just sickens me. It really does. And I realise that this makes me sound like some prudish moral zealot – which really I’m not – but it just doesn’t seem right that they are going to be acting like Roman aristocracy while their children are hurting. This is wrong, of course, because they’ll never know what we are going through and I imagine that they would be there for us if they did. All the same, it’s how I feel.

  ‘Have you made an appointment already?’

  I’m just wondering because this is the first I’ve heard about this party that Mom and Dad are apparently going to.

  ‘No. I’m going to call on Monday to make the arrangements. You will come with me, won’t you?’

  Like I said, I’m not in the habit of refusing Madeleine anything. I’m not going to change that now.

  ‘Of course I will. You know I will.’

  I sit with Madeleine until she drifts off to sleep. I don’t know what time it is when I slope back to my own room, but when I slide into bed, I realise that I haven’t been thinking of Sylvia at all. Why can’t life be simple?

  CHAPTER 11

  My funny valentine

  It’s nine-thirty when I wake up. This is very late for me, but let’s face it, I was late getting to sleep.

  I take a long, hot shower and it’s so soothing that I find it difficult to switch off the jets and finish it. But of course I do, and I wrap a towel around myself and saunter back to my room, yawning.

  I notice that Madeleine’s door is closed and I hope that she is sleeping. All that sobbing will have tired her out. I’m still concerned for Madeleine, of course, but today I am going to visit Sylvia. So I’m thinking of Sylvia as I dress. Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia. As if I don’t have enough to worry about with Madeleine and all. When I think of Sylvia, all I can think of is that massive argument that she walked right into in her house last night. That sure as hell did sound violent. So now I’m just wondering if Sylvia is okay. I wonder if I should call Sylvia to see if she still wants me to come around this afternoon, but I think better of it. She just might have changed her mind after what happened last night. And sure, I realise that that makes me sound incredibly insecure. And maybe I am. But I’m not going to risk it all the same. I’m just going to show up at her place and present her with a fait accompli. Isn’t that what you would do?

  So I’m sitting downstairs with the TV on and not really watching anything. Well actually, I’m watching the clock, if I’m really honest. And have you noticed that when you’re waiting for something that you’re looking forward to, how time just stands still? It does. It really does.

  And I keep trying to think of things to do to occupy me while I wait, but a kind of lethargy has set in. It’s like all I want to do is focus on the clock. And the fact that it isn’t moving.

  Apart from the TV, the house is quiet. Mom and Dad are out – they’ve gone shopping for something or other that they can’t possibly need – and I haven’t seen a sign of Madeleine. Sometimes I get up and wander about the living room and look out of the window, as if that is going to help the time move faster. I’m focused on Sylvia so much that it must be the twentieth time I’ve looked out of that big old window before I realise that Madeleine’s car is not in the drive next to Mom’s. Wow, I wonder what time Madeleine got up and went out. I sure as hell never heard her. Well, I won’t be able to ask her if I can borrow some nail polish and stuff to take over to Sylvia’s. I’ll just have to assume that it’s okay – which I’m sure it is. Madeleine won’t mind.

  At last the clock has moved some. I’m walking down Sylvia’s street. People are washing cars in the driveways, cutting the grass in front of their houses. All typical suburban stuff, I guess, but it’s all a lot noisier than where I live. Now and then you can hear a dog barking and little kids are playing – in back yards I suppose because I can’t see any out on the street.

  As I near Sylvia’s house, I’m strangely nervous. I guess I’m wondering if there will be an atmosphere. That sure sounded like a fierce fight last night. And I still have this picture of her dad as a slob in a dirty vest and I can’t get past how aggressive he’s sounded on the couple of times I’ve called Sylvia’s house. I’m telling myself that I must be wrong, because the people I’m seeing on this street are nice and clean and wonderfully suburban, and the cars in the drives are all pretty new and well-maintained. But the image persists all the same.

  For some reason, standing outside Sylvia’s front door, I can hardly believe that I have pushed the button to ring the bell. But I must have, because the door is opening and then there is Sylvia and she’s smiling and I can just smell the soap and the scent and stuff. She’s wearing jeans and a strappy pink top and no shoes and she looks just absolutely gorgeous.

  ‘Well, are you going to come in?’

  The house is pretty quiet as Sylvia closes the door behind me. It’s smaller than our place, for sure, but it’s neat and it’s light and not at all like I was expecting. You know, I’d actually built up this stupid picture in my head of the house being a bit dingy and perhaps a little run-down. And where do you suppose I got this idea from? Well I know that it came from the image I have of Sylvia’s dad, and that’s only based on the few words I’ve heard him bellow on the phone. Anyway, the point is that images we create in our heads can be way off the mark.

  We’re standing in a small entrance hall and off to the left is the kitchen, and a guy is stepping out. He’s kind of tall and well groomed and he’s dressed in tan cotton Dockers and a polo shirt with the unmistakeable Ralph Lauren logo on the chest. It’s like looking in a mirror in a way, because I’m wearing tan Dockers and a Ralph Lauren shirt too, although mine is green and his is lilac. Of course, I’m not a hundred years old like this guy, but that’s some coincidence, wouldn’t you say?

  ‘Snap!’

  It’s a second or two before I realise that the guy is talking to me. I see Sylvia rolling her eyes to the ceiling.

  ‘Just ignore him. This is my dad and he’d do just about anything to embarrass me.’

  The guy is grinning, and despite the words I can tell that Sylvia and he are quite close. It’s just banter, and I recognise it because it’s how me and my mom are together. You’ve seen that for yourself. And remember what I was just saying, about images in our heads being way off the mark? Well, if this is Sylvia’s dad, then I have been totally wrong. No dirty vest stretching over a paunch. No lack of grooming. No lack of humour either. You know, it’s so hard to match the guy standing before me with my telephone experience of him that it makes me wonder if I’d been calling the wrong house! But of course I hadn’t been, because Sylvia came to the phone. And actually, it’s something of a relief to find that he’s not the slob of my imagination, if you want to know the truth. That’s an image I can throw out with the trash, thank God.

  ‘So aren’t you going to tell me who this is?’

  Sylvia looks at her dad and rolls her eyes again. I’m seeing that Sylvia can be very theatrical.

  ‘Dad, this is Tom. He goes to my school and he’s in my year, but we’re not in the same class. Is that okay or do you want to interrogate him?’

  Her dad ignores this sarcasm. He’s looking at me. At least Sylvia hasn’t said that my name is Holden, so that’s something, I guess.

  ‘Tom eh? I’ll try to remember that. Another one to add to the list.’

  By the time he’s finished saying this he’s already turned and he’s disappeared into the living room. Sylvia’s grabbed my hand and she’s pulling me up the stairs. All I can hear is the muffled thump of her bare feet on the stair carpet but inside I’m cold as hell. Another one. That’s what her dad had said. It’s what he’d said on the phone that time too. I’m feeling sick inside. I really am. And I know that I shouldn’t and that Sylvia and me have only just started seeing each other and everything. But I do believe that I’m jealous. I really do. And I don’t even know what I’m jealous of. Or even if there’s any need to be jealous at all. I�
��m just screwed up is what it is. I really am.

  Anyway, Sylvia’s room is not how I’d expected it to be. I’d been expecting dark walls, gothic posters of indie bands and stuff, and candles, but it isn’t like that at all. The walls are pale pink and while there are posters, they are Sheryl Crow and Blondie and George Clooney – but not Tom Cruise. And amazingly, the posters she’s chosen do have colour schemes that go with her walls. I’m impressed, I really am. The bed is quite big for the room, but it doesn’t dominate, and there’s a dressing table and a built-in wardrobe, all of stripped pine to match the bed. And there is surprisingly little clutter. Seriously, this is something I’d never expected, and you have to know that it delights me. I was expecting loads of stuffed toys and trash like that. But there are two bowls of coloured glass beads on the dresser and a glass box that contains costume jewellery and stuff, and photographs of her mom and dad in a frame, and that’s about it. I feel truly comfortable in this room.

  I’m actually sitting at the foot of the bed, leaning back on it. Sylvia is sitting on the bed behind me and her legs are dangling over my shoulders. She has the prettiest little feet with perfect straight toes, but they’re looking a little bit silly at the moment because of the foam toe-separators that are there to stop the nail polish from smudging while it dries. I’ve already done her fingers and now I’m doing her toes to match. I’m using the I’m Not Really A Waitress lacquer from the OPI Hollywood Collection. It’s a really confident, rich red colour that I feel suits Sylvia particularly well. Madeleine has been using it a lot lately and I took it from her dresser, but I’m sure she won’t mind. If she ever even notices.

  Looking up at the dressing table mirror in front of me I can see Sylvia inspecting her fingernails, holding her hands away from her and splaying the fingers out.

  ‘You’re really good. Do you know that? Salon good. I’m impressed.’

  Well I don’t exactly glow with pride at that, because I know that I’m good. But hey, everyone enjoys compliments, right?