Colin

rorschach1

She sits in the car and waits. The boy runs out of the nursery gates and hugs his father. He lifts a piece of paper and holds it up to the towering elder carer, his eyes wide in wait of scrutiny. The father looks upon the page and points, his question considered as he kneels beside the child and listens, tender and attentive. The boy nods and smiles and she shifts in her seat to get a better view. It’s a drawing of a man and child stood beneath a sun. She closes her eyes.

The boy hugs his father and the man lifts the child on to his shoulders. They walk towards their car, the strides of the man uneven and erratic as the child bounces up and down and laughs, waving goodbye to his friends as they depart. When they reach their car, the father sets his child down and he jumps through the back door and settles into the seat. He secures the boy beneath the belt and closes the door. For a moment she thinks he sees her, but he gets into the car and starts the engine. She slides down in her seat as the car passes her parked position and she watches it disappear in her mirrors. It’s 15.45pm.  Home time.

After a further twenty minutes she shifts the car into gear and drives towards her rented flat, the uneven road passing underneath, the clouds hovering overhead.  She fidgets behind the wheel, her fingers tight around the worn rubber, waiting at the traffic lights as the cars behind begin to beep, the lights green, again. The car moves off, her mind travelling a different, darker course. She thinks about her impending shift in the hospital, a night of caring for others and monitoring their recovery, wondering if they’ll make it, knowing she never will. She thinks about her walks along the wards and those that wait within, scared of what she might reveal, her most horrid truth hidden deep within. She thinks about the day she left, wishing she never had, wanting to return, but knowing she never can. She thinks about Colin, her son.

At home she heats up a bowl of soup and sits at the small dining table in the corner of her kitchen. She waits in silence for the soup to cool, the rubbish van passing outside, later than normal, but normal nonetheless. Placing a napkin on her knees she stares at the fridge, wondering what it might look like with photos of Colin and her together, their faces bright with joy and fondness, the man behind the lens loving, like he used to be. She wonders what it might feel like to see the smoothies and yoghurts and babybells and varied children’s treats inside the fridge. Chocolate delights reserved for after dinner during their favourite cartoons, the plates waiting in the sink, unimportant. She wonders how his breath might sound as he falls asleep on her lap, her fingers running through his short brown hair, the television flickering silently in the dark. She wonders countless things, each and every day, the answers hiding, her heart alone and hungry, like she no longer is.

The bowl has cooled and she sets her spoon down on the table. She looks at her hands, at the evidence of all the years given up to isolation, wishing she could get them back, wishing she could make the choice again. But it’s too far gone now. There’s no return. She knows the truth of where she is, and how she got there. It was her decision, and she made it on her own despite the loving a man she left behind for fear of death and desolation. And now, sitting in her silent flat, she knows her gift is greater than the grief. It’s better this way, she whispers, as the tears roll down her face and fall into her uneaten soup, the ripples spreading like the cancer will. The sickness is for now supressed, the therapy and drugs merely delaying what will come, eventually. Her experience makes nothing easier and she knows that if through some unearned miracle her health returns, the life she knew will not. She walked out and left them there, her husband and her infant son, unsure and afraid. There’s nothing she can do now. It’s too late. This is how it has to be.

She steps into the shower and stands beneath the scolding water. The steam rises and fills the bathroom, but the warmth she craves within is long since drowned and withered away. She recalls the time she held him in her hands, his tiny heart beating for the life he had yet to live. She remembers the feel of his flesh on her quivering lips, his eyes unable to comprehend the shadow of the shape above. That’s all I ever will be, she thinks, a fuzzy shadow fading with each passing day. She remembers crying when the doctors confirmed that Colin was healthy, that there was nothing wrong with him, that he would lead a normal life. She remembers wanting to keep it that way. She remembers sitting in the car outside the hospital, knowing she would never return, the fear of understanding forcing her further away. She thinks about it every day, the lives she left behind, the life she lives, alone.

The pain in her head subsides and she stares into the mirror, yearning to hear the voice of someone else, anyone, but there’s no one left. She thinks about Colin’s birthday and wonders when he might ask his father for a memory, a moment from a time when she was someone else, someone better. She wonders what his father might say, whether he will try to explain, or if he’ll admit to unknown answers and apologise. She wonders if he’ll hate her, more than she hates herself, or whether he might fight for a forgiveness she doesn’t deserve. She decides it doesn’t matter, her thoughts depleted by her definitive decision. It will soon be over. Finally. Only God can save her now, the pills disintegrating in her stomach, the rubbish van disappearing, her soup frozen like her heart.

*

The Soundtrack for ‘Colin’ is Bear’s Den’s ‘Mother’.

*

rore1

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s