A British summer night, hot and
wet, keeps me awake among other things. The pitter-patter of rain on the
windows is somewhat soothing. With the pounding of my heart, they mix together
to make a rhythmic drum beat that echoes through my body. The sky is black,
cloudy, no stars peep through the holes in the net-curtains, but the moon
provides a little light. Books and plants on the window sill throw long shadows
over the bed where we lie wrapped in the thick duvet with little clothes on underneath.
I wonder
to slip out of bed and into the next room, to check the chest of my little son
rise and fall as I did for so many months when he was born. Those months have
gone. He is no longer a baby, but he is a child. A proper child, with a chubby
face and pudgy fingers. Sometimes the feeling from five years ago, the urge, to
reassure myself of his life comes over me on sleepless nights. As routine
dictates, I go into his room, the back of my mind knowing it is an obsession to
think negatively, and my heart plunging at the guilt to want to stop my head
assuring his safety. I’m quiet over the carpeted floor, and lean over his bed.
I can hear breathing. I know it is his, but the risk, the thought, of mistaking
my own breathes for my child’s overcomes me, as it does every time, and I lower
myself onto the floor. I lean my head against the yellow wallpaper marked with
steam-trains and aeroplanes, and watch as his chest goes up and down, up and
down.
A feeling
I had thought I had forgotten, relief, swells a little in my heart, and I sit
for what feels like a few minutes. The night passes in these minutes, as I
finally get up to make my way quietly to bed, get some rest, sleep a few hours
before the sun wakes, and in turn, wakes us. Stepping back into my bedroom, my
wife is dead still. Dead quiet. She makes no noise, and shows no signs of
disturbance as I get back into bed, letting some cold air into the warmth
created under the covers. As I settle onto my side, back to back with my partner
of eight years, friend of ten, I reach down to my phone, in its rightful place
on the floor, tied to the charger. Press any button and the screen lights up to
show a picture of Elena with her dark curls making a moustache for five-year
old Sam with four digits accompanying: 03:47.
It is too
late to sleep, I will be getting out of bed once more in just over two hours,
but the sandman whispers in my ear: sleep is most becoming at awkward hours.
***
I turn, uncomfortable, sunlight
shining through the net-curtains. Elena is awake, staring at the ceiling, hands
together over her stomach. She turns her head slightly and gives me her morning
smile: closed mouth, drowsy eyes. I give my closed mouth smile in return, and
she looks back up at the ceiling, as I close my eyes, eager to savour the last
few minutes of shuteye that has been awarded me this morning.
The good
intentioned, self-consented five minutes turns into a morning nap, and when I
finally drag myself out of bed, my little boy is dressed, ready for school in
small grey shorts and white short-sleeved polo shirt. A knotted red and grey
striped tie, with elastic making the neck, is hung on the banister with a red
book bag, and his mother is putting his small shoes on his small feet. I pick
him up and give him a big kiss and move his dark hair away from his eyes. His
face is warm, cheeks pudgy and lips sticky with jam.
“Love
you, love you,” I tell my son and wife accordingly, giving my wife her kiss,
passing the sticky jam on. She takes Sam’s hand, his packed-lunch, book bag,
and car keys and exits, shutting the door behind her.
In the
shower, the fast, heavy beats my heart emitted last night return. I try to calm
myself. The shower gets hotter, and I feel faint. Rinsing myself off, I hurry
to get out and drink some water, towel wrapped around my legs, hair dripping
and feet leaving small patches of water over the bathroom floor.
The water
cools me, soothes my throat, removing the scent of soap that often gets lodged
at the back of it. My hands are still quite warm, and veins stick out on the
back of them. They are soft and disappear when I make fists, or run my fingers
over them. I forget quickly enough as I stand in front of my wardrobe, staring
at suit after suit, shirt after shirt. It seems inappropriate, but what is
appropriate for such an event? Tracksuits? Gym clothes sit at the bottom,
untouched for two months, where the local fitness centre has suffered my
neglect. I settle for a pair of tattered jeans and a light blue polo shirt to
match. The lawyer in me, shying away from the casual look, must always
co-ordinate.
I hear
the door open downstairs, as I pull on dark blue socks. Wiggle my toes, to make
the pointy ends of the seam comfortable on the end of my little toes, make my
way downstairs where Elena stands waiting at door, without Sam, packed-lunch or
book-bag, but with car-keys nonetheless. She smiles and sighs and greets me
with a kiss as I hit the last step of the stairs.
“Are you ready?”
