Commitment

by Golland, K. M.

  “Hold up!” I barked, stopping the door from continuing to open with my foot, causing it to ricochet and hit Thomas in the face.

  “Ow. My nose. Muuuum! Why’d ya do that?”

  Quickly knotting the tie around my waist, I slowly opened the door to find my baby boy rubbing his nose and a not so impressed scowl on his face. “Sorry, Matey. I didn’t see you there. Quickly, what’s up? You gotta get ready for school.”

  “I don’t want to go. I don’t feel well.”

  I narrowed my gaze. “Why?”

  “My tummy hurts.”

  “How bad?”

  “Bad.”

  “Bad, as in poop and spew? Or bad, as in I just need to fart but I can’t?”

  He thought about it for a second, his little eyes looking to the ceiling. “Bad, as in I need to fart but there’s no farts in my bum.”

  “Right. Well … go sit on the toilet and try farting. You never know what might happen.”

  He hung his head. “Alright. I’ll try.”

  “While you do that, what do you want on your toast?” I subtly ushered him toward the toilet so that I could get breakfast underway.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “I don’t want to eat.”

  Thomas disappeared around the corner, and that’s when I realised he might actually be telling the truth. It was also the moment my phone rang ‘You Sexy Thing’ by Hot Chocolate.

  It was Dean.

  “What up, you sexy thang?” I asked, as I answered the call and walked back into our room, opening the wardrobe doors and sitting on his side of the bed, contemplating what to wear.

  “Morning, love. Sleep well?”

  “I did, thanks to you. You’re magic. Have I told you that?”

  He chuckled. “Yeah, you have.”

  “Really? Good.” I hit speaker and placed my phone on his bedside table before flicking through my blouses and settling on my red, no-sleeve, turtleneck. I felt bold today.

  “Listen, something has come up at—”

  “MUUUUM! I CAN’T FART,” Thomas shouted, interrupting Dean.

  “KEEP TRYING!” I shouted back.

  “NO! Tell him not to force it. Bad move. He could splart.”

  “Splart?”

  “Spatter fart.”

  “Oh. Ew! It’s okay. He’s on the toilet. He can splart all he likes.” I explained, grabbing my navy pinstriped trousers. “He says he has a tummy ache.”

  “Ahhh…”

  “I haven’t decided if he’s bluffing or not yet. I hope he is. I have a busy day at work”

  “I hope he’s not as well. I can’t come home and watch him, even if I wanted to. In fact, I can’t even pick them both up from school today. That’s why I’m ringing. I’m swamped and won’t be home until after dinner.”

  “Really? Crap!” I sighed and picked the phone back up, the back of it slimy and a little sticky. “What the fuck?” I turned it over to find a gel like substance on my fingers.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “What have you spilled on your bedside table? I just put my phone it in. Yuk!”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Dean? You there?” I grabbed a tissue and proceeded to wipe it off, and I was just about to sniff it when he responded.

  “Yeah yeah, I’m here. Sorry. I thought Hilary was trying to buzz me. It’s probably just hair gel, love. I must’ve dropped some this morning.”

  I scrunched my nose. “You did your hair next to the bed?”

  “Yeah. I was in a hurry. Anyway, I gotta go. So busy. Love you.”

  Dean hung up, and the nervous tone of his abrupt, departing babble made me wary.

  “MUUUM! It won’t come.”

  “Oh alright,” I snapped. “If it won’t come, it won’t come.”

  Continuing to wipe my hands and phone with the tissue, I mockingly mumbled “come come come” at my son. Come … cum? Nooooo… CUM!

  I stared at the sticky evidence in my hand. “He wouldn’t have,” I drawled and, unable to help myself, brought the tissue to my nose and took a small sniff. Oh my God! It is! It’s his dick juice. What the hell?

  Warmth tingled my cheeks, and I set the tissue down, biting my fingernail and smiling because I felt dirty, naughty and curious all at once. Why did he come on the bedside table? And when did he do it?

  Sprouting his man-flower outside of our shower and all over our furniture was unlike him. He was so straight and narrow when it came to sex. I wouldn’t exactly call him boring, but he wasn’t Christian Grey or sexventurous. He was just happy do the same-old, same-old every time. Okay, so he was a little boring. It didn’t matter though. I still loved him deeply.

  “Mum?”

  “Yeah?” I called out, quickly scrunching up the tissue as Thomas walked into the room. He definitely didn’t look like his boystrous self.

  “Oh, Thomas the Tank, what am I going to do with you?”

  He shrugged and pouted his bottom lip. Damn it! I was a sucker for the lip trick and he knew it. “Fine. You’re gonna have to come to work with me today.”

  A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

  “But you will bring your reader and your homework with you. Understand?”

  “Understand.” Thomas turned on his heel, exited my room, and seconds later shouted, “I FARTED! …BUT I DON’T FEEL BETTER.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. At least it wasn’t a splart.

  * * *

  Thomas sat quietly in the car on the way to work after we dropped William off at school, and I swear he let off a few more ‘silent and deadlies’. Normally, the Jones’ fart-in-the-car rule was that you didn’t. At all. It was a no-go zone, the greatest sign of disrespect. True imprisonment.

  My little Thomas the Tank was currently breaking that rule, but I couldn’t exactly blame him for it. I’d encouraged it, after all, therefore I had to endure my nostril assassination in silence. It was called being a mum, and I rocked that shiz.

  “Now, when we get to my office, I’m going to set up a spot for you to sit and rest,” I explained while reversing into my car park.

  “Sure. Sit and rest. Got it.”

  “Good, because I have a lot to do today and I need you to behave. How are you feeling?” I reached over and felt for his temperature by placing my hand on his forehead.

  “I’m hungry.”

  “Are you kidding me? You should’ve eaten some toast when I told you to.”

  “I didn’t want toast,” he said, undoing his seatbelt. “I thought it would hurt my tummy more.”

  “Hmm … right. Well, I’ll get you something from the hotel kitchen when we get to my office.”

  “Cool!”

  We exited the car and I narrowed my gaze at him. His smile disappeared, and he rubbed his tummy and pouted. Kids!

  “Come on, you,” I said with a small smile, grabbing him and pulling him to my side. “I don’t want to be late.”

  Thomas and I entered City Tower Entertainment Complex via the southern sector, past the shopping precinct and into the Atrium. Being that it was January, Melbourne was in the middle of the Australian Open Tennis season, so there were giant tennis balls dangling from the ceiling, together with posters of past tournament winners lining the walls.

  “Whoa!” Thomas marvelled, his head tilted backward as he looked above us. “Those balls are huge!”

  “They sure are. Biggest balls you’ll ever see.” I giggled to myself. I was such a juvenile. “Okay, we just have to step into this elevator and head up to level seven.”

  He nodded, but his eyes were roaming the magnificence that was the City Towers Atrium; a crystal shard-covered ceiling, four levels high, three of those levels defined by brass balustrade railings. There was nothing in the world like it, yet, for me, the most prominent feature of the room was the impressive ornate mahogany staircase that led to the second level. The Atrium really was akin to a magical wonderland, themed to whatever the current season, holiday, or
local event — Easter being my favourite. I liked it more than Christmas because we held chocolate making workshops, and the smell they generated was amazing. This year, though, I wanted to organise a huge Easter egg hunt throughout the entire complex. A real life Easter egg hunt. Not just a ‘find the cardboard eggs’ promotion. I was super excited about the idea and was currently putting a proposal together for the board.

  “Still feelin’ alright, matey?” I knew he was. It was just my motherly instinct to keep asking.

  “Yes,” he said, flippantly, and pointed, “Is that a miniature tennis court over there?”

  I smiled proudly. “Uh huh. That was mummy’s idea.”

  “Can I have a turn?”

  “No. You’re sick.”

  “I’m not.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “Ha! I thought as much.”

  “Noooo. I meant I’m not spew-my-guts-up sick. I’m sore-tummy sick.”

  “If you’re sore-tummy sick, playing tennis can lead to spew-your-guts-up sick, so no, forget it, Thomas.”

  His body slumped, his head flopping forward. “Fine.”

  I felt a little bad for saying no. Of course I wanted him to experience an activity for kids that I had instigated. Nothing would’ve made me happier. I just had to stick to my parental guns, keeping them loaded for if and when they were required to fire I-told-you-so bullets. That was very important ammunition to carry.

  He sulked as we excited the elevator and walked down the short corridor to my office, and I couldn’t help but to relent a little. Parenting, like all things in life, was about compromise: give and take. Actually, parenting was more give than take. We gave them life, love, food, clothing, protection and guidance. They took all of that and, in return, gave us headaches, odours, noise, mess, and of course, love.

  “How about this?” I offered, “if you feel better after lunch, you can have a turn then.”

  Thomas smiled and hugged me. “Okay. I’ll feel better. I know it.”

  “Yeah, I don’t doubt that.” We stepped inside my office and on my desk was a huge bunch of flowers, all of them purple.

  “Wow!” Thomas exclaimed. “Wait … it’s not your birthday, is it?”

  “No. It’s not. I wonder who they’re from.” I set my bag down and gently pulled the card out from its wedged spot between a rose and gerbera before sniffing the bouquet. It smelled beautiful.

  “Have a seat over at Allison’s desk. And don’t touch anything! I’ll clear you some space in a minute then I’ll order you some breakfast when I order my coffee.”

  He did what he was told and slumped in Ali’s chair before swivelling it. “Who’s Allison?”

  “The lady I work with.”

  “Where is she?” he asked, continuing to spin.

  It couldn’t have helped his ‘upset tummy’.

  “She works when I don’t.”

  “Then how do you work with her?”

  I shook my head and groan-laughed. The mental capacity required to answer a Thomas-Twenty-Questions-Marathon was near non-existent. So, instead, I took a seat and opened the card that came with the flowers, and there, in bold printed lettering were the opening lyrics to ‘Purple Rain’ by Prince and The Revolution followed by a hand written note:

  I was a jerk yesterday. I don’t know what came over me.

  Sorry.

  And just quietly, this is as purple as I’ll ever get.

  It’s too much.

  Dale

  xo

  I laughed. It was all very purple.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Oh, nothing,” I said, folding the note and placing it in my pocket. “Just a joke from a work colleague.”

  “What’s a colleague?”

  “Someone you work with.”

  “Allison?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why’d she send you flowers?”

  “She didn’t.”

  “But you said—”

  “Thomas!” I huffed, exasperated. “Never mind what I said.”

  “I’m hungry. And I need to go to the toilet.”

  My eyelids blinked …a lot. And rapidly. They did all the blinking. “We just walked past a toilet. Why didn’t you say something then?”

  “I didn’t need to go then. I need to go now.”

  Closing my eyes for the smallest of seconds to stop their blinkathon and to give myself a moment, I breathed in and then out, faux smiling as I inwardly said my mummy mantra. I made it. I birthed it. It’s mine. I have wine.

  * * *

  Thomas spent most of the morning asking questions, reading his books, asking more questions, establishing a great telephone conversation with Judy from the hotel kitchen, and asking even more questions while playing Reading Eggs on Allison’s computer. The kid was driving me nuts. All I’d been able to do was go over Ali’s notes from the charity event. I hadn’t even begun to finalise attendee numbers and costs, not to mention I had to get my butt down to the ballroom to make sure the clean up was in full swing, if not already completed.

  “Mum, how do you smoke a pot?”

  “What?” I lifted my head and stared dumbfounded at my son.

  “A pot. How do you smoke it?”

  “You don’t. Where did you hear that?”

  “On TV. The boy said to the other boy, ‘let’s go smoke pot’. I thought it was stupid, but they were really excited about it.”

  Thomas hadn’t removed his gaze from the computer screen and was still clicking on answers to questions being asked by a cartoon chicken.

  I scratched my head. “Um … well—”

  “You put a pot in the oven and after a while it will smoke,” a deep, matter-of-fact voice answered before I had the chance.

  Both Thomas and I followed the sound, finding Dale standing at the door.

  My eyes nearly bugged out of my head.

  Dale must’ve noticed, because his eyes did the same thing. “But … er … don’t ever do it. It’s poisonous. You’ll die,” he added, shrugging.

  I appreciated his self-correction, but my eye-bugging was for an entirely different reason, an oh-my-God-where-did-you-spring-from reason.

  “Did you do it?” Thomas asked, his eyes now bugging too.

  Dale strode into the room, hands — as always — in his trouser pockets, and sat on the end of my desk, facing Thomas and I. He had on a pair of black pants and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up. It was nothing out of the usual, and yet he looked different. I studied him a little longer but couldn’t quite pinpoint the how or why.

  “No, I didn’t smoke a pot. See?” He raised his hands. “I’m still alive.”

  “Riiiight,” Thomas answered, nodding his head. “You are. That’s good. You don’t want to be dead.”

  Dale chuckled. “No, I don’t.”

  “I’m Thomas,” Thomas said, introducing himself. He pointed to me. “And this is my mum.”

  I waved to Dale and bit back a laugh.

  “Pleased to meet you, Thomas and Thomas’ mum. I’m Dale, Head of Security.”

  “Whoa! Really? You’re like a cop?”

  “Well, kind of. I have to make sure nothing bad happens here at the hotel. It’s my job to keep everyone safe.”

  “Do you carry a gun?”

  “Yes, I’m an armed security guard.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “NO!” I snapped, giving both Dale and Thomas a look of warning.

  “Sorry, little dude. Your mum’s right. I can’t show you, it’s against the rules.”

  Thomas slumped back into his seat and sighed, “Rules suck.”

  “Buuuut,” Dale continued, “what I can do is show you the security camera operating room if it’s okay with your mum.”

  Thomas sprang up, all signs of the morning’s sore-tummy gone. “Is it, Mum? Can I? Please?”

  My eyes flicked from my over zealous son to Dale and back again, the level of excitement radiating between them hitting me like a wave crashing to the shore. I couldn’t
say no, but at the same time, I didn’t want Thomas to go where I couldn’t see him.

  Their enthusiasm burned.

  Expectation burned.

  Being a mother, burned.

  “Um … ” I stuttered.

  “Your mum can come too if she wants.”

  Annnnnd now my vagina burned, something it hadn’t done in a long time. It was sizzling along with my cheeks due to the sudden change of Dale’s tone of voice and the playful glint in his eyes. Seriously? What has gotten into him? And what the hell has gotten into me?

  Dale’s demeanour was once again suggestive, but not like the day before. Then, it had been blatant disrespect. Now, it was more playfully flirtatious. Typical bachelor. He didn’t have me battling an uncomfortable feeling of what the fuck. Instead, I was juggling highly aroused and mildly inappropriate.

  “I’d … um … love to, but I have so much work to do.”

  Dale picked up my pen and pushed the clicker numerous times.

  I snatched it from him and continued, “But if you promise to take good care of him, then yes, he can go with you.”

  “YES!” Thomas cried out, spinning his seat enthusiastically.

  Standing up, Dale removed his impeccable, hard, taught arse from my desk. “Okay then, Security Cadet Thomas, let’s go check out ground zero.”

  I couldn’t help but follow the material clad yumminess of said impeccable arse as it retreated, and when it was almost out of sight, I called out after its owner. “WAIT! You have my number, right?”

  Dale stopped, pulled out his phone, and appeared to be scrolling his contacts when my phone beeped an incoming message. Smiling, he indicated with a nod of his head that I read it before leaving the room and calling out from the corridor, “We’ll be back a little later. Get some work done.”

  Curious, I activated my screen and opened a message from an unknown number, my suspicion that it were from him confirmed by what he’d written:

  Unknown: Stop worrying that pretty little head of yours.

  I promise we won’t smoke pot.

  Chapter Six

  Tash

  He thinks my head is little and pretty? I read the message again and smiled like a giddy teenager. It was utterly ridiculous, except I couldn’t help the butterflies he released in my stomach. I also couldn’t help but feel the urge to respond. I didn’t want him thinking that I really was worried. I mean, if my son were to be wandering around City Towers with anyone, I’d want it to be with the Head of Security.