According to YES

by Dawn French

  She breathes deeply, and closes her eyes for a moment, and when she shuts down that sense of sight, the others seem to perk up. She hears the muffled big quiet of people trudging around softly, showing respect for the artists’ work. She smells the air from the chilly outside that has clung to the coats of people coming in and swooshing past her. She can still taste the remnants of the gum she disposed of in a bin two blocks away, and she’s aware of how much she desires coffee, and how she’s trying to have less. She can feel the coarse wool of her beloved green coat under her cold hands. She can feel the tightening of the coat around her swelling stomach. She moves her right hand up to flick her hair behind her ear and she feels the earring there with her fingers. Cherry earrings. Big and dangly. And so red. She can’t see them, but she knows they are. She loves them. And then, she feels a turning from the baby, it could almost make her nauseous, but it’s curious and miraculous, so she surrenders to it. The baby is taking its place, ready to be known, life waiting to live. Rosie slowly opens her eyes and she thinks, ‘Yep, this is sort of it. The bliss I’ve been looking for. Someone else needs me, and they come first, and there’s no denying it. I am going to be someone’s mother, someone’s everything. And they will be mine. Always.’ Rosie Kitto is full of happiness. Full right up. She smiles and smiles.

  The young man and woman are still at the desk, counting away the minutes, ‘Twelve thousand, eight hundred and forty four …’

  Rosie looks up. The boys are one floor below the top level, moving on up gradually. How lucky they are to have each other, their enduring need for love and security met so intimately. Rosie thinks about how being a twin has somehow helped both of these little chaps process all that’s gone on around them. The distraction and the support for each by the other is key. They know and manage one another so well, fitting into each other seamlessly. Even when they differ, or disagree, they at least understand it about each other. She can’t imagine being a twin.

  A sudden shocking thought comes hurtling into her peace. OH GOD. What if she is carrying twins?! It’s possible, it’s in the genetics of the Wilder-Binghams. It could be. But wait … no … she has had scans. Expensive scans conducted by clever trained individuals in a reputable hospital, paid for by Thomas. No. She has an ultrasound image. There’s one baby. She has seen it, with its little hand held up as if it’s halting traffic, as if it’s saying, ‘hold it, I’ll decide when, thank you.’ She didn’t ask to know the sex, it simply doesn’t matter. And actually, it doesn’t matter if it’s twins either. In fact …

  Just as Rosie starts to fantasize about this possibility, she hears a whistle and looks up. There is Three, giving her the thumbs up over the wall. This is it. The moment all three of them have been talking about for the last couple of days. The boys have planned it meticulously, as if they are junior ninjas, and this is their secret mission. Rosie stands and moves to the centre of the circular hall, and she gives the thumbs up signal back.

  At the very top of the building, the highest point of the ramp, the two intrepid eight-year-old adventurers cautiously look around to check that no guards are watching too closely. The coast is clear, the first guard is on the next level down, and is conveniently distracted by a girl in short shorts.

  In a trice, the boys kneel down and, pressing the special invisible button on the side of their respective pairs of sneakers, the hidden wheels pop out under the heels. They stand up, lean back and before anyone can truly realize what’s going on, off they both skate, gliding along in what appear to be normal sneakers. These sneakers are anything but normal, they are instruments of tremendous thrill, and both of the lads are adept at manouvering on them. Just as well, since they have plenty of dodging to do as they gather speed, flying downwards on the continuous sloping spiral ramp, faster and faster. Zoom, past the guard who only notices when it’s too late.

  ‘Hey! Stop! You kids!’ he shouts, and everyone looks to see the boys zipping down the huge helter skelter.

  ‘Come on, boys, go go go,’ whispers Rosie under her breath as she spins round, watching them fly along on their downward race. Three is very slightly falling behind the more athletic Red, so Red reaches out his hand and they whizz down the last couple of levels linked together, whilst all the people in the building stand back to make a safe track for them to complete their wonderful ride. The onlookers start to clap as they tear by, and a few even help to hold the guards back. Zoom, zoom, zoom they go, round and round, with the wind in their hair and megawatt smiles. Very shortly they reach the bottom, by which time Rosie has waddled to the main exit and is holding open the door for the twins to shoot out, onto the sidewalk and away from any consequences. As they pass her, she shouts,

  ‘Splendid work ninjas! Hooray!’ and she puffs as she tries to catch up with them on the corner. They quickly flick their wheels back inside and all three of them resume ordinary walking towards 90th St, one block away, where they can celebrate and toast their superb victory.

  Operation W. B. complete.

  December

  Iva places her suitcase in the hall, just inside the front door. Her shoes are soaking wet due to the short walk from the cab to the kerb outside through the slushy snow. She takes her coat and woolly hat off, and she stands still to listen out for anyone in the apartment. Nothing. It’s unusual for there to be nobody home at all in the middle of the afternoon, so she takes a little exploratory walk and checks in each room. There is a definite change from the place she left. Curtains are pushed well back, letting tons more light in. Everything is brighter, messier, and more lived in. Doors are open, and the occasional tiny crack of an open window allows a cheeky cold breeze in and through. Cuttings are growing in pots on almost any spare surface, a few whole plants are inside for shelter against the winter frosts, and the kitchen worktops are covered in pots of herbs. This is now an apartment you might want to hang out in.

  Iva notices, however, that the dishwasher is open, and half loaded. Clearly, whoever was doing that job was in a rush. She smiles, rolls up her sleeves, and sets about the stack of dirty dishes in the sink. Yep, they still need her here. Which is just as well, because fourteen hours ago, her heart broke as she walked away from her crying daughter yet again as she boarded the plane back to this place.

  Three blocks away, Rosie is at an antenatal class. She is lying on her back on the floor, on a cushioned mat, with her feet flat on the mat and her knees raised up. She has a cushion under her head, and a professionally pink woman is walking around, weaving in between the twenty or so mats with other pregnant women on them, blethering on about breathing and breaking waters and stretch marks and how special and precious ‘baby’ is. Rosie is very large now, in her third trimester, and she has had a tolerance by-pass, it seems. Something about the droning midwife annoys her. It’s the silly infantile language she uses, as if all the potential mothers are actually babies themselves. Rosie didn’t really want to come, but was persuaded by the doctor. She reluctantly tries to make the best of it by smiling at the woman on the mat next to her, and she gets a very uncertain smile back. She notices that this woman is looking towards the top of Rosie’s mat, which is where ‘daddy’ is supposed to sit and be supportive. The other lady’s husband is dutifully stroking her head with his bony fingers. At the head of Rosie’s mat sit Thomas and Kemble and Teddy. The nosy lady is confused, and gives Rosie a slightly disapproving sneer. Rosie isn’t going to have this lofty nonsense, so she says, ‘Yes. I’m VERY popular,’ and that puts a stop to it. The Wilder-Bingham chaps look sheepish. Teddy goes bright red. Again.

  As the night draws in back at home, Thomas suggests that they all get their coats on and take the twins up onto the snowy roof to decorate the biggest, hardiest plant for Christmas. He and Kemble use logs and firewood kindling soaked in gasoline to start a red-hot fire in a brazier, while Rosie sits wrapped up in three of Thomas’s huge winter coats, directing the twins and Teddy, who are putting lights on the box-plant, along with lots of little hand-drawn Christmas figures the b
oys have made at school. On closer inspection, Rosie sees that the figures are all the people in the family. They have drawn everybody: Thomas, Glenn, Kemble, Natalie, Teddy, Rosie, Iva and, of course, themselves. They have laminated the little figures so that they can hang outdoors. They are for the most part quite accurate depictions of the family. They have drawn themselves as superheroes though, and Rosie seems to be an entire sphere, which is pretty authentic.

  Iva brings a tray of steaming mugs of hot chocolate out onto the roof, and with that, she brings the reassurance that she is back to buoy up the whole clan. They all stand in a circle around the red-hot brazier, sipping the warming drink, their faces burning and their backs freezing. Red and Three pretend the steam from the hot liquid is smoke, and they enjoy invisible cigarettes. Red offers one to his father, and Kemble willingly takes it and joins in, puffing the ‘smoke’ into the cold night sky.

  Then, from utterly nowhere, Three suddenly says, ‘Hey, Dad. Teds says you are a homosocksial, is that true?’

  Kemble splutters his hot chocolate, and it fizzles on the brazier. ‘Holy shitballs, Teds, thanks!’

  ‘You said to help you tell them …’

  ‘Yeh, but, jeez …’

  ‘What is that, anyway?’ says little Red.

  Kemble is stumped. He feels all eyes on him, and he has no idea what he should say.

  It’s Thomas, standing next to Kemble, who breaks the silence, ‘A homosexual, boys, is a free spirit,’ and pats his son on the shoulder.

  With that one small gesture, Kemble knows that his dad has his back, that there is no judgement, that perhaps he has suspected all along, and most importantly, that he is loved no matter what. Kemble is instantly ten tons lighter. He didn’t realize how heavy he’d been.

  ‘Hope I get to be a homosexual too,’ says Three, and they all laugh, and relax a bit.

  ‘The thing is, guys,’ says Kemble, gathering his thoughts, ‘you need to be whoever you really are, that’s all. You two may be twins, but you are really different to each other, aren’t you? You’re unique, like Teddy is. So you need to notice all the stuff you’re good at, all the stuff you are … and really be that. You don’t have to be like me, be you. Whatever that may be.’

  At this, Teddy looks across at his grandfather and they have a shared moment when they remember that Thomas gave his grandson this exact same advice just recently. So, the apple don’t fall too far from the tree after all. How comforting. Teddy loves that it all chimes together. He also loves that he knew his granpop wouldn’t make this difficult for his dad, he even told him so, and look, he was right. It’s OK. It’s really OK.

  Kemble, Teddy and the boys surrender to the cold, admit defeat, and head indoors, mumbling about nachos and peanut-butter cups and other snacks they want to pillage the larder for. Thomas stays by the brazier to make sure it is safe to leave. Rosie and Iva stay with him.

  ‘Well, wow, that chaka’d my kahn!’ says Rosie.

  ‘Dear boy,’ says Thomas.

  ‘I knew this,’ says Iva, ‘always smells too good to be not gay, and has four tweezers.’

  ‘I see’ says Thomas, a bit bewildered.

  The three of them stand for a moment, looking into the embers. All of them are thinking about Glenn, but no-one speaks of her.

  Iva doesn’t feel it’s her place.

  Rosie doesn’t want to upset Thomas.

  Thomas doesn’t want to cry.

  He coughs. Then, ‘How was your time at home, Iva?’

  ‘Yes. Good. Thank you Mr W. B. Was good to see my girl for long time. She grow so much. Coming a beautiful young woman.’

  ‘Like her mum’, says Rosie, slipping an arm around her.

  They look again into the bright light of the dying fire. It’s as if all the good ideas are in there.

  ‘Iva,’ says Thomas, ‘I was just thinking, how about if your daughter came to spend Christmas with us here … ?’ Iva looks at him. He means it, so she walks around the fire and throws her arms around him, and she doesn’t feel cold any more.

  Night

  It’s four a.m. An unholy time, the amber between very late and very early. The front door to the Wilder-Bingham apartment clicks gently and opens quietly. It’s Glenn. She slips in stealthily. She is in her coat and stockinged feet, holding her shoes.

  All is quiet, all is still. She stands motionless for a few seconds, drinking in the place she loves and misses the most. Then, in the darkness, she walks slowly down the hallway to the door of her old bedroom. As she pushes it open, her heart stops beating in anxious anticipation of finding something that will topple her. But no. There he is, big ol’ daddy bear Thomas, fast asleep in their bed, sprawled over onto her side of it, and in his pyjamas. She watches him sleep. There is only the faintest half-light spilling in from the bathroom, but even in this, she can see he looks older than just a few months ago. Considerably older. Her darling man, breathing himself away.

  She looks up and catches sight of herself in her dressing-table mirror, and sees that the same is true of her. Much older. Older than a few months should rightly render her. She’s whiter, more see-through than when she left here, because she has kept herself in the strict Gollum-dark ever since. Thankfully though, Thomas didn’t see her a month ago, when she was at her dangerously thinnest. She at least has a layer of flesh on her brittle bones now, thanks to the endless supply of soup and noodles and spinach and chocolate milk and mashed potato Rosie has been grazing her on, all the while revealing an astonishing insight into Rosie’s own comfort-eating habits. Something Glenn would like to address with her one day. But not now. Definitely not now.

  Now matters more than ever, this very moment may decide so much about her future. She reaches over, and clicks the bedside light on. Thomas stirs and blinks awake, he is drowsy and ruffled like an old grizzly waking from hibernation. Slowly but surely he comes to, and realizes that she is there.

  ‘What time is it?’ he says, with a dry mouth.

  ‘Do we still love each other, Tommy?’ she says quietly, and in the big pause that follows, she hands him his glass of water from the bedside table, and he drinks.

  He sits up properly and blinks at her. ‘Yes. Most certainly. Well, I can only speak for myself, but … YES. Because I can only be as happy as you are, and because I … only know how to be when I’m part of you. That’s gotta be love … isn’t it?’

  ‘Happy? I would like that very much. I haven’t been for some time …’

  ‘I know … I’m sorry …’ he says.

  ‘No, stop, it’s up to me. I have to find it, I keep letting everything get in the way, and I’ve got used to thinking it’s just out of my reach, like it’ll be taken if I let it be here. Success is ringed by vultures, it’ll be pecked at and ruined.’

  ‘Glennie, you’re confusing success and happiness.’

  ‘It’s nearly too late to get it right …’ she says.

  ‘No, no it’s not. Because you really don’t have to be perfect, my love, in fact I think it’s a bit easier when there are a few mistakes along the way. We can all relate to failure, God knows, I certainly can. Don’t quote me, but I think that’s called being human. Isn’t it?’

  ‘Maybe …’ she says.

  ‘Why don’t you try it for a while? Being human.’

  Thomas knows this is challenging talk, he knows her like the back of his hand, and so also knows that she respects the tough line. She sits down on the bed. Looking at her there, in the night, in her coat, he feels so tenderly towards her, and he can see how very lost she is. The toppled queen. Yet there’s something else, she seems softer, more open. He has an overwhelming desire to scoop her up and protect her. He remembers the young Glenn, and how he chose her above all others because she was different, not one of those uniformed ten-a-dime preppy debs. She was independent and prickly with a hint of wild. Look at her now. She has nearly killed herself trying to be like the others, yet what he especially loves about her, is that she isn’t. He needs her to know, so he says,
‘I wish I could shrink your fear, Glennie, then you could just come home and be my wife, Kemble’s mother and the boys’ granma. The real true you. Not the one you try so hard to pretend to be. Christ, it’s gotta be easier to let yourself off that hook. Just for the record, wife, zero fucks are given here about you being perfect, or any of us for that matter. We’ve got it wrong. So what?! Let’s live, my darling, whatever best way we can, so long as it’s together, eh? You know living? It’s all the chaotic, messy stuff you do before dying. Whaddya say?’

  She looks at him, ‘I say sorry. That’s what I say …’

  ‘Hey, no …’ Thomas tries to stop her,

  ‘Shush, Tommy, listen. You know you’re my king. I always wanted the best for you, and it was so hard to find out I wasn’t the best. I did the deadliest thing, I weighed myself in the balance, and boy was I found wanting, so goddam disappointing, in every department. You were, you are, so very … beautiful. Always. More now even. You bastard. Yep, I knew you were going to be a hard dog to keep on the porch … I expected that …’

  ‘Seriously Glenn. Do not make excuses for me. Please. I have made wrong decisions, not your fault. Me. Greedy me. All me. Not to do with you. I can’t bear you would think that. It’s more to do with panicking, time running out, y’know, we climb the stairs in this short life, up, up til now we’re at the top of the house, that’s us. High up. I have felt terror there, vertigo, and I have been weak. And for that, I am so sorry. But I know now that I only have two choices: I can throw myself off or I can enjoy the view. And I want the latter. But I want to enjoy it with you. I can’t do that unless you forgive me. Honestly forgive me, only that will do it. And I will know if it’s not real, so don’t try faking it.’