by Marrs, John
He processed what he’d witnessed before he reanimated his blank face and placed the snacks in the centre of the bed, pretending he hadn’t seen anything.
I knew I’d wounded him, but I didn’t know then how long he would wait to retaliate.
March 20, 1.55pm
I scanned the row of cars parked by the curb outside Brooklyn’s brownstone townhouses. I’d watched the owner forget to lock the door as she struggled up the stairs with two bags of groceries and a whining toddler.
There was a fist-sized dent in the passenger door and the simulated wooden grain vinyl panels were sun-bleached and had begun to peel from its body. The rear seats bore the scratches from a large dog’s claws. A sticker with the name ‘Betty’ had been placed in the bottom left hand corner of the rear windscreen. She had a history, but then so had I.
Casually I slipped inside the Buick Roadmaster Station Wagon and entwined the wires beneath the steering wheel column like Roger had shown me when I’d lost my keys to the Volvo. Then after trial, error, a spark and a splutter, Betty burst into life.
I could have chosen something a little grander and perhaps a little more modern. But she possessed the basic criteria required - she was practical, unremarkable and looked reliable. She had plenty of space inside her to offer passage to other travellers and her two rows of back seats folded forwards enabling me to sleep under the stars of the big sky country if I wished.
I’d grown restless after two months of exploring New York’s nooks and crannies. The signs of better days ahead at the dilapidated Meat Packing district; the magnitude of Central Park; the illuminated glory of Broadway and the bars and brothels of Soho had nothing more to offer. Each quarter had filled a need in me, yet the hullabaloo of city life left me exhausted so it was time to explore the arteries of America’s many hearts.
I pulled out into the road and scowled at the crucifix swinging from the rear-view mirror. I yanked it off its chain and threw it into the back seat. Then Betty and I began our first journey together into the great wide open.
***
Today, 1.20pm
He’d grown uncomfortable and tapped his finger against his lip each time she’d mentioned their children. Inside, she was smiling. Her plan had worked.
‘Remember why you’re here,’ he told himself. ‘Remember who’s in charge.’ He’d fought quite successfully at the start to convince himself not seeing them the morning he left was the correct thing to do. But deep in the pit of his belly, it was his one regret. Because after forcing himself to erase their young faces from his memory, it had later proved an impossible task to bring them back to life.
He’d thought about them more and more since meeting Luciana, and relied on guesswork as to how they might look now. He wondered whom they’d taken after genetically and if it was just James who’d inherited his father’s eyes. He had questioned how their laughter sounded and what their personalities were like, and felt a little downhearted knowing his own would’ve had little bearing on theirs. No matter what they’d taken from him biologically, she’d shaped them, not him.
He imagined what might happen if they were to meet under other circumstances. Would they have liked him? Ideally they’d have got to know him first and decided he was a decent fellow. Because when the big reveal eventually came, it would be harder for them to burn bridges built by someone they’d grown fond of.
While he daydreamed, she stewed on his recollections of sleazy liaisons with whores and pretty young things.
“So you ran away because I couldn’t satisfy you in bed? Or did you just want to sleep with girls half your age?” she asked indignantly. “You sound like a pervert.”
“Of course I’m not.”
“Well you’ll forgive me for saying so, but all I’ve heard so far is that your wife was a lousy lover and your morals were no better than that of an alley cat. And while I was coming to terms with your death, you were burning down hotels and screwing your way around America!”
When hearing it from someone else’s perspective, he conceded that’s exactly how it sounded even though it couldn’t have been further from the truth. He bit his lip; frustrated by both his tactlessness and her for being too focused on the finer details to understand the big picture. He needed to regain control of the situation, but it was proving hard to wrestle from her grip.
“At any point are you going to ask about your children or how they managed without you?”
“Yes, of course,” he replied. “How are they?”
“That’s none of your business.” One nil, she marked on an imaginary scoreboard.
“Don’t be childish,” he snapped. It was the first time he’d used a tone with her.
“Don’t you dare call me childish,” her voice deepened. “Don’t you dare.”
“I’m sorry, that was wrong of me.” He began to feel a dull ache in head. He knew what it meant.
For the first time since the ghost appeared, she felt she had the upper hand. Now he wanted something from her, and she could either pretend her kids’ lives without him had been a bed of roses, or twist the knife in by telling him the truth.
“For the record,” she answered finally, “I have raised three wonderful, loving children. And none of it has been thanks to you.”
It was only then that she noticed he’d been holding his breath, waiting for confirmation they were all alive and well. She felt her eyes narrow when he let out a barely audible, but relieved, sigh. She remembered they had a father too. It had been a long time since she’d thought of him as that.
So she made a snap decision to explain their ups and not to exploit their downs. And she’d make sure he understood that in retrospect, she wouldn’t have changed a minute of their lives without him for anything.
CHAPTER NINE
Northampton, Twenty-Four Years Earlier
April 15, 2.40pm
It was my own stupid fault for not thinking it through properly. It didn’t happen straight away, but cracks gradually appeared in the kids after I admitted I no longer thought you were alive.
Despite the birthday card they’d made me with just the four or us drawn on it, they’d quietly held on to the hope you could still be found. Then I’d opened my big mouth. They didn’t know how to express their grief other than to be angry with someone and as you weren’t around, I took the brunt of it.
Becoming a single mum was made all the harder having known what it was like to have shared the responsibilities. Now I was forced to make decisions on my own. I was good cop and bad cop; nurturer and provider; friend, parent and enemy. I permanently sat under a cloud of guilt – guilty over how I used to drink; for telling them off when they were naughty; for neglecting them when I worked; for letting their daddy vanish… for everything.
But knowing their parameters and what buttons they shouldn’t push was essential. Of course they were too young to see that and reacted to not getting their own way by erupting like two-foot tall volcanoes.
Their behaviour released my changing emotions towards you. I was grateful you were never far from their thoughts, but I also longed for the days when you’d gradually fade from their memories if only to make my life easier. It was selfish, I know.
James rebelled by upsetting others. I was called to his school several times by his headmistress because of his temper. Eventually she had no choice but to suspend him for a week after a fight that left Christopher Healey missing a tooth. I tried spending that time rationalising, sympathising and punishing him and I thought I was getting through to him. Then Roger brought him home one night after he was seen throwing stones at cars parked outside the church. I was back to square one.
James was furious at you for leaving him and I was at my wits end. He lost interest in playing with the friends he hadn’t walloped, so he took his animosity out on his battle weary toy soldiers and He-Man, staging bloody battles to the death. He even stopped reading the Hardy Boys books you’d bought him or watching fat men in colourful leotards wrestle on Saturday afte
rnoon TV.
He only seemed to find a kind of piece when he was playing his records. He spent all his pocket money on singles and it gave me an idea. I dragged the old acoustic guitar you’d given him for his fifth birthday from where he’d dumped it under his bed. I dusted it down, paid to get it re-strung and handed it to him for a predictably nonplussed reaction.
“I’ve also bought you these,” I added, passing him a Teach Yourself Guitar book, along with some sheet music from his new favourite group, U2.
“Do you think they got anywhere by being suspended from school for fighting?” I asked, quietly assuming that’s where and how all rock stars got their first taste of anarchy.
“No,” he mumbled.
“Well if you want to be like them, you can start by learning how to play this. If you enjoy it and practice every day, I’ll pay for proper lessons for you. And one day, you might even make a record of your own.”
Of course I was sure he wouldn’t, but a little white lie wouldn’t do him any harm. A tiny, curious glint appeared in his eyes, but he tried to hide it. And when he thought I wasn’t listening, he began learning chords behind his closed bedroom door.
Over the weeks his enthusiasm came loaded with its own problems, namely the repetition of hearing ‘With Or Without You’ – strummed dreadfully – again and again until the cows came home. But if it kept his mind busy and his fists occupied, my sanity was a small price to pay.
But poor Robbie was a different kettle of fish altogether.
May 1, 4.10pm
Convincing James he could become the next Bono was a doddle in comparison to coaxing Robbie from himself. I’d underestimated how deep his problems lay.
As he grew from baby to toddler to little boy, we accepted he wasn’t like his brother or our friends’ children. He was a sensitive, insular child who carried the weight of the world on his young shoulders at a time when it should have been carrying him. He could make a minor problem ten times worse by dwelling on it rather than sharing it with me.
And while James and Emily were adapting to a new set of rules, Robbie retreated further into himself. I needed one of those small forks you get with a plate of escargot in a French restaurant to pull him out from his shell.
His teachers said he behaved well. He was intelligent for his age and his spelling and maths were way above his six years. But he had no interest in showing how bright he was in front of his class. Socially, he was becoming reclusive.
Robbie seemed to enjoy his siblings’ company; he just didn’t need it. They hit brick walls when they begged him to join in with conversations or to play. And gradually, he used words less and less, until one day, he fell completely silent.
Annie and Caroline tried to convince me he was looking for attention, but I knew him better than that. And after a week of constant quiet I was out of my mind with worry. So began a series of doctors and child psychologist’s appointments until eventually we found ourselves sitting in a room with a specialist in mental welfare.
“He’s not stupid,” I told Dr Phillips defensively, following a barrage of questions and profile tests.
“I know that, Mrs. Nicholson,” she smiled reassuringly. “The purpose of this meeting is to ascertain what the problem might be and not to judge Robbie.”
“What do you think is wrong?”
“I believe he has what’s called Selective Mutism. It means that he can talk if he wants to, but he’s chosen not to.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” I frowned. “You’re saying he just doesn’t want to speak to me anymore?”
“Not just to you, but to anyone. It’s rare, but it happens. Children, particularly ones sensitive to a change in environment or a family unit, can feel they have little control over their lives. The one thing they can control, however, is how they react to those situations. And Robbie’s reacted to his by electing not to speak.”
“So it’s just a phase he’s going through?”
“Maybe, maybe not. I’ve seen cases like Robbie’s last for years. Others remain for a few weeks and then they’re back to normal. There is no way of determining it.”
I turned anxiously towards Robbie who listened intently, but didn’t let out a peep.
“Robbie, please say something. Tell Dr Phillips she’s wrong.” He looked at me and began to open his mouth, considered it, then closed it again. His eyes fell to the floor.
Billy, my breakdown, and then your disappearance clearly had a knock-on effect I should’ve predicted. The world was too huge and scary for my little boy and he was afraid for anyone to hear his voice.
“I suggest you go home and carry on as normal,” added Dr Phillips. “There’s an excellent therapist I can recommend, but Mrs. Nicholson, I’ve yet to see a case continue indefinitely. Just try not to worry and be patient.”
That was easy for her to say.
May 30, 4.10pm
Making Robbie feel even more self-conscious wasn’t going to help him. So while we didn’t pretend something in him hadn’t changed, we didn’t place him under any pressure either.
I learned never to underestimate the tenderness of children. His brother and sister might not have understood his reasons, but they accepted them and treated him like they always did. Mrs. Willoughby even stopped asking him questions in front of the class so she wouldn’t embarrass him.
But Robbie’s alienation meant he spent his playtimes alone. I dropped him off one morning and hovered outside the school gates, watching the other kids playing with Transformer toys and hop scotching across chalk squares.
My chest tightened at Robbie, sat alone in a corner, trying to be invisible because he was too self-conscious to join in.
I wanted to run over, scoop him up in my arms, stroke his thick blond hair and carry him home where I could protect him from everything. But I knew that wouldn’t have helped. I had to let him work through it in his own way. And I knew it was all my fault.
June 4, 5.05pm
Within a year of your disappearance, Emily had spent more than a third of her life without her daddy. You’d helped create a beautiful ball of energy but hadn’t been lucky enough to watch her grow into an astonishing little girl. And without getting to know you, she’d missed out on a wonderful role model. It made me sad.
She’d inherited your compassion for animals. Abandoned baby starlings, snails with broken shells, worms with half a body, and a jar of tadpoles she once told me ‘missed their daddy frog’ had all laid on our kitchen table at one time or another.
By the time your first anniversary arrived, our family was very much in tact. We’d been scared, lonely, battered, abandoned, confused, silenced, angered and still had our bruises. But we were not beaten.
My work was earning me a healthy, regular wage; the bills and the mortgage were paid on time and I’d learned to keep my emotions in check each time I thought of you. I realised I wanted you more than I needed you.
The baby steps we’d taken meant we were finally ready to say goodbye to you. So on your first anniversary, we each dressed in our smartest clothes and walked hand in hand from the house to the bridge over the stream. Oscar lagged behind, determined to catch one of the wild rabbits that always outsmarted him. There had been times when I’d wondered what it would feel like to wade into the water and sail away in the current. But that was all behind me.
“I want to say that I miss you very much Daddy and thank you for my guitar,” began James as we sat. Then he took a song he’d written in an exercise book about you, dropped it between the wooden railings and let it float away.
All Robbie could muster up was a smile as he placed a drawing of you on a cloud sitting next to an angel into the wash. Emily, excited by our trip but unable to grasp its significance, sang Happy Birthday To You instead, unsure of why the rest of her family was giggling. I gave her a hug.
I’d had a reprint made of the last photograph we’d ever had taken of us together at Easter, and let it drift below.
“Thank you Simon for the w
onderful years we had together and for the family we made. I’ll love you forever.”
We sat on the bridge until well beyond teatime, reliving memories and anecdotes of you, from how we met to the best game of football you’d ever taken the boys to watch.
A year that had began so miserably and so painfully closed with warmth and with love.
***
Georgia, America, Twenty-Four Years Earlier
April 19, 4.10pm
My American reincarnation had been rich with fresh experiences and offered pleasure in colliding with other temporal travellers.
Hotels and motels offered physical comfort and practical amenities. But they were characterless, lonely places. I appreciated my own company but being around others embellished my adventure. So hostels were always my first choice for off-road respite.
I’d scan the notice boards where others asked for lifts to one place or another. And most days Betty was awash with new faces as we dipped in and out of the East coast, passing through Philadelphia, Washington DC, over to Indianapolis and then through Memphis, Raleigh, Atlanta and Savannah.
Micro-relationships were, by their very nature, destined to offer me only short-term satisfaction. Because any pleasure gained was tainted by the alienation that always followed. Maps, wanderlust and free will meant sooner or later, we’d each begin our separate journeys, destined never to meet again.
And from time to time, it made me think about those I’d left behind. My lifestyle meant I would never find anyone to replace you all, even if I’d wanted to. And I was beginning to wonder if one day, I might.
For years, you’d been the only constant in my life. We became inseparable the day Mr. Hopkins partnered us to study Shakespeare’s Macbeth. It was your brown curly hair and apple-cheek smile that drew my eye. You weren’t like your peers – you made no attempt to make yourself look older by hitching up your hemline or lowering an extra button on your shirt. Your lips lacked artificial colour and you didn’t frame your eyes with mascara. Your clothes were fashionable and fitted but garnished with your own twists like a rogue ribbon or belt. I liked that you were different because so was I.
