Angry Coral Week

by Dillie Dorian

  I made my wobbly way back to Charlie. “Zak and Kitty are fine,” I told him.

  “Don’t care if Zak’s fine; he can rollerski his way down Dunlivingbridge if he must.”

  I put my hand on his arm. “Charlie, please don’t be so-”

  He flinched, looking his usual, seriously confuddled self. “I’m not being ‘so’ anything!”

  “Oh, please calm down!” I sighed, sinking back into my mildly uncomfortable green chair.

  “Sorry.”

  Just a singular “sorry”; that was all.

  I wished I understood him like Devon did.

  “How about I tell you about all the nice stuff that happened when we were little? Then when people bring up the subject of childhood you don’t have to sit there and feel like it meant nothing.”

  “I know what it meant: it meant the difference between having the little pink body of a baby, and being a gorgeous and wonderful teenager.”

  I was tempted to cynically add that maybe it was the junk inbetween that had actually prevented that emerging-from-cocoon moment from arriving as of yet, but kept schtum.

  Except for: “But didn’t you… like… enjoy parts of it? Like playing with play-dough all together, and sitting on Santa’s knee at the supermarket?”

  “That Santa was a creep.”

  “Well, how about when we were first old enough to go and play in the park on our own? Or walking to school together? Or when Zak and Kitty were born?”

  Oops, bad move. Like he’d think cutely of our little brother and his fluffy blonde head and blue sleepsuit, sat on his lap in the first ever Charlie-and-Zak photo…

  “Ugh…”

  “Ugh?”

  “Kitty looked like an old alien lady with worms for legs.”

  I actually wanted to hit him. Could you hit someone for being grossed out? I mean, it hadn’t exactly been his fault that at six years old he’d found premature babies creepy. I was kind of glad we were in a hospital, because the decision was made for me.

  “Well, don’t you ever tell her that,” I settled on saying, suddenly a little worried that he would put her teen self-esteem in the same place ours was.

  “I don’t even want to talk about it, Harley!” He scowled, glaring at the ceiling lights ’til he went visibly dizzy and shut his eyes.

  OK, we wouldn’t talk about it. But we’d talk about something, or I’d be the one dying of future worry to match his past worry.

  “Fine, fine – hey, I told you about Wibbly Pig. Do you remember… Dr Xargle’s Book of Earth Tiggers? It was all about taking the mickey out of cats, but for little kids. That has to be my number-one favourite-”

  “Huh? Sorry, I wasn’t listening, but I think I might in a minute. I need my brain to shut down for a bit. But I don’t trust it on Standby, so I’m just gonna dash to the-”

  I sighed.

  I knew I didn’t stand the chance of a signed Elvis LP in a crowd of mad old ladies of convincing my damaged twin’s brain to stay idle for a few seconds of reminiscing…

  It wasn’t like his mind wasn’t idle – it spent the best part of each day daydreaming the rockstar fantasy; it just didn’t know the meaning of sitting there and making sense of the day…

  “Right,” I said, as he settled himself back down on the chair next to me, hands reassuringly bubbly (i.e. he’d washed them). “The Dr Xargle book was great: all about cats, with really silly pictures. It’s perfect for people who don’t read that well yet. Or people who get bored easily and will enjoy trying to say ‘Oops, I’ve slumped on a thargball and fractured both my braincells’ or whatever with a straight face. Oh, and I mean both the braincells…” I tried to appeal to his sense of humour.

  He did giggle, but only a bit. “That’s mad, though.”

  “We’re all mad here. It’s just that I’ve been channelling it into my letters to Shell.”

  “Oh, fine, I’ll admit it!” he blushed.

  Admit what?

  Was he gonna say he’d been reading my private letters or something?

  And did I really mind that much?

  “Admit…?” I prompted him.

  “I’ll admit that not all my memories are bad. There’s some really rainbowy nice ones in there, but thinking that makes me feel… wonky…”

  “Aww,” I said, “I thought so. I wish you’d told me, though - I really wondered why you’d gone all detached and moody this year. You were always really… well… fun…”

  “Thanks.” He winced, “I just feel like it’s not… well, it’s not what boys do! We don’t sit there and muse over the past and try really hard to feel like we’re there all over again – I think most of us just live for now. Like dogs do.”

  Suddenly something popped into my head that made me convinced he was lying, and he really did have these thoughts: “You tell Devon all these memories, don’t you…?”

  I’d wondered on occasion how she knew so much about us and our past…

  “I guess I do.”

  I knew I wasn’t gonna get any more out of him. He was back in la-la land, planning his hedonistic lifestyle in great detail. Or maybe, just maybe, he was thinking about family stuff for once…

  #12 A Lot Of Delayed-Reaction Sniffles

  “You two here for Sandra Robinson?” asked Charlie’s “hot nurse” in a gentle tone.

  We were both half asleep, since the conversation had kinda died ages ago. I looked for the time on my phone, but the battery had run out.

  Already. No wonder Keisha had wanted shot of it at Christmas. (But then again she’d had three others since, so maybe she was the one who’d run the batteries rubbish anyway. Or bored them rubbish…)

  “Yep,” I said, zizzily, prodding Charlie awake.

  “The baby’s here. A little boy…”

  Well, I’d known that anyway, but hearing it said out loud in a definitive, he’s-definitely-here nature was exactly what I’d been waiting for.

  “Wow…” mumbled Charlie, in a tone more genuinely spellbound than it looks on paper.

  We followed her into the room Mum was in, curtained away from several mothers with suckling babies. (And before you ask, Charlie was so much in seven-again mode that he didn’t give them a second shifty look.)

  “Oh, hey, guys!” Harry grinned, looking as excitable and bubbly as his smart-casual personality allowed for.

  “Can we see him?” I asked, noticing that Mum wasn’t holding anybody. I was panicked for a second, worried that something last-minute had gone wrong. But then why would Harry look so cheerful?

  “Of course!” beamed Charlie’s “hot nurse”, as another one bustled back with a tiny human in her arms, which she handed to Mum.

  “Had a lot of practise, I can see, Mr and Mrs Robinson…” said the Bustly Nurse.

  Um… no, they hadn’t actually had any of that practise together – but like I was going to point that out! They were both amazing parents!

  I properly focussed on the teeny little figure Mum was cradling. A real, newborn baby boy, already with a fluff of blonde on his head that really did remind me of the Zak photo.

  Mum seemed a bit speechless – this was only the second child of hers to be born spotlessly, wax-mouldedly perfect, without a blemish nor a struggle to breathe…

  After a while, the baby actually opened his eyes, and they were predictably blue, but blue like Harry and Aimee’s, rather than like Mum’s or any of ours.

  It was amazing that I could find so much wonderfulness to fixate on when I’d known all too well exactly what I was getting, months beforehand. (With the baby’s gender and similar looks of the parents to play with, The Sims would struggle to invent anything too different.)

  Eventually, Mum handed him gently to Harry, who was looking down at his second child, sixteen years after the first one. That was a really long time, and his expression showed that he was only just thinking about it properly. He’d soon be a grandpa…

  “Hey, guys,” Harry said, finally, motioning to the seat beside the bed
. “Who’s first?”

  I looked at Charlie, and Charlie looked at me.

  We didn’t know.

  Time to be generous: “You saved the day.”

  He said, equally nervously, “But you were here first. Literally here first on this ward.”

  And then we somehow found ourselves both squishing up in the chair, minding my bad ankle and laying the crutches under Mum’s bed. We awkwardly held our little brother, together.

  My stomach had gone all squirmy at the overload of family cuteness going on, and there wasn’t even a snuffly pet to ruin the moment and take the pressure off. Or for me to bury my face in…

  The baby boy was all wrinkly, pinkly, purply natural, and his pale blue eyes reflected just how stupid all the things we worried about were – all of us were truly dumb in this world, and if every person was designated a moment like this (real; not virtual reality), then maybe everyone would be a little more sensitive. Let’s just hope it worked on Zak when we got back home with the baby.

  The harsh ceiling lights of the sterile ward blurred, and I understood why Charlie’d had to stare into them earlier; it was sort of mesmerising, but at the same time I didn’t want to see. The dodgy pattern on the pastel curtain shielding us from the other cooey mummies began to swirl before my eyes. Even putting my focal spotlight on the sheeny floor was useless – the only place I wanted to be looking into was my baby brother’s eyes of innocence, and when I dared look up at my other brother, that was when I realised we’d both been enveloped by a streaming face of tears and a relentlessly acute case of delayed-reaction sniffles.

  And that was the only complication…

  #13 Rainclouds & Not-So-Natural Disasters

  We’d arrived back so late that it was technically early.

  Ben had come to pick us up, because Harry had decided that exactly what he needed right now was a sleepless night hunched protectively in a chair beside Mum’s bed, while the unnamed baby zizzed in a plastic cot.

  Me and Charlie had no trouble avoiding falling asleep in the car – not only is Ben quite the teenage opposite of a smooth, Harry-type driver, but we were still full of contented speechlessness.

  And when we arrived back, something fazed us about wandering back into our own house, with the gory Layla towels strewn everywhere and the disgruntled pets to trip over in the twilight, and the video that would’ve run onto that zebra-documentary you get at the end, and-

  The bath.

  Had he, or had he not switched the taps off when he’d rushed downstairs to see to Mum?

  Omigod.

  “Ch-Ch-Charlie…” I stammered, my key-holding hand trembling so much that I dropped it, and he had to bend down to get it for me. “Did you turn the taps off?”

  “The taps?”

  “When you had that bath…” I floundered.

  His flickery, tired eyes bounced wide open. “I… I… I… actually don’t think I d-did!”

  That was another moment that tempted both of us to curse out loud, waking the street, but we remained positive, and let ourselves in.

  The kitchen was bad enough: there were four strays and Fred perched at various high-off-the-floor spots on cabinets and counters and the top of the fridge, and the cushion and dog basket and everything were badly drenched, even though it was only a puddle and not even a centimetre deep at best.

  Charlie flicked the lights on and helped me across the room to the arch leading into the living-room. And OH MY GOD!!!

  Considering the amount of sofa, carpet, rug, cabinet bottoms and wicker baskets of DVDs that lived down there (along with the dust that was floating unpleasantly along the top), there was substantial damage.

  That and the fact that the green tarpaulin had given way again, so it had knocked a sizeable amount of ornaments and photos and other knickknacks onto the floor.

  Compared to the original, floor-bursting hell in November, this was practically a national disaster scene. And just when I’d been casually musing on how perfect everything would be now that the baby tied our family and Harry’s so wonderfully.

  Charlie was equally gobsmacked, and without uttering a syllable, he charged upstairs to inspect the damage and turn off the bathtaps.

  On return, he said, “It’s alright up there – the dogs and Stu retreated up to the attic landing, and Layla’s cuddling Fisty like she’s her own…”

  I thought quickly, and decided we’d better nip next door and explain the situation to Devon’s gran. Nope, better idea – stay next-door and not have to feel weird in this eerie, freaky, slightly creaky house that we knew and loved…

  “Hendrix! Layla! Fisty! Stu! C’mon!” I yelled up the stairs, hearing two large, furry fairies bound; one smaller furry fairy bound; and a little, white, scrunchie-sporting house bunny flollop towards us, and before we knew it, three doglets and a rabbit were in a squeaky, sniffy heap at our feet.

  Oops. We’d left the front door open – but this was a good thing; the stray furry-purries had all escaped to the fresh air and were nowhere to be seen. Of course, if we locked the door, they’d only go and curl up in the shed when they couldn’t get into the house; they’d be fine.

  We rang Devon’s bell, and I put on my best endearing face to Devon’s gran: “Um… any room for… uh… four, five… six more?”

  She tutted, and let us in. “What’s going on?”

  “Our house has sort of flooded,” said Charlie.

  “How?”

  “I left the taps on…” he mumbled, noting her disapproving look. “Come on; my mum was unconscious!!”

  Devon’s gran didn’t get narked at his accidental insolence -oops!-, but in fact just laughed, nodding towards Zak, who was hunched inside a sleeping bag on the sofa biting his nails to pieces.

  “Zak!” I said, rushing over to give him a hug, which he accepted this time. “Everything’s OK! They’ve had a boy, and he’s perfect!”

  Zak heaved a huge sigh of relief – “Thank God!”

  “Well, everything’s not-so OK,” Charlie pointed out, as pessimistically as I’m often prone to be – then seeing the shocked and upset look on Zak’s face, he hastily set his mind at rest: “But it’s nothing to do with Mum or Harry or the baby, so don’t worry – just me being an idiot and leaving the taps on. We’ve had a ground-floor flash flood.”

  I was so pleased to hear my two oldest younger brothers laughing with each other for once, that I’d forgotten to be wary of Devon’s dog, Bilbo, heading right for my drippy Shepherd.

  “Layla!” I yelled, knowing that no amount of chastisement would keep her away from the second horny male of the week. “Charlie, quick, grab her!”

  Devon appeared on the stairs. “Hey guys!” she called, bending awkwardly when she reached the bottom to hold her hormonal sheepdog back.

  “We’ve got another brother!” I announced, watching Layla look alarmed that Bilbo was done sniffing her bum, due to considerable scolding from Devon.

  “Oh, yay! What’s his name?!” She glinted.

  “Doesn’t have one yet…” Charlie told her.

  “Me and Kitty were just watching Winnie the Pooh. I know it’s late, but she had to share my bed, and she was all… fiddly and kicky and stuff, so I put a video on. Hope you don’t-”

  “I don’t mind,” I said, receiving help to get up the stairs from Devon (who’d just shut Bilbo in the kitchen) and Charlie.

  “…just a little black rainCLOUD! La-la-la-la-la-la-la-di-dah…” Devon trilled, cheerfully, slightly out of tune, but in a perfectly good voice.

  Charlie blushed behind his hair, going back to being our own little black raincloud like he usually is. “How is she? Um… other than fiddly and kicky and stuff…?”

  “Happy. She’s pretty sure everything’s gonna be perfectly-”

  Devon had stopped talking. She’d stopped talking because she’d just spotted what we’d both spotted: the mere insinuation that me and Charlie were here now and talking cheerfully must’ve sent her drifting off to sleep before a s
till-singing Pooh.

  Aww…

  #14 Please, God, No!

  Ben and Aimee had decided to be very adult about something. As part of their Happy Family Dress Rehearsal course, they’d volunteered to brave it in our emptyish, v. v. v. damp household, in practise for parenty sacrifices, and were catching their own romantic zizzes somewhere dry at ours.

  I’d had to squash up in Devon’s bed with Kitty and Bilbo (who we were keeping a close eye on), while the other dogs (and rabbit) accompanied Zak in the living room and Charlie slept on in Ben’s bed across the hall. To think how weirdly unlike any other Saturday morning this was was unsettling.

  One of us would have to break it to Harry about the house, or Ben/Aimee had already done it, or he’d notice at approximately the same moment he helped Mum and the baby out of the car, in the fatherly frame of mind that he was coming back to a house full of zizzing family.

  I was lying awake (and trust me, I was the only one doing that) after a very tiring, emotional, furry, damp night, and I really didn’t feel like I knew anything anymore – the world looked seriously crooked, all of a sudden.

  And it wasn’t like we’d been in a genuine disaster, or that the baby was in a critical condition, or anyone had even got damaged further than being a little bit wet; I’d just somehow turned topsy-turvy overnight, and my weird brain was still reeling from the week’s events.

  That, and my non-fractured leg had gone pretty much to sleep, thanks to a heavy-for-seven sister and a Collie-dog. Oh well, at least I hadn’t fallen out of bed like my unfortunate friend Devon, who hadn’t noticed she’d been turfed out and was sprawled with an orange beret clutched in her hand and a lacy piece of mini-tablecloth/sofa-arm-cover over her face.

  Kitty was lying (yes, on me) with her fingers sleepily stroking at the black-and-white dog, eyes shut and face angelic (except for what looked like a kid-consoling chocolate mousse moustache from before we arrived last night), in her Bratz T-shirt and heart-patterned knickers. Occasionally she’d mumble something like, “Mmm… wsssubbbbuddddddaaaaaaafffff…”

  I glanced at the sparkly clock on the bedside table. Me and Devon had made clocks together as part of our RM project, and while mine had looked like a green guinea-pig with a headache, hers had come out like an authentic giftshop article. Now, there was something normal: whatever font the numbers are written, you can always tell what time it is on an alarm clock.