Coma

by Emmy Ellis

  “Them Upstairs think you’re about ready for the gym, too. What do you think about that? Reckon you can work hard and transform yourself into a hunk?”

  I laughed and almost choked on my juice.

  * * * *

  And so it came to pass that I finally let everything out. Jen encouraged me to face all my demons, even those that loitered far back in my memory.

  One such particularly hard session to face had me swallowing the lump in my throat. That lump seemed to stretch the more I spoke. It almost suffocated me. But I’d promised to tell the truth and not the made-up stuff my mind conjured to protect my sanity. Dr Phil on TV said the truth hurt, and I was testament to that. So much so that the words sometimes refused to be spoken.

  “Let’s revisit the time when your mother and father’s marriage began to fall apart.”

  I took one of my many deep breaths and spiralled into the past. I leaned my head against the back of my chair and closed my eyes.

  Dad worked really hard. Always seemed to be working. He’d come home, obviously tired; his face took on a haggard appearance, greying hair, even greyer circles beneath his eyes, wrinkles more like owl’s feet than a crow’s. He’d slump down on the couch, a great gust of wind leaving his mouth, and lay his head back. Close his watery blue eyes.

  “Just got to rest my eyes for a minute, Wayne, and then I’ll help you with your homework.”

  Before I’d even answered, “Okay, Dad,” a snore rumbled in his throat. His mouth dropped open, his chin hit his chest, and he was out for the count.

  Mags came into the living room, as she always did, and planted her hands on her skinny hips, cocked one knee, and let out her own gale-force sigh.

  “Gone to fucking sleep again? What a surprise. Dickhead’s no use to anyone.”

  She flounced out of the room and slammed pots and pans around in the kitchen. Deliberately loud, Mags liked making a point.

  I went into the kitchen, sat at the table, and did my homework by myself, thinking I’d leave the harder questions for when Dad woke up but attempted them the best I could. The less he had to do, the better.

  “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Mags slopped a tin of tomatoes into a pan with what smelled like minced beef and onions. Tomato juice splashed out and landed on the front of her white blouse. “Like I fucking needed that to happen. Red stain on my top. Wonderful, just fucking brilliant. Shit!”

  I put my pencil down. Mags turned to the sink and picked up a wet cloth, daubed at the stain. The result: peanut butter from the cloth made one hell of a mess.

  “Now that’s just really pissed me off. Did you wipe up peanut butter without rinsing the cloth afterwards, kid?”

  The backs of my eyeballs hurt. Panic fluttered in my chest; butterfly wings battered the hell out of my heart.

  “Umm. Sorry, Mum.”

  “You will be fucking sorry one of these days, kid. And how many times have I told you not to call me mum? I’m too young for this ‘mum’ shit. I’ve got a name. Use it.”

  I fiddled with my pencil, put the point between my finger and thumb, the wood smooth against my skin.

  “Sorry, Mags.”

  Mags took off her blouse, stuffed it in the washing machine with a cup of detergent, and poked the ON button. Snatching a T-shirt from the clean pile of washing on the table next to me, she said, “Sorry for what? Calling me mum, or ruining my blouse with your peanut butter?”

  Used to accepting blame, I said, “Both.”

  “Good, glad we got that sorted, because when your father finally wakes up, I can tell him what you’ve done, and you can accept your punishment with no arguing. Right?”

  “Yes, Mags.”

  “Right!”

  With jerky movements, Mags stirred the food in the pan. I fixed my gaze on her elbow and wondered if every part of her was pointy, hard, and unyielding like that.

  “So before everything went to shit and you ruined my blouse, I asked you a question. Answer it.”

  I immediately said, “I don’t know.”

  The hurricane of breath came out of her mouth so hard the netted window curtain to her right flapped slightly.

  “You don’t know. You don’t know what you want to be when you’re older, or you don’t know what I asked you?”

  I crossed my ankles, swung my legs back and forth beneath my chair. “I don’t know what I want to be when I’m older. I’m only small still.”

  “Yeah, and isn’t that a shame? The quicker you grow up, the quicker I can get on with my own life. Damn fool bitch having a kid.”

  Mags didn’t speak further for a while. The sound of the wooden spoon hitting the side of the pan, punctuated by her ragged breaths, seemed to echo around in my head. Loud, too loud. I pulled my gaze from her—she’d accuse me of staring, and she didn’t like that, said I did it a lot—and tried to concentrate on my maths homework.

  IF PETER HAS FIVE FRIENDS AND SIX SWEETS, HOW MANY SWEETS WOULD EACH PERSON HAVE IF PETER SHARED THEM?

  I sucked on the end of my pencil and stared out of the back door’s square window. The leaves on the trees danced, jostled with one another. Was the wind angels’ sighs? Oranges and browns flickered on the branches. A particularly hefty gust forced a yellow leaf to break free from its moorings. It spiralled down and landed on top of the bed of leaves covering the grass.

  A plastic bag rustled; Mags getting out the potatoes? The utensils drawer slid open, steel rattling as she selected a knife. Mags ripped open the potato bag and picked out a large spud. The sound of the knife cutting the peel reminded me to get back to my homework. It had to be completed before dinner.

  I bit my lower lip and imagined Peter with his five friends. He dealt out his sweets. One each.

  “One!”

  “What are you going on about, kid?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Good. Keep it that way.”

  * * * *

  “Dad. Dad…” I reached out and prodded him lightly on the shoulder. “It’s dinner time.”

  Dad’s eyes snapped open, and the pupils expanded.

  “Dinner time already? Must have fallen asleep.” He blinked and stood, straightened his shirt, and smoothed his hair with his palms. “Best be getting in the kitchen then, before Mum tells me off.”

  I trailed behind him, hoped and prayed Mags didn’t tell him about her blouse. I was so naïve, so daft to think she wouldn’t, but hope resided within a kid, even when time and time again they were proved wrong, they still had hope.

  A pile of mashed potato sat next to minced beef and gravy on my plate. Garden peas—a little pyramid of them—completed the meal. Hunger nipped at my guts in bird-like pecks.

  “Have a good sleep?” Mags asked.

  Sarcastic bitch.

  “Yes, sorry about that. Can’t seem to keep my eyes open once my arse hits the couch.” Dad laughed.

  It sounded hollow to me.

  I loaded my fork with mash, burned my tongue when I put it in my mouth. My eyes watered, and I shifted the food round in an attempt to keep it off my tongue. I couldn’t open my mouth and let air in to cool it, otherwise Mags would freak, so I swallowed, and it burned all the way down to my stomach.

  “You’re turning into an old man,” Mags said.

  “Feels like it.” Dad shovelled mince into his mouth. A glob of gravy slid down his chin.

  A tornado breath burst from Mags. “Any more overtime going at your place?”

  I looked up.

  Dad’s eyes widened. “What? You want me to work overtime over the overtime? Shit, Mags. I can’t do any more hours.”

  “Best I get a job, then. Can’t have you saying I’m not doing my part.” Mags poked peas onto the tines of her fork.

  “And when have I ever said that? I told you, I don’t mind working if it means you get to stay at home.”

  “Well, I reckon with Wayne at school full time, there isn’t any excuse for me to be at home now. Besides, even you doing overtime doesn’t bring in the k
ind of money I need. I want to buy things. Clothes and stuff like that. Not that you’d understand. It’s a woman thing.”

  Dad ate mash topped with beef. A pea had latched on to the potato and fell off, splashing into the gravy on his plate.

  My tummy rolled over.

  “Messy bastard,” Mags grumbled. “And that reminds me. The reason I need more clothes is because Wayne ruined my blouse earlier.”

  Dad turned to me. “Is that so?”

  I nodded.

  “How did you do that?”

  “Mum, I mean, Mags got some tom—”

  “Wayne, tell it like it really happened.”

  I glanced at Mags. Her eyebrows almost met in the middle, so fierce was her frown. She twirled her fork in front of her and made jabbing motions with it.

  “I left a smear of peanut butter on the worktop, and Mags leaned against it.”

  “Oh dear,” Dad said.

  “So.” Mags looked at Dad and with a bright voice said, “Do you want to punish him, or shall I?”

  Painful tummy.

  I looked at Dad.

  “Well,” he said, “I don’t really think that warrants—”

  “That’s settled, then. I’ll do it.” Mags reached out and grabbed my chin, turning me to face her. “Eat your dinner and then go upstairs. The belt’s in the usual place, kid.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “You do realise,” Jen said, “that Mags’ actions aren’t your fault, don’t you?”

  “What do you mean by that?” I shifted in my chair, fisted my wet eyes.

  “Well, her treating you in that manner wasn’t anything to do with you as such. It had more to do with her and how she felt about herself at the time. You were just an easy target, someone she could foist all the blame on to. She probably felt like life was passing her by, that there she was, a married woman with a child, and where had all the fun gone? Some women experience this, and they choose to take their frustrations out on those less able to fight back. In Mags’ case, that person was you.”

  It made sense really. Mags did seem to enjoy giving me a whack. In those days, I reckoned everything that pissed her off came out with each lash of the belt. Stung my arse like crazy, stung my emotions even more, and off she’d go, without a care in the world, all content within herself because her anger had been unleashed.

  “Wayne? Are you all right?”

  “Um, yes. Sorry.”

  Jen narrowed her eyes. “Okay…if you’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we’ll continue. So. Your mother got herself a job. She changed at this point, started to dress seductively. She talked incessantly about a man named Scott, and then your parents split up. Correct so far?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your mother allowed Scott to move into the family home.”

  “Yes.” I squirmed in my seat, still unable to face the dancing demon that was Scott.

  “A short time after your father moved out, obviously distraught and going through a terrible time, he lost his concentration on the road while driving his car. He crashed into a brick wall. I must say that you coped with the telling of this period in your life extremely well, Wayne. Them Upstairs are happy with your progress.”

  “It hurts, but feels good to get it out,” I said.

  “I’m sure it does. So, back we go. Your father died. You came to some conclusions at this time about Mags and realised she really wasn’t a normal person.”

  “Yes.”

  “And Scott didn’t like you very much either, did he?”

  “No.”

  “So, tell me now how you felt in this next phase of your life. Don’t leave anything out, and remember, I’m here to help you when you find it particularly difficult. I want you to focus on the peas, Wayne. This seems to be a difficult thing for you to discuss. We have enough time today for you to banish those particular demons, and then you can move on.”

  * * * *

  Scott moved in and took over the whole house. Seemed like his junk was everywhere. Shoes, coats, knickknacks. Every place I turned, a part of him mocked me, stared back from its place on the shelf or the sideboard and smiled like a shark, waiting for me to bleed.

  Mags and Scott, they left for work in the mornings together. It seemed as though they never tired of one another and, looking back, I knew their relationship bordered on obsession.

  Scott, volatile and sneaky, gave Mags as good as she gave him. They shared the same twisted logic in many things, especially in how they dealt with me.

  Despite Scott and Mags appearing glued to one another at the hip, there were times when they weren’t together, and I was left alone with one of them. With Mags it wasn’t so bad. I’d grown up with her, knew exactly what she’d do in most circumstances, and so successfully avoided upsetting her most times. She’d get clever and catch me out from every so often, but I’d coped with her brand of retribution for years, so I concentrated on keeping out of Scott’s way.

  Dad’s insurance policy paid out quite a sum, and it sickened me to see Scott getting his filthy hands on it. He and Mags squandered it. They lounged on the new sofa and issued their commands, and good old Wayne came running, then scuttled off to do their bidding. I grabbed beers from the fridge, passed them the remote control, or made sandwiches. One time resulted in me nearly hacking off my thumb with a sharp knife.

  Cutting the sandwiches, I’d forgotten to move my thumb out of the way.

  Blood ran fast sometimes, spilled out and looked more than it actually was. My heart thrummed like bees buzzing in my chest, stinging me. Shit, my dilemma was whether to tell them I’d cut my thumb or try to stop the blood myself.

  The bread, spotted with crimson, gave away my crime.

  Giggles filtered into the kitchen from the living room, followed by the step-slip-step of Scott’s slippered feet.

  Shit.

  His breath hot on my neck, he said, “Cut yourself, shithead?”

  I blinked, nodded. “Yes.”

  “Retard.” He sniggered, each burst of air hot on my skin. Louder, he said, “Hey, Mags. Come and see what the dumb fuck has done now.”

  At first, Mags’ voice sounded far away but grew in volume as she came nearer to the kitchen. “Aww, fuck’s sake. What’s he done?” Weary.

  She’s tired of me.

  Scott’s presence behind me eased. He must have stepped away on silent feet. “Just come and see.” Funny how he could do that sometimes.

  Mags stood beside me, and I chanced a quick look at her.

  “You fucking dense piece of shit!” Spittle from her mouth landed on my cheek. “Can’t even cut a pissing sandwich. What a waste of bread and ham. You know we aren’t going to be the ones eating that now, don’t you?”

  I nodded. Chest hurting, chest hurting. I stared back down at the sandwich, then my thumb. Still bleeding.

  Mags reached over and opened the cupboard above me. Her armpit rested on the top of my head, and I smelled the faint dry musk of her sweat.

  “Shit. We’ve run out of plasters,” she said and turned to Scott.

  “Don’t look at me,” he said. “I’m not going up to the shop.”

  “I’ll go then. You gonna keep an eye on the kid, or does he have to come with me?”

  “No. I’ll watch him. We can have a nice chat, can’t we, Wayne?”

  Tummy tumbles, they were painful sometimes.

  Nod, just nod.

  Mags yanked her bag from the handle of the kitchen door and flounced down the hallway. For once, I was sorry to see her go. I looked back at the worktop and put my thumb in my mouth. Passed my tongue over the cut. A sharp pain snapped from my thumb to my wrist. The taste of copper spread through my mouth, and I wanted to gag.

  The sound of material swished…was Scott walking away?

  “Turn around, kid.”

  I turned.

  “See this?” He pointed to his groin. “Well, this here is your new best friend. You’d better get used to seeing him, because he�
��s gonna be around for a long time. Got it?”

  My eyes grew wide.

  Scott leaned forward, his nose almost touching mine. “I said, got it?”

  His breath stung the insides of my nostrils, and my eyes watered. “Yes.”

  “Good. Now,” Scott adjusted his clothing, all zipped up, “let’s see you eat that bloody sandwich.”

  * * * *

  Jen sighed. She tried to make it a quiet one, but I heard it. I’d listened to so many sighs in my lifetime, I could spot a disguised one a mile off.

  “That is so incredibly sad. You’d be amazed at how many different variations of that story I’ve heard in my time.”

  I kept my eyes closed, head resting on the back of my chair.

  “But hey, we’re not going to get maudlin, are we?” she said. “We’re going to fight this until the end. Right?”

  “Yes.”

  “The peas, then. Remember the peas, Wayne.”

  Blinding pain shot through my head. Jen had said the very words Scott had just in the hospital. Panic grew from my gut to my chest, expanded like a balloon being blown up, filling my lungs and throat with coarse air.

  I snapped my hand up to my throat and snatched at my skin.

  “Wayne? Wayne! Focus. Scott cannot hurt you. He resides only in your mind. Blow…blow out. That’s it. Now in again, deep breath…that’s right, and ouuuut. Regulate your breathing. Tell yourself Scott can’t get to you anymore. Visualise him in chains. The chains are made of his sins and guilt and, the more you tell me about those sins, the tighter his binds will become. They’ll grow over his mouth. He won’t be able to eat or speak. He’ll starve and die. Isn’t that what you want? For Scott to die and wither in your mind? Crumble into ash so that we can expel one of those sighs of yours and blow the dust away?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. Now, take a moment to adjust yourself to the next tale you want to tell me. Relax. Keep your eyes closed. That’s it. Well done. Begin when you’re ready.”