‘But you need to listen, Alfie.’
In some ways, I’d like to bottle Alfie’s exuberance so I could use it myself on a grey day. But trying to do anything with him feels like being thrown around on a white-knuckle ride – eventually you just need it to stop.
‘Please can I lick the bowl at the end?’
‘Maybe.’
‘You have to say yes.’
‘Maybe.’
I can tell by the way Alfie’s body is twitching that he’s getting really agitated. I know how he feels.
‘Please say yes. Please say I can lick the bowl.’
‘If you listen from now on.’
‘Then I’ll definitely be able to have it?’
‘Yes. Now we need to do the eggs.’
I take an egg out of the box.
‘I want to do it. I want to do it.’
‘No, I’ll do this bit.’
‘Emily lets me.’ Alfie grabs the egg out of my hand with such force that it cracks and snot-like goo falls on to the worktop, down on to the stool and eventually lands with a plop on the floor, mixing with the flour to make a delightful congealed paste.
‘For God’s sake, Alfie, just get out.’ I lift him down off the chair and place him on the kitchen floor away from the mess.
Before I can stop him, he runs towards me and steps right in the glue-like mixture.
‘What are you doing? Use your brain. There’s crap all over the floor.’
Alfie runs out of the kitchen and up the stairs to his bedroom, his socks leaving sticky footprints every step of the way.
I follow him up. ‘Now it’s on the carpet. Take your socks off.’
He crosses his arms.
‘I’m going to count to three and if you haven’t taken off your socks, you can go straight to bed and you won’t come out until morning.’
Alfie puts his chin to his chest.
‘One.’
‘I’m not listening to stupid Daddy.’
‘Two.’
Alfie’s eyes don’t leave the floor.
‘Three.’
Alfie pulls off his socks and charges towards me. Just as I think I’ve won the battle, instead of handing them to me, he holds them in his fist and punches me straight in the nuts. Without thinking, I lift my arm and the noise of the slap seems to ricochet off the walls, as my palm makes contact with his cheek.
For a moment, Alfie stops still and stares at me, a look of utter confusion spreading across his features. Then come the tears and the screams as he pushes against my thighs, managing to shove me out the door, which he then slams in my face.
I try to get in but it won’t budge. I slide my back down the door and let my head fall against it, imagining Alfie, a mirror image of me, on the other side. And then, for what is probably only the third time in my adult life, I start sobbing. I’m like a pipe that’s suddenly been unblocked, like my body is purging all the pent-up crap that’s been stuck inside me for so long.
I’ve heard friends talk about smacking their kids. None of them seem proud of it, but they’re not overly bothered either. But it’s something I’ve always sworn I would never do. I was hit as a child, not in a ‘call social services’ way, just in the way lots of kids were when I was little. You knew if you messed up, you’d suffer for it. But I still remember each and every time Dad hit me. I can picture where we were, whether I’d really deserved it or not and, most importantly, I remember exactly how I felt. Betrayed. And that’s exactly what I just saw in the eyes of my little boy, and I know I need to do whatever it takes to never have to see that again.
‘Alfie,’ I splutter through the tears. ‘Alfie, open the door.’
I hear the swoosh of boxes of Lego being poured out on to the floor. ‘No. I hate you. Go away. You’re never coming in.’
‘Alfie, I’m sorry. Please let me in. I just want to give you a cuddle. I’m sorry, Alfie. I didn’t mean it.’
More Lego crashes on to the floor and then Alfie starts throwing things at the door. ‘Go away. You are not my friend any more, Daddy. Never, ever again.’
‘Well, you’ll always be mine, little man. I’ll come back in a bit and keep checking on you until you let me in.’
I go into my room, slump on my bed and reach underneath it to find my laptop. I open the PDA Society page and try to take in all the information: anxiety-driven need to be in control and avoid other people’s demands … underpinned by an intolerance of uncertainty … uses social strategies such as negotiation as part of the avoidance … meltdowns should be viewed as panic attacks … excessive mood swings … obsessions. I click on the strategies to try at home. Adjust your mindset. ‘Being told’ cannot solve the problem and nor can sanctions. Pick your battles and try to balance tolerance and demands. It’s like a punch to the chest. Before she even knew about PDA, Emily managed to work out what Alfie needed – and I just made him worse. My eyes fall on a quote from a child with the condition: Although I’m acting angry, what I’m feeling is terror.
I shut my laptop and go straight to Alfie’s room. When I push the door, it opens and my heart throbs as I watch Alfie sitting amongst a huge pile of Lego, sensibly sorting it back into its coloured boxes. He’s done the box of yellow and is now working on the red. With a sick feeling in my stomach, I notice an inflamed patch on Alfie’s cheek where my hand met his face.
‘Can I help?’
Alfie looks up at me and I’m sure he’s going to scream at me to get out, but he doesn’t. ‘Yes, but make sure you get them in the right boxes. You do the blue and purple. Not the pink, though. That goes in my box with the red.’
‘OK, I’ll try my best, but you know Daddy is a bit colour blind, don’t you? Silly Daddy.’ I tap my head.
I’m thankful when Alfie smiles.
‘How about I check any of the pieces I’m not sure about with you before I put them in?’
‘OK, Daddy. That’s a deal.’
I pull Alfie on to my knee. ‘Come here, little man.’
I hold him tight and he strains against me, as he tries to continue to sort his Lego.
‘You know Daddy’s so very sorry, don’t you?’
Alfie grabs a handful of red Lego and drops it in the box.
‘I promise I will never, ever hurt you like that again.’ I can’t bring myself to say the word ‘hit’, but it’s the word that’s in my head, blazing like a beacon. ‘Daddy loves you more than anything in this world, you know that, don’t you?’
Alfie shuffles off my knee to reach some more of the red Lego pieces scattered around his room.
‘Are you going to do the blue and purple ones, Daddy?’
‘Yes, little man. Of course.’ I kiss the top of Alfie’s head and then start sorting the Lego. ‘How about we put your favourite song on while we tidy?’
‘Yeah. Yeah.’ Alfie runs straight over to his portable CD player and scrolls through to track ten.
The overfamiliar notes of ‘We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together’ come booming through the speakers. Alfie tries to sing along but he only manages to get the odd word in and I laugh. When it gets to the chorus, we both sing at the tops of our voices and Alfie starts dancing in his jerky trademark-Alfie way.
And, somehow, Taylor Swift manages to lighten even this darkest of days.
* * *
Emily makes a point of not sitting by me. She walks in, observes the space next to me and then sits on the only other empty chair, next to Bill.
Sharon’s away so Sam steps in to do the declaration with me. As much as Emily often made it tricky for me, I still wish it was her hands I was holding – or not holding. And although I’m extremely secure in my sexuality, grasping a bloke’s hands and making promises to him isn’t the most comfortable of experiences.
‘So, as we’re nearing the end of the course, I’d like to start today with a quick reflection on the progress you’ve made so far because, although some of you might not realize it, there will have been positive developments for each and every one of you
. And also think about anything you still feel you need to work on, because personal development is never really finished, is it? So, anyone want to start us off?’
Almost without realizing I’m doing it, I raise my hand. ‘I’ll do it.’
Emily glances up at me in surprise, then carries on tying her shoelace.
‘Jake. Thank you.’
I sit forward in my chair, my heart beating so hard in my chest I worry people can see it through my clothes. ‘If I’m totally honest, I’ve never really thought my anger was any worse than the next guy’s. I came here to try to save my marriage, which, incidentally, didn’t work.’
A few of the group give me sympathetic smiles and I force myself to continue.
‘It’s not been a good few days. Firstly, I said some things to someone who I’ve begun to … to care about. Someone I was starting to think of as a real friend.’
I glance at Emily, but she doesn’t meet my eyes.
‘She was just trying to help me, I can see that now, but I was too proud to listen. So I’m sorry about that.’
At this point, she looks up at me briefly, offering me a cursory smile. I take my hands out of my pockets and try to find the right words for what I need to say next.
‘But that wasn’t even the worst thing I did. I slapped my son. Right around the face.’
As I say it, the words feel like they’re burning the inside of my throat. Most of the people in the room look back at me supportively, as if they’ve heard this sort of thing a thousand times. But Emily looks just how I knew she would – horrified.
‘There’s no way I can excuse what I did. I won’t try to. But to explain a little, I think my son might have a condition called pathological demand avoidance. It’s an autism spectrum disorder.’
When I look up, I spot a single tear sliding down Emily’s nose.
‘I always knew he was different. My wife was convinced he had an underlying condition but I thought we were just rubbish parents. I kept saying we needed more rules, more boundaries, when all along, the more demands I put on him, the worse his anxiety got. I made him worse. I failed my son.’
I shake my head, as if it will help to expel my next thought.
‘I’ve never admitted this to anyone before, but sometimes I just thought he was a horrible person. That we’d ended up with a dud. How terrible is that? My little boy. How could I think that about him? How could I not like my own son? I’ve resented him for ruining my life, my marriage. I was so fucking angry. I didn’t even realize how angry I was. And all along, he was just struggling.’
Emily wipes at her face with the palm of her hand.
‘Thank you, Jake, for your honesty,’ Sam says. ‘Feel safe in the knowledge that none of us are here to judge in any way. It sounds as if, although it’s been a challenging few days for you, you’ve also made some great progress and I’m sure things are going to improve from here on out.’ Sam offers me a comforting smile, then turns back to the rest of the group. ‘Would anyone else like to share?’
I can’t concentrate on anything the others have to say. I just want to talk to Emily. When it’s time for a coffee break, everyone leaves the circle but I stay seated. To my relief, Emily comes over and sits beside me.
‘I’m really sorry about the stuff I said to you,’ I say. ‘I know you were just trying to help. I was an arse.’
Emily just looks at me and, for a moment, I’m scared she might hit me, but then her face softens. ‘You are an arse. Present tense.’
‘Come on. Surely even you can be gentle with a guy when he’s at his lowest ebb?’
‘OK. Apology accepted.’
‘And I’m so sorry for what I did to Alfie, Em. Please understand I am not that guy and I will never do it again. I don’t know what came over me.’
Emily nods, but I still get the feeling she’s disgusted with me. ‘At least you realize you were wrong. A lot of people hit their kids every day and don’t see a problem with it.’
‘Well, I am not one of those people. I hate myself for what I did.’
Emily rifles around in her bag and pulls out a pack of Tic Tacs. She offers me one but I decline.
‘I liked what you said, by the way.’
I shrug. ‘I guess it shouldn’t have taken me this long.’
‘Better late than never.’
She smiles and I wish I could hold her.
‘Alfie is desperate to see you. Will you come back with me after this?’
‘I can’t. I have to see my nan.’
‘Oh, OK. Don’t worry.’
‘I could come after, though. Do bath and bedtime with you?’
It’s a sudden release of pressure, like letting the air out of a balloon. ‘Sounds great. Thank you for not hating me.’
‘Who says I don’t hate you?’ When I see she’s joking, I’m surprised just how relieved I am that I haven’t ruined everything.
* * *
As soon as Emily walks through the door, Alfie comes charging down the stairs holding up his new Lego set.
‘Daddy got me the Killer Croc set. It’s so awesome. Look, it actually chomps.’
As Alfie demonstrates how to make the giant crocodile mouth open and close, Emily removes her boots.
‘Guilt purchase?’ she says, taking off her jacket and hanging it on the coat rack.
It hurts, because it’s true.
‘Lighten up, Jake; I’m only teasing.’
‘I know. I’m just still struggling with it all, to be honest.’
Emily comes over and props herself up on tiptoes to whisper in my ear. ‘Good. That means you’re not an arsehole.’
‘Look, Emily, here’s the Killer Croc Minifigure that goes with it,’ Alfie says, shoving it in Emily’s face. ‘It’s got this super-cool bat tank with it too. You are going to love it. Come and see.’
And then they’re off, leaving me alone with my guilt.
* * *
After Alfie’s had his bath, he decides to make a bed on the lounge floor for movie night. He goes up and down the stairs, bringing down pillows and trailing quilts behind him. Once he’s finished, he lifts up the top quilt.
‘Come on, then.’
‘What?’ I ask, feeling suddenly nervous at what I think he’s suggesting.
‘Come and snuggle.’
I look over at Emily and wonder if she’s feeling the same flutter in the belly that I am at the thought of sharing a bed with her, however makeshift that bed might be, but she doesn’t give anything away.
Alfie lies down in the middle of the quilt he is using as a mattress and Emily arranges herself next to him. I lie on the other side of Alfie and he lifts the top cover over the three of us and then presses play on the film. Predictably, it’s the Lego Batman film and Alfie whispers the dialogue at the same time as the characters.
Beneath the quilt, Emily rests her hand on Alfie’s tummy. At the funny bits, they both laugh, but the film sweeps over me. I’ve seen it so many times and my mind is elsewhere.
I mirror Emily, turning my body towards Alfie and put my hand right next to hers on his tummy so that our little fingers lightly touch. It feels like a short circuit, sparks flying off at all angles, but then Emily moves her hand away.
By the time the film finishes, Alfie’s eyes are heavy so I put on the end of Strictly Come Dancing in the hope it might lull him off to sleep. I’m lucky. It works.
‘I’ll carry him up,’ I whisper. ‘I’m going to get another beer. Do you want anything?’
‘A hot chocolate would be great.’
‘Wow, you know how to live.’
When I pick Alfie up, his arms and legs automatically wrap around me. With a flash of sadness, I notice how much heavier he is, how much more of him there is now.
Once I’ve deposited him in his bed and got our drinks, I return to the lounge and am glad to see Emily hasn’t moved from the floor. I climb in next to her. We’re not quite close enough to touch, but the absence of Alfie’s body between us feels more prominent
than its presence did.
‘So how come you’ve given up the booze?’
I wish she hadn’t. A few glasses of wine and she might give me some hint about how she feels about me. Most women are relatively easy to read but it’s like Emily’s written in a foreign language.
‘It was getting a bit out of hand. It’s probably hereditary.’
‘Are your folks big drinkers, then?’
‘You could say that.’
We don’t talk for a while, pretending instead to watch The X Factor, until Emily breaks the silence, her eyes still on the screen.
‘I lied about my mum and dad. They’re not happily married. In fact they never were married, or happy, for that matter.’
I nod. I don’t want to say anything that might stop her in her tracks and prevent her from finally being honest with me.
‘When I was four, my dad left and Mum fell apart. I didn’t know it at the time, but she and Dad had always been drinkers, and they used drugs, but I don’t think it was anything too heavy back then. Then when Dad left, the drink and drugs took over and she couldn’t look after me any more so I was put into foster care.’
It’s like that point in a puzzle when you’ve put in enough of the pieces for the picture to emerge.
‘I’m sorry, Em. I can’t even imagine how scary that was. To think of Alfie … well, I can’t.’
Emily shrugs, but the pain is written all over her face. ‘It was OK, actually. I had a few shitty placements to start with, but then they placed me with Tina. I remember missing my mum at first, God knows why. I’d actually sleep with a photo of her under my pillow at night.’ Emily laughs, but it doesn’t disguise the bitterness in her eyes. ‘But then things got better. When I was hungry, Tina actually fed me. She used to read me a story every night. I loved it. Putting my head on her shoulder and getting swept up in whatever adventure she was reading me. I’d never had that before. Can you imagine never reading your child a story? There should be some kind of check before you’re allowed to have a baby.’
‘I’m not sure I’d have passed it, if there were.’
Emily frowns. ‘You’re a great dad, Jake. Don’t be so hard on yourself. I’m not saying parents should be perfect, but they should give a shit. They should at least try to get it right.’
Saturdays at Noon Page 24
