Inheritance

by Thomas Wymark

The last time I’d showered in the main bathroom had been after dinner one night when Neil and I had argued over how much petrol I was putting in the car. I ended up not talking to him, quite rightly, and we’d both stormed out of the kitchen — evidently with the same thought in mind — have a shower to give ourselves and each other space to calm down.

  We’d both stomped up the stairs. But Neil had been ahead of me. Naturally he turned left, to our room, which meant I had to turn right, to the main bathroom. I’d vented my frustration then by scrubbing at all the dirty footprints and ingrained muck on the inside of the bath — not stopping until the shower water started running cold and goosebumps sent shivers over my back. Avocado-green never looked clean.

  But now, with the nightmare still fresh in my mind, the footprints and toothpaste stains could stay where they were. I just wanted to get clean. The tears had made my neck feel dirty and my upper lip was sticky from my running nose. I wanted to wash the tension out; wash away the nightmare; clean my eyelids of the image imprinted on them; wash away the endless tears; wash away what had happened to me. The smiling hoodie. Stinking of booze and sweat; the heavy skateboard gashing my head; the hospital, with its clear tubes, polyester green curtains and my vomit.

  And I wanted to wash away the police officers who had come to see me; wash away Neil — humming in the shower, not saying the right things at the right time.

  He used to know me so well. We always knew what the other one was thinking. We didn’t finish each other’s sentences, but we both knew we could. And now he was in the en-suite and I was in the bathroom. When I needed him most, we were separated. He couldn’t understand me. I felt alone.

  My hair hung in straggly wet coils down my back, touching my spine and sending tingles through my upper body. I let my head fall forward and the warm water hit the back of my neck. I stretched my head down toward my chest, extended the tendons in my neck, mentally released the pressure. I pushed my shoulders back and let the water flow over my breasts. The water was warm, but still goosebumps covered my body.

  Slowly I leaned my head back. The scar on the back of my head stung, but the one on my forehead wasn’t so bad. I imagined I was having a massage. Warm hands pressing over my body, manipulating the knots of pain and tension, smoothing them away. Just like Neil used to make me feel — whether he touched me or not.

  I shut my eyes and waited. No image. My eyelids seemed clear. I took a deep breath, held it, and imagined it escaping out the top of my head, taking all the dirt inside with it, cleansing my mind. For the briefest moment I forgot. I forgot everything. All that had happened to me. Not just from the last two weeks, but everything. I forgot who I was; forgot that I was married; forgot Michael and Rose. In that passing moment everything else ceased to exist. Every person ceased to exist. I ceased to exist.

  ‘Mum!’

  It made me jump. Michael, pounding at the door.

  ‘Are you nearly done?’ he said. ‘I need a wee.’

  How the hell had he known it was me in the shower and not his father? Michael always seemed to know. Whenever he was in bed, he always knew which one of us was coming up the stairs to say goodnight or to go and have a shower. It was as though he sensed us.

  ‘I won’t be long, Michael. Can’t you use the loo downstairs?’

  ‘Rose is using it. I’m desperate.’

  The shower suddenly burned hot on my skin and I stepped out from under it. Rose must have flushed.

  ‘It’s OK, Michael. Rose has finished now.’

  I stretched out my arms and examined them. There was still a small lump on the back of my hand where the needle and tube had been inserted. A cannula. It still felt a little sore, even after two weeks.

  I thought about getting ready for school, and my breathing changed instantly. The air felt thinner and my lungs felt as though they had contracted. Butterflies kicked off in my stomach and I felt so light headed I had to lean against the bathroom wall. The cold tiles made me jump back straight away.

  I crouched down and held onto the stainless steel handles embedded in the sides of the bath. I lowered myself all the way to sitting and let the shower water sprinkle over me. I was a child again, sat in a puddle, enjoying the warm summer rain pattering against my head. No worries, when you’re a child. Everything can be fun, when you’re a child.

  Except I was pretty sure that the person in my nightmare had been a child. And not everything is fun. Some things are most definitely not fun, when you’re a child.

  I stood up, turned the shower off and realised that my towel was still hanging over the radiator in the en-suite. Shit.

  ‘Michael? Are you still there?’

  Of course he wasn’t. He had been desperate.

  For a second or two it crossed my mind that I might actually be going mad. Neil was getting ready for work; the kids were getting ready for school, and I had been sat in a puddle in a mucky bath letting the shower water pour down on me like rain.

  Why had I dreamed about a child? Why the nightmare with the child? Perhaps I had been more nervous than I’d realised about going back to school. Anxious about being back in class, teaching little children again. That must be the connection. Kids at school — the child in the nightmare. But I was certain the child in my dream had been older than the kids I taught at school. I looked back into the dreamscape, watched it swirling around my mind. She was definitely older. I didn’t like it. I tried to push the vision away. I didn’t want to see it or think about it anymore. But there it was. It had happened and there wasn’t any way to undo it. I couldn’t make it not have happened.

  I shook my arms and kicked my legs out to try to dislodge water droplets from my body. I had dropped my bathrobe on the floor on the way in, too far away to reach it from the bath. I tried anyway and my foot slipped backwards against the inside of the bath. I steadied myself on the side of the bath and decided it would be safer to simply climb out, add my own wet footprints to the general mess on the floor, and climb into my bathrobe.

  My arms and shoulders, my back and my bum, the tops of my legs all immediately stuck to the material, making it difficult and uncomfortable to put on properly. I ran across the landing and back into our bedroom. Neil was out of the shower and almost completely dressed for work. I nipped into the en-suite and dried off properly. When I came out he was pretty much done.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  I wasn’t, but I had calmed down. ‘I’m fine.’

  That was obviously the answer he’d wanted to hear. He smiled and checked his tie in one of the ceiling-to-floor door mirrors in our bedroom. He fiddled with the knot and tilted his head on one side, as if he was getting a second opinion.

  Perhaps I hadn’t calmed down after all. I wanted to punch him in the stomach for looking at his tie.

  And he still hadn’t asked me what my dream had been about. The “doctor prescribed” nightmare that it was perfectly normal to have.

  Downstairs Michael and Rose had started arguing. Outside of me, everything was normal.

  Barely above a whisper I spoke to Neil.

  ‘I hurt someone.’

  06