Marshmallows for Breakfast

by Dorothy Koomson

  A chiropractor wasn't going to cure what ailed me. I doubted anyone could do that.

  Gabrielle watched me in that way she did. She, like Jaxon, had a way of staring at you, making you think they knew everything that was working its way through your head; that your heart and mind were transparent and everything you had painstakingly buried was written in huge letters. “Just go. If you don't like him, you can go to someone else.”

  “There's a chiropractor down the road—why would I go to the other side of Kent to see this one?”

  “Mention my name and he'll give you a discount.”

  “Really?”

  “No! Just go to the damn chiropractor, Kennie. I don't want you to be in pain when you don't have to be.”

  “More like you don't want me to have you up for health and safety.”

  “That, too. And to show you what a great boss I am, I'll let you have the afternoon off to go see the most gorgeous chiropractor in the U.K.”

  Evangeline, a friend, had just had her script accepted by a film company and was celebrating with drinks in the center of Sydney.

  We'd known each other for years in England before she returned home to Sydney and I wanted to support her, so had forced myself to go—even though I'd only know Evangeline, Evangelines husband and one other person.

  I plucked up my courage as I walked up the stairs of the bar, pulled back my shoulders, plastered a smile on my face and entered the room. Mild anxiety fluttered in the space between my heart and stomach, my palms were sweating slightly as I scanned the darkened room, seeking out Carrie, the only other woman I knew. I saw her, sitting on the bank of sofas, surrounded by people. I went past the bodies drinking in the bar and made my way over to her. She smiled a hello, but was in midconversation so just scooted up so I could sit down. That action of moving her bum a little to her right instead of to the left was a moment that changed my life. I didn't realize it, of course. I just sat down and waited for her to finish her conversation.

  To my right, a knot of people sat, tight in conversation. The man sitting beside me was mentally hovering on the edge of the conversation, his body turned slightly towards them, but his eyes were focused elsewhere. He wasn't there. “You have no idea what they're talking about, do you?” I said to him.

  He blinked, turned to me. “Is it that obvious?” he asked. He was British, had a strong clear London accent. For a moment I was transported home, back to the other side of the world.

  “Yup, and I'm so telling on you.” This was unusual for me. I was usually so shy, especially with people I didn't know. But I'd decided that, to avoid slinking home feeling like a failure, I had to speak to someone. And since Carrie was otherwise engaged, this man would have to do.

  “I'm Will,” he said and held out his hand. “I think you should know my name before you destroy my reputation.”

  I took his hand, smiled and shook. “Kendra,” I replied. “Most people call me Kennie, but since I'm about to out you, you'll probably have some other choice things to call me.”

  “No, no, I won't resort to name- calling. I'll take my punishment like a man.”

  “What, rant about it, retreat into your shell and then go pick on someone smaller than you to make yourself feel better?”

  He laughed out loud, and his deep laugh, which moved his chest and lit up his brown eyes, made me laugh, too. We spent the next few hours talking, laughing mercilessly taking the piss out of each other—and nothing. Not a flutter, not a stomach dip, not a thought at all in “that” direction. When he left—he lived quite far outside of Sydney—he said good-bye to the people in the group we'd virtually ignored, and then turned to me and said, “I really appreciate you not turning me in, Kendie. I'll never forget it.”

  “Not a worry, Willie. I'll see ya.”

  “I'll see ya.”

  And that was it. He was gone. We didn't exchange numbers, we hadn't bought each other drinks and we certainly hadn't flirted. I didn't even remember what he looked like until the next time I saw him. I talked to three other people and I went home feeling elated that I'd managed to chat to people. The night I met Will he didn't even stay that long in my mind after he was gone.

  I didn't realize that's how it worked sometimes when you met the person you were going to fall in love with.

  With Gabrielle listening, I rang and made an appointment with her chiropractor for later that afternoon. He'd had a cancellation, the receptionist said, so he could fit me in. And still under the watchful eye of Gabrielle, I got up at three o'clock, put on my coat and left.

  “Say hi from me,” she called as I stomped rather bad-temperedly down the stairs.

  CHAPTER 9

  I didn't go to the chiropractor. Of course I didn't. I waited until I got to the end of Brockingham High Street and called to cancel the appointment.

  He'd probably worked wonders with Gabrielle's spine— she had great posture—and she was probably right about him being gorgeous, but neither of those things was going to erase the past two years of my life. He wasn't going to take away the guilt and regret I felt when I was awake and when I was asleep. He wasn't going to adjust my spine and allow me some peace; unhook every memory of Will that was fused into my body.

  Instead, I decided to use the time wisely. I walked the forty-five minutes home, hoping the exercise would loosen up the muscles in my back. Once I got in, I was going to take a hot bath, fill my hot- water bottle for a heat pack, down a couple of painkillers and then take to my bed.

  As I neared number thirty-four, I saw her.

  Her, Mrs. Eyebrows, with the unfriendly eyes, mean little mouth and abused eyebrows. The one who'd—eventually— given me the keys to the flat when I'd first moved in. She was standing in front of her glossy blue front door, turning the keys of her various locks. She might be coming my way. And if she was, there was no way for me to avoid her. I'd have to acknowledge her, say hello. Things like that set me on edge. Even if it was just a nod of the head, I didn't want to get into it. It might lead to a conversation. The horror of that, with someone who hadn't been that friendly in the first place, made me break out in a cold sweat. It was a wonder I did the job I did. I had to go out and hunt out business, place people, interview people. All of that, fine. More than fine. I could focus on the purpose of the conversation with work. With small talk, with talking to people I didn't know, especially ones who made it clear they didn't particularly like me … The space under my arms started to tingle, I was about to start seriously sweating.

  “NO! I WON'T DO IT!” exploded into the air as I passed the front window of the Gadsborough house, erasing all thoughts and worries about engaging with Mrs. Eyebrows. Alarmed at the volume and severity of the shout, I stared at the window.

  Mrs. Eyebrows, who had also heard the shout, waddled past me, glanced at the house, turned to me, raised an over-plucked eyebrow and shook her head as she twisted her face into an “it wasn't this bad until you arrived” look.

  Hijacked, I didn't have time to give her an “it's not my fault” look in return. I tried, turned my head and craned my neck, but she was too far away and didn't turn around.

  “YOU CAN'T MAKE ME!” Summer screeched through the window. Neighbor-lady yanked her handbag farther up her shoulder and shook her head even more firmly.

  It's nothing to do with me! I almost screamed after Mrs. Eyebrows.

  Great. She was going to bad-mouth me now. I could just see her—big meringue hair wobbling, wrinkled mouth quivering, cruel little eyes widened by disgust—as she stood in the local shop regaling them of how out of control the kids had become since their mother had left and that lodger moved in. “That colored girl had a British passport, but you never know these days, do you?” she'd probably add, eliciting nods from her coven. “It said in the paper the other day that these girls are coming over here and getting passports and then getting work as au pairs. I'm sure that poor Kyle wouldn't know any better. She was so cagey when I asked her where she'd come from and where she worked. She probab
ly can't even speak English. Those poor children.”

  Damn this timing. This was what I got for skipping work and not going to the chiropractor. In the past two weeks I'd successfully avoided the family to give them breathing space, let them reassimilate to life without their mother. Since the children hadn't been in my flat and hadn't called even though I'd given them my number to do so if they ever needed me—all I'd had was a note pushed through the door saying they were going away last weekend—I had assumed things were going well. Assimilation was working, life was normalizing for them. But now my reputation was under attack. And worse, I knew my reputation was under attack. If I didn't know Mrs. Eyebrows was more than likely spreading rumors about me, I'd carry on as I was, oblivious. But now … I marched up the front path and pressed the doorbell.

  The bell ding-donged through the house.

  “DON'T ANSWER IT DADDY!” Summer yelled. “I SAID DON'T ANSWER IT!” she continued to scream as Kyle's tall, sleek shape crinkled towards me in the mottled colored glass of the front door. He flung open the door, caught it with one hand to stop it swinging back on its hinges.

  His line of sight settled on me, then he sighed a little as he said, “Hi.” Not pleased, not irritated. If anything, he was indifferent to see me. He clearly had bigger things on his mind.

  “Hi,” I replied. “I was passing and… Is everything all right?” I asked, suddenly realizing that me doing this could be seen as me criticizing Kyle's parenting skills again. That I was looking down my nose at him.

  “Oh, fine. Just the usual Summer meltdown hour,” he said casually. His body language was anything but casual. Every sinew in his muscular arms, exposed in his blue T-shirt, was flexed as he held open the door, making the bar code tattoos engraved on the upper parts of each of his biceps seem to stand away from the skin. His neck muscles were also tensed and a nerve in his temple was pumping rapidly. His skin was pale and clammy, the ghost of a frown puckering his forehead and the area around his eyes. He looked worse than he had when he'd been hungover. “She won't eat her dinner, wants to play with her toys, won't listen to a word I say, has a fit when I ask her to clear up the toys. Like I say, the usual.”

  “Do you want me to try? A third person might take the drama out of the situation.” My voice was low and contrite, didn't want to throw petrol on this flaming situation.

  He rested his head against the door frame as his body sighed in resignation. “Seeing as I'm seconds away from locking myself in the bathroom and punching the walls, at this moment, Kendra, I'll try anything. So …” He stepped aside, swept his hand before him, indicating the room on the other side of the staircase, the one I hadn't been in yet. “Be my guest.”

  I stepped in and went towards the door of the other front room. My eyes fell first on Jaxon, who was in the far left-hand corner of the room half sitting, half lying on the blue carpeted floor. Around him was the large oval of a train track, and he was moving a five- carriage train behind a burgundy, gold-edged steam engine. He was wearing Superman pajamas that fitted him a lot better than his Spider-Man ones. A bubble of calm surrounded him, protecting him from the rest of the room, which was in a terrifying state of chaos. Chaos ruled by Summer Gadsborough.

  She was in the middle of the room. Her legs, covered in blue jogging bottoms under pink shorts, were planted wide apart. Her arms, the color of dark opal, were exposed in her red T-shirt with a yellow unicorn on the front, and her hands were bunched into fists that rested on her hips. Atop her head, sitting like a tiara, was a padded, silky eye mask in a Pucci-style swirl of red, blue, yellow, green and orange. Her face was filled with red rage, her eyes wide and determined, her teeth gritted behind her pinched- together mouth. It was a look she must have inherited or copied from an adult. She had it down pat, had adapted it and refined it for her purposes. And her current purpose was to terrorize the playroom.

  Her realm had been haphazardly but determinedly created. On a normal day the back wall had, about one foot above the floor, a low row of seats constructed from a light-colored wood with a navy-blue leather padded top. Inset into the frame was a set of wooden drawers to store the kids’ toys.

  Today was not a normal day. Each and every drawer was open, some hanging precariously on the edge of their wooden frames, others completely removed and sitting upturned on the floor. Every drawer had been emptied and toys—electronic handheld games, stuffed toys, board games, books, pens, papers, drawings, brightly colored wooden toys, jigsaw puzzles, clothes from her dress-up box, makeup, spangly bits of material, trains, building blocks, cars and balls—were everywhere across the room. Nothing looked as though it had been placed in that position; it all had most likely been thrown or dropped or kicked.

  “Hi, guys,” I said cautiously.

  Jaxon glanced up from his train's progress, fixed his large navy-green eyes on me, treated me to a small, shy smile that opened his mouth enough to expose his missing lower front tooth. It was definitely the largest smile he'd aimed my way since we'd met. It warmed me through from the top of my head to the soles of my feet, lifted my heart. I grinned back, pleased he was showing in the tiniest way that he liked me. I scared him, it was too much, too soon, and he ducked his head and returned to moving his train around its track.

  In contrast, his sister didn't say anything, didn't respond. When she saw me, her expression wobbled for a fraction of a second: she wanted to smile, to say hello, to slip into our friendship, but she was committed to being a terror, she was ensconced in the tantrum and wasn't giving that up for anyone. I heard Kyle close the front door and then he stepped into the room behind me. This movement was a red flag to the six-year-old and the mist of rage descended again upon her eyes, upon her face, upon her entire body. Her dad was obviously the source and focus of her rage. He'd done her wrong and she was taking a stand.

  “Summer,” Kyle said through gritted teeth, his voice so forcibly calm it was transparent how close to the edge he was. Sparks flew between them; this was all-out war. “Please tidy this room up. Or come and finish your dinner. One or the other. Please.”

  “Noooooo!” she screamed, her whole body folding forwards so she could force the word out with a volume that made Jaxon, Kyle and me all draw back a little.

  “Tidy. The. Room. Up.”

  Jaxon stopped his train's progress around its track and made to get up. “No, Jaxon, you're not to do it,” Kyle said, clearly spotting his son's attempt to put an end to this conflict. “Summer made the mess, Summer can tidy it up.” Jaxon sat down again, went back to his train. He wasn't big enough yet to use his diplomacy skills.

  That would be my job, since I'd invited myself into it. “Come on, Summer, listen to your dad,” I cajoled.

  Dangerous and slow, her head swung towards me; her flaming eyes threw a poisonous look at me. “You can't tell me what to do, you're not my mumma,” she said, triumph coating her words. This was a child's ultimate weapon against an outsider—reminding me that I didn't belong. Had she been a teenager, she would have told me to go do something sexually unpleasant with myself or an inanimate object.

  The air thickened; Jaxon and Kyle both watched me, wondering how deeply her words had hurt me, how I'd react.

  My reaction was to lock eyes with Summer. And then to drag up a smile. A tiny grin of recognition. I knew this. She was only six, but I knew what was going on and how to deal with it. Summer needed understanding. Not someone to shout at her or to fight with her, but to communicate with her from a place of understanding. I understood her.

  “You're right, I'm not your mumma,” I replied calmly. “And in about eight minutes, you're going to wish more than anything that I was.”

  Behind her beautiful navy-green eyes I could see the cogs whirring, wondering what I meant. “I'll be right back,” I said and turned on my heels. Dropping my bag on the bottom step, I made my way down the corridor and into the kitchen, and began opening cupboards and drawers until I found what I was looking for. And then I went back to the playroom, reentered wi
th my hands behind my back, hiding what I'd found.

  “So, Summer, do you want to know why you're going to wish I was your mumma in just under eight minutes?”

  She stared at me, defiant, but curious: her eyes asked why even though her mouth wouldn't.

  “Because, in about three minutes, I am going to use these.” I brandished my kitchen find—a roll of large black binliners. “You see, I know lots of kids who'd love these things,” I said, indicating the sea of toys and playthings at her feet. “They don't have toys, and even if they do, their toys aren't half as nice as these things.

  “Now, if I was your mumma, I wouldn't think of giving all this stuff away because I would have spent hours and hours at work, earning the money to pay for them. She'd remember how much everything cost. She'd also remember how much you loved playing with that set of wooden dolls.” I pointed at the brightly painted set of Russian dolls that lay separated on the floor by her foot. “And your mumma would remember how you used to sleep with that rag doll, and how sweet you used to look, all cuddled up with her.” I pointed at the battered green and pink doll with black wool hair and a missing eye that lay splayed under the window. “And your mumma would know how much you loved to read that book before you went upstairs for your bath, even though you'd both pretended you were too old for it and she was the one who wanted to hear it.” I pointed at the book of childhood rhymes that had obviously been flung at the wall beside the door and bounced back, open, onto the floor. “Since I'm not your mumma, I don't know all these things. These toys mean nothing to me and I don't know what they mean to you. I don't know and don't care how much they cost, all I know is that they're a nice bunch of things that several other kids would appreciate. And would probably keep very tidy.

  “So, Summer, I've taken two minutes to explain all this, so in about a minute—that's the time it takes to count up to sixty—I'm going to get down on my hands and knees and start packing this stuff up. Obviously, if they're all tidied up and put away, I won't be able to do that. But, as you said, I'm not your mumma, I can't tell you what to do, so I'm not going to ask you to tidy up. I'm just going to count to sixty and then start putting things in my bags. Either way, I reckon that in under six minutes, this floor is going to be clear of toys.”