Marshmallows for Breakfast

by Dorothy Koomson

  Saturday, with nothing to rush back for, we mooched around the shops on Oxford Street. (I'd had a shower and borrowed some of Elouise's clothes.) We went to dinner again, I fell asleep again, this time in Elouise's clothes. Enough was enough, I decided at 3 a.m.—I had to go home. I changed back into my clothes, slung my bag across my body and left her room.

  The concierge called me a cab and when it arrived, I sat in the back, valiantly ignoring the digital figures that told me I'd be eating tinned soup for the next month.

  I opened my side gate and, feeling scrunchy and in need of my pajamas and bed, I rounded the corner into the courtyard.

  On the step outside my flat, where the kids usually sat when they were waiting for me to come home, was a figure, hunched over its knees, its face hidden in the blackness of 4 a.m.

  My heart leapt into my throat and I stopped short. The figure, which was definitely a man's, hadn't seen me—I could still turn and run. I thought this as the figure looked up and saw me. The familiarity of the movement and my eyes becoming accustomed to the dark allowed me to see it was Kyle.

  “Jeez, Kyle, you gave me such a fright,” I whispered because of the hour. I pressed my hand over my chest to still my leapfrogging heart.

  He clambered to his feet and seemed to deflate in relief when he saw me. I moved slowly forwards but he crossed the distance between us in three strides, threw his arms around me. Automatically my body stiffened, uncomfortable, edgy; scared, almost.

  “Oh, thank God,” he said as he clung to me, oblivious to the fact I wanted him to let me go. “Oh, thank God,” he said again, then slackened his hold a little, looked into my face, his eyes running over my features as though desperate to confirm I was real. His hand moved towards my face and I jerked my head away before he made contact, pushed out from his hold.

  “What's going on?” I asked. It took me a moment to remember, he wasn't supposed to be here. They weren't supposed to be here.

  “I've been ringing your mobile for the past couple of days. Gabrielle's been calling you as well.”

  “It ran out of battery and I was meant to be home Friday night so I didn't take my charger. But that's not important. Why are you here, why aren't you in Brighton?”

  “I thought something had happened to you, too,” he said, ignoring my question.

  “Too?” I asked cautiously.

  “It's the kids,” he said, his face crumpling as he said it. “They're gone.”

  “Gone?” I asked. “What do you mean, ‘gone’?”

  “Ashlyn's taken them and I don't know where.”

  Kyle paced my living room floor as he told the tale. I, meanwhile, having left my body, hovered a little distance away watching myself sitting, stiff and openly incredulous, on the sofa listening to him.

  At lunchtime on Friday afternoon he'd gone to collect the kids as usual. As soon as they got home, they'd pack and set off. They'd planned to go straight from school, but they'd taken so long over breakfast and Kyle had a meeting so they didn't have time to pack their things nor tidy the house before they left.

  They weren't at school. Mrs. Chelner was confused. Had scrunched her face up as she told him their mother had picked them up. She was on the list, her picture was there on the consent form along with Kyle's.

  Ashlyn picking them up wasn't even that unusual. When she'd first moved out she did it all the time; would take them for dinner, spend time with them at her flat and drop them home before bedtime. They even had spare clothes and toys at her place. When she went to America, Kyle assumed those belongings she had kept at her flat had gone to her mother's place, but no, Ashlyn had put them in storage. Apparently, ready for a time like this. She usually called when she was picking them up. Let him know so he wouldn't worry. This time she hadn't called. It'd been two days and she hadn't called.

  Kyle found out where she'd been staying in England this time around from her mother and he'd gone there, but the place was packed up. Her neighbor said that she had moved out a few days earlier—Ashlyn had said she had worked out an arrangement with her husband and she was leaving London with her children. Her mobile was off, Naomi didn't know where they were and hadn't heard from her.

  Naomi had been distraught, Kyle said. She said they should call the police and track them down, but Kyle had said no. To give them a few more days before they went down that route. Kyle knew how much animosity there was between Naomi and Ashlyn. They had a complex relationship—even though Ashlyn loved her mother, they had so many unresolved issues and unspoken resentments that they limited the time they spent together. Of course Naomi didn't know that Ashlyn was an alcoholic and if they went to the police, he'd have to tell them and Naomi would find out. And if, as he suspected, they were going to be back in a few days, that would be one of the worst things he'd ever done to Ashlyn.

  He knew she hadn't left the country because he still had their passports and birth certificates but she had planned it with them. He knew because Hoppy, Roald Dahl's Fantastic Mr. Fox and Summer's eye mask/tiara were gone; Garvo's food and water bowls, Ashlyn's sunglasses and Jaxon's favorite steam train were gone. The last weekend they'd spent with her she must have told them to bring the important things to school and not to tell Kyle.

  I listened patiently for the part of the story where he said, “And then I called the police and they're combing every inch of the country to find them.” Obviously “And then I woke up and found it was all an awful dream” would have been better, but, “And then I called the police and they're combing every inch of the country to find them” would do.

  It never came.

  While I was sitting in a hotel talking about Elouise's engagement, and how I ended up in Geelong when I'd meant to go to Melbourne, the kids were being moved farther and farther away from home. The kids were being stolen.

  Kyle wasn't talking anymore. His large frame stood in the center of the room, very still, as though waiting for me to say something. As though I had an answer.

  I was trying to remember the last thing I said to them. “Enjoy your surprise,” I think it'd been. I think. But I couldn't be sure.

  My mind raced. Did I hug and kiss them? Probably not. I'd had Friday off to spend with Elouise, I'd got that weekday lie-in I'd been craving for so long. I'd only spoken to them on the phone.

  What did we talk about the day before? The summer holidays? “My holidays,” Summer had called them, believing they'd been named for her. Maybe. But what did we say we'd do during that time? Did we talk about that at all? What was the last conversation we had? Did Jaxon talk about Garvo? Or am I thinking about every other time?

  I sat staring through Kyle, my mind trying to race through the memories, things we'd talked about, the things we laughed about, the things we'd done in the past few days. Weeks. And then my mind remembered the week I'd spent avoiding them. Those seven days when I squandered precious moments with them.

  I didn't know. I didn't know you were meant to savor and hang onto every moment in case it was your last.

  CHAPTER 38

  Time passed slowly without the children. Kyle and I spent every free moment together in my flat.

  The silence in the house was too big, overwhelming, suffocating. Every time either of us stepped across the threshold it felt like being submerged in a vat of feathers, the softness of the quiet belying the murderous danger that lurked within those walls. The reality of their absence was pressed down our throats, filling up our lungs and deadening our senses. I'd feel the cold of not having Summer run to me as though she hadn't seen me in an age. I'd experience the chill of not having Jaxon drag his feet towards me and throw one arm around my neck before giving me a quick squeeze. Not hearing Summer screaming that she wasn't going to school and no one could make her echoed ghostlike around me; not hearing Jaxon accidentally call me Mumma was a haunting whisper that rang deafeningly in my ears.

  Being without them was a wound so deep I didn't know how I'd bear it, if it'd ever heal. The house was a relic to the family we'd c
reated. Kyle hadn't changed a thing since the morning he'd last seen them: their breakfast bowls sat soaking in the sink, where he'd dumped them before corralling them out the door; on the kitchen table the cornflakes box sat, as did the two slices of buttered toast that both of them had only taken three bites from; Jaxon's trainer lay unturned by the front door, having probably fallen from his bag on their way out; Summer's drawing of the plane that took her to America sat on the pouf in the living room with the coloring pencil she'd been using, lying on top of it, where she'd been forced to put it down before they left. Beside the pencil was my turquoise ring, which she hadn't taken with her. I stared at it but I didn't pick it up; I wanted her to give it back to me herself.

  Kyle took to sleeping on my sofa, his face unshaved and gaunt, his eyes dull and empty. He ate if I made something; he showered for something to do. Mostly he sat on my sofa clutching the white receiver of the cordless phone from the house, staring into space and praying she'd bring them back. I knew he was praying because I was, too.

  I understood why Ashlyn had done it. She must have been feeling this desperate for months. Sober and desperate. Not even being able to drink to dull the pain of not being with her children. I understood why Ashlyn had done it. And I hated her for it.

  My hatred of her grew with every minute she had her children. It was the not knowing. Were they OK? Had she had a relapse and done something to put them in danger? Did they mind not being with Kyle? With me? The not knowing was a torture she had no right to put either of us through. They weren't mine, but I loved them. She knew that. Even if she didn't care about that, what about Kyle? He was devastated. She knew he would be; if not, why take them like that?

  Often my hatred of her spiraled out of control. I'd think it through, then I'd hate myself. For begrudging a mother being with her children. For not guessing when we met that she was on the verge of doing this. The emotions would spin inside, slipping and twisting over each other like a mass of snakes.

  WHY DOESN'T SHE JUST CALL? I'd cry out inside. Tell us they're OK. Tell us we'll see them again.

  I took to bargaining with God, the universe, whomever: If we hear they're OK, then that will be OK. We don't even have to live with them again. Just to know they're OK.

  “What you thinking about?” Kyle asked, dragging me out of willing the phone to ring, and hearing Summer say, “Kendie, we're having so much fun.” Jaxon mumbling, “Have you got my train set?”

  I glanced down at Kyle. It was day ten without the kids. Kyle was stretched out on the sofa, his head resting on my thighs as he stared at the television. Now he'd rolled onto his back, his mussed-up hair flattened against the blue background of my jeans. He'd shaved so looked fresh-faced, more alive than he had in the last ten days. But his sallow cheeks were still sunken, gun- metal grey shadows scored beneath his glazed-over mahogany eyes. Separation had dragged youth out of Kyle's once calm, happy face; separation had aged him.

  “Nothing much,” I replied to his question. Without thinking I raised my hand, my fingers reaching to stroke the black locks of his hair. It felt so natural, then I remembered, he wasn't Will. We weren't like that. I stopped and lowered my hand.

  Kyle's mouth moved upwards, his lips twisting into a small, intimate smile that didn't show his teeth, nor completely eradicate his sadness. He'd seen what I'd almost done and had probably read it wrong.

  “I'm glad you're here,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Don't know what I'd have done…” He lifted his hand; his fingers with their short, bitten nails came towards my face. His palm rested on my cheek, and slowly his thumb stroked across my cheekbone. He hadn't even attempted to touch me like that in an age. My instincts told me to pull away, to stop this. But I fought myself, allowed him to touch me. I stared down at him, our eyes linked like our hearts had been linked by this loss.

  Kiss him. The thought blossomed in my mind. Kiss him and be done with it. He was a nice guy. One of the good guys. We both felt from the same place, this place of pain. This land of unending agony. We could do this. I could do this. It didn't matter that I didn't feel that way about him, that I wasn't attracted to him. It'd just be a thing to do. A way to get from here to there without feeling all of this in- between. Because it was all of this in- between that was killing me. Killing him. Killing us. We needed a way to forget about all of this for a while. To think about something else. Kiss him and see what happens.

  “You're special, you know that?” Kyle whispered.

  “You're special. Stop fighting, you're special.”

  My body jackknifed away from him before I could stop myself. I was suddenly aflame, the memory wending across my skin, burning into my mind, tugging me back. No, I decided, I'm not going there. I'm staying here. I'm staying. I'm not going back to that night, I'm staying here. With Kyle. In the present.

  I reached up, covered Kyle's hand with mine, warmth flowing from me to him, him to me. The bond between us was incredibly strong, possibly unbreakable. But it wasn't this.

  I worked my fingers between his and, smiling sadly at him, focusing on him, I gently pulled his hand away, returned it to his chest.

  “Kendra,” Kyle whispered. “Why… ?” He closed his eyes, shook his head, confused. I continued to stare at him. Had to. He was my anchor. My focus. My root to now. If I lost this connection I'd end up back there. Back when.

  Kyle opened his eyes. “You know how much you mean to me, yeah?”

  I nodded. I did. I knew. He meant a lot to me, too. He was the father of my children.

  “We'll always be friends,” I said.

  Misery at this new rejection slotted snugly beside the agony that already sat in his eyes. He didn't bother to hide it. What's the point? Why bother to hide anything? Kyle's eyes said. Everything is futile. He rolled onto his side, hugged the phone to his chest and went back to staring at the television.

  Day nineteen.

  I was going insane; slowly but surely unraveling from the inside out.

  Everywhere I went I saw a flash of jet black hair, caught a glimpse of orange, would hear a giggle, and I'd think it was Summer.

  Whenever I'd feel eyes resting on me, experience a presence tapping me on the back, hear a small chuckle I would feel it was Jaxon. They were haunting me. It was making me mentally unstable.

  Every moment was filled with the void of their absence. Nothing seemed important. Work certainly wasn't. Gabrielle and I hadn't gotten back to normal yet; I wasn't sure we ever would.

  I should have told her what she wanted to hear. I couldn't. She didn't understand why I couldn't repeat what Janene had said. She'd laid herself bare, exposed the very core of who she was, to get me to speak to her and I couldn't. Wouldn't. Such vileness would not come out of my mouth. If I wasn't living in this childless hell, I don't know how our friendship would have progressed. As it was, we worked together and we left it at that. Janene kept her distance, too. Even if she hadn't it wouldn't have mattered. Nothing mattered. Summer and Jaxon were gone.

  Every time I thought I saw them, every time I had an urge to chase after their apparitions, I felt the hope that I would see them again die a little more. I began to believe they were ghosts. That they were gone permanently. She'd driven them into a wall. She'd fallen asleep with a pan on and there'd been a fire. She'd taken them somewhere and forgotten them. I was never going to see them again. They were gone.

  I started to dread going home. I would turn into Tennant Road and I would see the cloud of grief that hung low and threatening over number thirty-four. My footsteps would slow, my limbs would become anvils I had to drag towards my destination. Sometimes I wanted to turn on my heels and run. To flee the sadness. Sometimes I'd walk around the block five or six times, my footsteps echoing in my ears, my heart heavy and slow in my chest, simply to delay having to go home. To delay having to wander back into the nightmare that was life without the kids.

  Things became so bad, so bleak, I came close to opening Will's letter a few times. I actually slipped my fing
er under the flap on one occasion. If it was bad news, the worst news, it would simply add to the grief I was feeling. It'd complete my misery. Would speed up the insanity process. I didn't do it in the end, but I knew that much longer and I would.

  Kyle moved in with me. He didn't ask if I minded—I don't think it occurred to him to ask—he simply did it. I came back from work one day and found he'd brought over the models and drawings for his latest project, his drawing table and his seat. He set himself up in the dead space between where the dining area ended and before the living area began. A small suitcase with his clothes lived between the arm of the sofa and the wall, his shaver and toothbrush and aftershave and deodorant found a new place in my bathroom. Every evening I'd come back and find him sitting there, hunched over his drawing table rather than his computer, his ruler pressed against the blue and white graph paper, his retractable pencil against it, drawing lines. The television would be a low hum in the background, the air would be heavy with the fresh, bitter smell of real coffee. He lived on coffee. Didn't eat until I came home, looked more aged with every passing day. Hopelessness had scored wrinkles into his forehead, worry had all but darkened the area under his eyes, bereavement had shed pounds from his frame.

  He'd barely raise his head when I walked in of a night. We'd say hi without even looking at each other let alone making eye contact. I'd change into jeans and a sweater, I'd make food, something simple—rice and Ghanaian stew, chickpea and kidney bean salad, pasta and tomato sauce— and we'd eat on the sofa, sitting side by side but in different worlds, staring at the television. Afterwards I'd wash up and say good night and would go to bed, lie on top of the covers, the mugginess of the summer night making it impossible to sleep even if I could. I'd lie with my eyes wide open, wake-dreaming about seeing the kids again. Knowing in the pit of my stomach, at the root of who I was, I wouldn't. We wouldn't.