So how did she become this? At what point did it go from bad to worse, and could I have done something to stop it?
Or was it always this bad, and I just couldn’t face up to it?
I leave the bedroom. Trudge down the stairs. The bleach is in the front of the cupboard for easy access. I take it, enter the porch, get on my hands and knees and scrub.
It’s beginning to rain, and I could probably leave it to the elements to clean the sick away — but I want to be sure it’s gone. Harper can’t see this. I can’t let her.
Maybe things would be different if I’d been a better husband. Spent more time talking to Natalie instead of marking books. I always tried, but maybe I didn’t try hard enough.
Once I’m done, I hide the cleaning equipment away, and I squeeze handwash into my palms and hold them under the tap, watching the water cascade between the cracks of my fingers, turning them over and over. I do this four times. Always four, never more, never less. Four has always comforted me. I’m not sure why. When I was a child, there was me, my sister and my parents — four of us. It felt like a solid unit. Like we were impenetrable.
But now I’m in a family of three.
I make my way back upstairs and pause outside Harper’s room. There is no movement.
She hasn’t heard any of it.
I return to bed, and allow myself a few hours of light sleep.
3
Harper
I don’t move from beneath the duvet. It’s a double quilt on a single bed, and it’s the warmest thing in the house, and I’m safe in here.
Mum’s drunk again. I know it.
We never talk about it, but I know it.
I hear Dad shushing her, but he can do nothing to hide the chaotic steps up the stairs, pounding the ground like misplaced notes in a poorly written symphony. There is no rhythm to Mum’s steps when she’s drunk, only disorder.
It gets cooler when he goes outside. He seems to stay there for a while. I don’t know what he’s doing. I don’t hear the car leave, and I don’t hear the front door close, but I feel the cold it lets in.
Sometimes I pretend to have a normal family. We could still be dysfunctional, but in an endearing way, like families you see in sitcoms, like Malcolm in the Middle or The Simpsons, where their dysfunctionality makes them normal.
But our dysfunctionality is not normal. I never see anyone in these sitcoms with a mother who’s an alcoholic.
Never.
Sometimes I wonder what my friend’s families would be like, should I have any friends. I see other mums and dads on parent’s evening, sitting with their child. Sometimes I even see a dad with a notepad, writing stuff the teachers say down.
The only thing Dad ever brought to my parent’s evening was shame.
Eventually, I hear him plodding up the stairs, keeping his footsteps light, but unable to hide the sadness from the way he walks. I always know who’s coming up or down the stairs from the sound of their walk. Mum’s used to be with the clip clop of her slippers, and Dad’s used to be with a spritely bounce.
Now they are ominous, foreboding stamps, only Dad tries to lighten the impact of his.
He pauses outside my room. I don’t know what he’s doing, maybe checking if I’m awake, and I stay as still as I can.
Not that he’d hear me anyway, but I don’t take any chances.
Then the steps disappear, his bedroom door shuts, and the house is peaceful again.
This is the only time when the house is peaceful, and I often lay awake, relishing it. I get tired at school and my teachers get annoyed when they have to wake me up in class, but I’m not really bothered. There’s nothing that any of them can teach me that would make home more bearable.
At least I’m ignored, I suppose. It would be worse if Mum or Dad pretended to give a shit. I’d rather be left alone in my room, silent in our agreement that we don’t interfere with each other’s lives.
I think I’m better off alone. Sometimes I picture my future, and I have my own house, and I work alone at my own business, and I spend my weekends walking alone in a forest, maybe with a dog.
It’s a beautiful image.
It’s silent in this image, too.
And silence is something I often dread, yet am all too grateful for when it arrives.
4
Will
When my alarm goes, I’m already awake. To be honest, I’ve been awake for an hour, listening to my wife’s gentle snoring, appreciating the calmness. I’m tempted to put an arm around her, but I don’t; she is on her side, facing away from me, so I stay on my side of the bed like there’s an invisible wall between us.
I sit up and turn off the alarm.
“Honey,” I say with a hushed voice. “Honey, are you awake?”
She gives a slight groan.
“It’s morning. I’m going to make breakfast; would you like any?”
She ignores me.
“Honey?”
She still ignores me.
“I said, I’m going to make—”
“Fuck off.”
I wait for her to say something else. Sometimes she opens her eyes and complains about her hangover. A few years ago she even apologised. Now, however, she does nothing. Her eyes stay closed and she doesn’t move.
I’d like to say her reaction surprises me, but I’m not even phased by it.
I get up, walk quietly downstairs and into the kitchen. When Natalie’s hangovers are really bad, she doesn’t like to eat too much. No bacon or sausages or waffles; just toast. So that’s what I make her. Lightly browned, not too burnt, and with a thin layer of margarine. I return to the bedroom with said toast and a cup of black coffee, and set them on the table beside her.
“There’s some toast for you here,” I say, still with a hushed voice.
After waiting for a reaction that doesn’t come, I make my way into the ensuite, close the door, and masturbate silently in the shower. I think of Natalie on top of me, riding away, screaming with pleasure. The image is old and grainy now, and I’m not sure I can remember the contours of her body quite like I used to, but it’s enough to see me through to orgasm. Then I stand still until I’m limp and wash myself with soap. I used to use shower gel, but Natalie’s allergic.
My brown suit is hanging lifelessly in the cupboard. I put it on with a grey shirt and survey my ties. Each one is comical in some way; like the tie covered in hearts or the one with characters from Family Guy or the one covered in footballs. People always seem to buy me ties. Barely a birthday or Christmas goes by without it. It’s always my sister or my mum. It’s the present you get a man when you don’t know what else to get him.
Natalie used to give me a tie on anniversaries, but not so much anymore.
I choose a black one with red dots and glance back at Natalie. Her toast must have gone cold by now.
When I return to the kitchen, I find Harper sat at the counter making her way through a small bowl of Coco Pops.
“Good morning,” I say.
She glances up at me and grunts.
In a way, she is the ideal daughter. Unlike so many of the teenage girls I teach, she is happy to wear a skirt that goes down to her ankles, to carry around a big backpack, and to wear large glasses like the kind my dad used to wear in the nineties.