Begin Again? by Terry Reilly What Happened? writing prompt entry Artwork by VMarguarite at FanArtReview.com |
"Just pick up the pieces."
I tried to sound calm. My best soothing tone. I wanted Tom to know he shouldn't have flailed his arm and swept the boardgame onto the floor. I didn't expect an apology. I just wanted him tacitly to acknowledge his overreaction and to make appropriate reparation. He was teetering between explosion and conciliation. I tried to nudge him towards the latter. "I'll help you. Let's do it together." We both went down on our knees, under the table, collecting the pawns, knights, bishops sprawling chaotically across the linoleum. Our heads bumped, unintentionally. Tom giggled and kissed me. God. He was such a lovely, loving boy. But so difficult. Intense, hyperactive, oversensitive. "Can I help?" It was Ivy's voice. Tom's big sister. She was still sitting at the table. Ivy had been cleverly building her attack. Tom and I, partnered, hadn't spotted the king-queen fork. That's what had triggered Tom's extravagant response. "I think we're managing, pet," I reassured my patient, tolerant daughter. She was such a star. Tom's appearance on the scene had put her nose out of joint. She had been the centre of our family universe. Unfailingly good natured, flexible, so eager to learn. Disconcertingly aware of other people's needs, feelings, vulnerabilities. Such emotional maturity. When her brother burst on the scene she had to adapt. It seemed to be effortless, but we knew that was illusory. He demanded so much parental attention she must have felt displaced. We were truly blessed. Bill and I recognised that tiredness was contributing to the current difficulties. "Time for beddie-byes," said Dad. "Let's run the bath, get you both tickety-boo, then dreamland." "Shouldn't we?" asked Ivy, "go up..." Tom jumped in, "the wooden hill to Bedfordshire!" He was bouncing, being Christopher Robin. Bill flashed me a smile. These rituals were important. Their comforting familiarity was an anchor. I watched, admiring Bill's instinctive paternal skills, as he bent to allow Tom to spring onto his broad shoulders and Ivy to fasten herself, limpet-like, to his right hip and thigh. I wondered which song he would sing tonight. His repertoire was extensive. The kids knew them all. "Heel ya ho, boys, let her go, boys..." Oh! This one always brought tears to my eye. The Mingulay boat song. "Bring her head round, now all together..." They all roared it out, the three man crew of a small trawler returning to Hebridean safe haven. The frail craft, with its precious human cargo, butted its way through the swell to the top landing. I could no longer see them, but could hear, "sailing home, home to Mingulay." * I'm unsure how much time elapsed. Forty minutes? He would tell them stories until they fell asleep. A new story each night. They emerged spontaneously from his vast reservoir of fairy tales, folk tales, memories, reminiscences all fancifully embellished by his unique creativity. I loved him! No! I hated him! Shit! I loved him and I hated him! How could I resolve that paradox. He had come clean when I confronted him. No attempt to deceive, to prevaricate. An emotional admission. A confession? No plea for forgiveness. A one off. I wanted to believe it. That parents' night, at Tom's school. Tom's teacher. Bitch! She always displayed her wares. Other parents noticed, disapproved. She had asked Bill to stay behind to discuss Tom's "special needs." How could he do that to me? To us? I didn't hear him creep down the stairs. He was standing beside my chair. He gently stroked my hair. I let him. Surprised myself. Looked up into his sad eyes. Guilty eyes? Remorseful eyes? Apologetic eyes? "Do you think," he breathed, "we can just pick up the pieces?"
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Terry Reilly
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