Non Pratt - Trouble

I nod, still not paying attention.

“Bring it here. We can use it to take a photo of the baby.”

There’s a moment of silence in which I pray the nurse did not just say that.

Then Lola gets up and hands over the phone.

“What baby?” she says.

The first thing my grandmother does is hug me with a desperation that nearly throttles me. This is the first time she has seen me since my “dark period”. It entertains me how the family shorthand makes me sound less like Aaron Tyler and more like Pablo Picasso.

“So good to see you, Aaron.” Gran clamps my head between her palms and looks at me intently, eyes searching mine, looking to see whether I’m the same boy she saw this time last year.

She’s going to be disappointed.

It’s one minute to midnight. One minute to Christmas and I’m snuggled up in bed, curled around my almost-bump.

Baby.

I press the light on my phone and look at the screen.

Baby.

The nurse labelled the image bottom and head, which is helpful because I’m not sure I’d be able to tell too easily.

Baby.

I thought it would feel different knowing what it looked like, but I still can’t believe it’s inside me.

Baby.

Maybe I do feel different.

My baby.

I’m dozing on the sofa, listening to Lola play with her second favourite present, a doll she’s named Kooky. Her first favourite present (her words, not mine) is the little black rabbit that Mum and Robert managed to keep a secret even from me. It turns out he’s the reason I was kicked out of the house yesterday, the little bastard.

Lola didn’t know what to call him and she asked Robert to choose, so the rabbit’s called Fiver. He’s now sleeping in his hutch in the utility room, which I know because I just went to check on him. I always wanted a rabbit and, if I’m honest, I’m a bit jealous — although give it a week and I’ll be the one checking his water and changing his straw anyway. Still. If he was my rabbit, I wouldn’t have named him after his price tag.

What will I call the baby? I guess it’s a bit early to start thinking about it — seems like it’s bad luck or something. I don’t want any of that. Seeing it on the screen yesterday made me realize just how much I want everything to be OK. With the baby, I mean. I’m not so stupid to think that everything’s going to be OK with my family.

I watch Lola reach over and take Robert’s new mobile off the coffee table, bored of Kooky already. I shut my eyes again and snuggle further into the cushions. I want this for my baby: cosy fireside family Christmases and big dinners, a pretty twinkly glowy tree and Disney movies…

I think I drifted off.

“…Hannah’s asleep,” I hear Robert say and Mum sighs. I suspect I am about to be summoned for dishes so I keep my eyes tight shut and breathe quietly. So not in the mood for dishes right now.

“Careful with that, Lolly — it’s not a toy,” Mum says.

“I am being careful,” comes the reply.

There’s a pause and I can imagine that Mum’s still there, watching Lola to make sure she’s not about to break something.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m using Daddy’s phone to take a picture,” Lola says.

“What of?”

“Kooky’s baby.”

It takes every little bit of control I have to stop my eyes from snapping open. Instead I lift my lids, just a crack, to see that Lola is holding Robert’s phone over Kooky’s tummy as the doll lies back on a cushion.

I shut my eyes and pray for a Christmas miracle.

“How’s Daddy’s phone going to help?” I hear Mum step further into the room.

“It’s going to take a picture of Kooky’s baby inside her tummy.” I kind of glossed over the details on how the nurse got a picture of my baby and Lola definitely thinks mobile phones have something to do with it.

“You are?” Mum asks.

“So we know the baby’s OK,” Lola explains.

Please shut up, Lola…

“And is her baby OK?”

“Yes.”

There’s a short silence, then, “Lola, where did you learn about this?”

“Hannah.”

I pretend my hardest to be asleep, like a little kid hiding under a bath towel thinking no one can see me if I can’t see them.

“Hannah told you?” Robert chimes in, disapproval ringing in his voice.

“No. She said not to say…” Lola’s not sounding so certain now and I can imagine she’s looking over at me.

“Hannah?” Mum says my name in a way that’s meant to wake me up.

Keep your eyes closed.

“I know you’re awake.”

I open my eyes. They’re both looking at me: Mum curious; Robert cross.

“You were telling Lola about making babies?” Mum obviously thinks this is her area of expertise, not mine.

“I—”

“You shouldn’t be talking about it with her. She’s too young.” Robert weighs in a bit louder than he means to because he’s had a little too much wine.

“Robert. Volume,” Mum says sharply, as she has been doing all evening.

“Stop shouting!” Lola interrupts. “You’ll scare her baby.”

Oh, Lola…

“What?” Robert and Mum don’t seem to realize what’s going on; they’re looking at Kooky still.

“Hannah’s baby. You don’t want to scare it by shouting.”

I’m sitting on the stone bench that overlooks the sloping front garden. It’s cold, but my cheeks are still burning hot from being shut inside close to a log fire and too many relatives, and there’s a white heat in my mind that’s so intense it’s almost consuming me.

I breathe, watching a little of it disappear in the air.

One breath at a time, little by little, heat out, cold in, until I’m there.

Uncles Matt and Dave were talking to Zoë, Matt’s wife, about me. About how pale I looked. About how my parents hadn’t come to them to talk about the problem. About how they shut out the Family. That was no way to deal with these things — we’re family, we share our problems, we share the burden of our children’s woes. We don’t hide and pretend everything is all right.

But did you hear? They sent him to counselling.

Counselling? Well, of course, he would need that after—

I heard Gran walk in, sensible clops of sensible shoes on the flagstones.

It didn’t stop them.

He only went to three sessions. (Wrong, Uncle Dave. I went to four.)

Well.

Well.

Well.

Stephanie told me she’d set him up with visiting.

Visiting? Who?

At one of the old folks’ homes her company do the supplies for. (Gran does not put herself in the category of old folks because her back’s still straight and her mind sharp.)

How’s that supposed to help?

No answer. I imagine there was a lot of shrugging. (Mum’s logic was that I need some perspective — a bit of purpose. Which is true.)

Little Lynette told me he’s very withdrawn. (Of course, I forgot, brattish seven-year-olds are experts in psychoanalysis — I should have gone to Zoë’s daughter for counselling.)

It’s the quiet ones you’ve got to watch.

Mm.

Mm.

Mm.

Goes to show.

I walked past the door. You could almost see the shared thought bubble:

How long has he been there? Did he hear us?!

“We’re leaving on Monday,” I said, looking back. “Best to finish the conversation then.”

Then I came out here.

There’s a swell in the volume of voices as someone opens the back door and crunches down the path towards me. Dad sits down and holds his hand out flat then grunts.

“Snowing.”

It’s winter. We’re in Yorkshire. I am not entirely blown away by this turn of events.

“Your mum is currently tearing strips out of Zoë and the uncles.”

I say nothing.

“They feel pretty bad about it.”

Still have nothing to say.

“Talk to me, Aaron.” He pauses. “Please.”

I turn and look at him. He’s staring at me, eyes a little bleary from the smoke and the alcohol and yesterday’s four-hour drive.

“There’s nothing to say.” I watch him watching me, looking for signs of mental instability. “I think they’re unwise to talk about me whilst I’m in the house. And rude. But then, y’know, your family…”

I crack a smile to show I’m joking but Dad’s echo of the same is weak. Our timing’s all wrong these days.

“Come back to us, son.”

I stare at the ground between my feet and focus on the fuzz of frost on the blades of grass.

“It’s hard. I’m trying.”

But I wonder whether I really am.

Dad puts his arm around me, pressing his face into my hair. “I just wish I knew what was going on in here.”

“Guilt, Dad.”

There’s a silence between us. This is old ground.

“We’re all guilty of something,” he says and I know he’s thinking that there was something he could have done to help. That my parents’ love is so strong they’d rather see a flaw in their parenting than a flaw in their son is overwhelming.