MANDY HAGER
Page 3 of 4
Reaching the point
We dug a pond in our backyard once. You know that time the kids were desperate for a pet and goldfish seemed the least hard work? We picked our spot and dug down deep – and, before we’d even finished, the underground water started seeping in, gurgling and boiling from the ground until our pond had filled all on its own.
Untapped depths, Sis, that’s my Ed. Together, he and I have learnt the way to siphon up great treasures . . .
I’m drifting. It seems to happen more these days. The medication
worms its way into my brain and feeds there. Where was I? Oh yes, last Thursday night.
Rachel put herself to bed at nine, and Mattie came in for his usual bedtime chat. I love these times – the casual way we chew the day – the way he opens up his life to me and lets me pour small drops of wisdom in. He longs to fly, and yet is pinned here by the thread that joins us all. I know it’s time to loosen it.
I wake up sometimes from this dream where the thread is real – silver, solid, complicated in its weave – and it’s slipping, Sis. Slipping through my fingers and I can’t hold on and it’s not so much that Mattie’s flying away, but that I
am falling . . .
Thursday night, and Mattie’s worrying about his skin. And so I reassure him, and make the usual tasteless pimple-squeezing jokes about the pus runs on the mirror, and how he has to beat my standing record of hitting it from right over by the loo. He laughs and tells me that I’m gross. And I grin just like he’s handed me a medal.
And when he patters off to bed, I roll onto my back and wonder at the miracle of laughing and still joking at this time.
I’m asleep by ten, when Eddie creeps in through the door. But I rouse myself and pin a smile on, to greet him as I have each night since we were wed.
Okay, hon?’ he whispers, and I nod. You know, when first we met, I made him promise that he’d never call me ‘hon’. But he’s snuck it in, the bugger, down the years – and now I hear the love behind it, drowning out the ‘tsk-tsk’ of my staunch fem friends.
‘You finished?’ I know my voice betrays the effort to sound cheery.
The bed lurches to the right as he sits down. ‘They’ve asked me if I’ll go down south for another eight-week stint.’ He tugs off each boot, grunting a little then chuckling as one shoots off across the room. ‘Two grand a week. As boss.’
Jesus. There is nothing I can say to this. This is his life. Our livelihood.
He leans across the bed and kisses me, so gently. ‘I’ve told them I’m only working shop hours from here on in. That it’s time I spent more time at home.’
And somehow, Sis, he makes it sound like relaxation is his only motive.
Je-sus.
We both know that we could say It here. Our eyes meet. Bleed love. Regret. Then glance away.
‘Refill your hottie?’ he asks instead. And I hold it out to him, biting back the groan that presses hard against my lips.
That’s Thursday night.
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