#176 OR splinted

I like to wait, most of the time, for other people to initiate difficult conversations. I prepare myself, run through things I'd like to say and file them away at the back of my mind until someone else brings it up. Rarely do I ever have the desire to jump right in and get things over and done with, I'm happy to wait. But I'd waited since April for Godson to come to me so we could hash out a few key issues, and he never did. He was sick while he was here and then he was back at school and there never seemed to be any time, even on the phone, to straighten things out. Perhaps I should have broken my unspoken rule and gone to him back in Spring when he was still here. Instead I let things sit, and, as it turns out, fester until it all erupted on Saturday and we both said things that we didn't quite mean. On Sunday I let them sit, because just seeing him made me unspeakably angry and we'd already done enough shouting in the heat of the moment. Monday, unfortunately, I had to suck it up.

I bought breakfast, deposited it on the coffee table and we watched cartoons with thinly veiled animosity. It took us around an hour to get round to actually speaking. I swear, if I didn't know better I'd think we were actually related. We talked about his Mother, and I laid out what I knew about where she is, we talked about Lena, about his step-father, about his school and about sex. Because he's a fourteen year old boy and it's impossible to have a conversation with him without it returning to sex. He apologized for what he said, I apologized for treating him as a friend rather than a...I don't even know what to call it, a ward, I suppose. He told me, very quietly, that sometimes I call him Alexei. Which I hadn't realized, and is a disturbing thing to learn. But it's true, I treat him like my friend, my brother, not like a kid, and it's too much sometimes. They're similar, in a lot of ways and there's an uncanny physical resemblance, which I've never questioned his Mother too closely about.

In the end, I buggered up, and I should know better. Equally he was vicious, and should know better. But we've both been dumped together and there's a certain learning curve when a teenager is unceremoniously dropped into your life.

And this morning took me to my speaking threshold but, alas, we were not done for the day. I took myself off into the bathroom and he took himself into a spare room to practise in peace. Now, this sodding bathroom is the current bane of my existence. I know that I should admit defeat and call a plumber but after so many weeks of wrestling with it the whole saga has become a point of pride and I will bloody fix it if it kills me. It made its first returning stab at me today, the bastard. The short story is I was a touch cavalier and jammed my hand in a position that a hand is not meant to be in and the result was a compound fracture of my first finger. Sickening to look at but not half as painful as the seven hours we spent at casualty waiting for me to be 'reset' which, as a word, does not convey the disgusting sight and sound of your finger bones being realigned.

Seven hours, and all I wanted to do was ask him what he means when he says he loves me. I'm not sure why it's bothering me so much. I mean, he's known me as long as he's been alive and I endeavour to turn up whenever I'm needed, it's not altogether surprising. I love him. It's just...something. Something is a little odd about it, a look he gets. Not worth ruining our new truce over, though. I promised myself I'd try and remember that he's fourteen, my godson. Not my brother, not my friend, and I can see what he means now. I do treat him like my brother, Godson and I drive his Mother mad when we're together. All inside jokes and pranks and running off to have mad adventures. All of which is fine when you're visiting but it's not sustainable with him living here. And asking him what he means by loving me is, well, rude for one thing.

Fuck, I'm exhausted and he's only been here two days. I don't know if I'll even make it to September.

#174 OR gutwrenching

Wretched. Wretched, wretched, wretched.

Godson arrives on Saturday, early evening, tumbles off the train at King's Cross and we make  our slow way home. He talks, a continuous stream in my ear as we hang off tube poles, crammed in between tourists, and I watch the walls of the tunnel blur past, in between wondering how much he's grown and what the fuck has happened to his hair in the last four months. About his friends, about his exams, about classes and his show and how great it was, all the way back to the apartment. I apologize for not having put anything in his room that even vaguely resembles furniture. He leaves his bags in the main bedroom and wanders about, drinking milk from the carton. I wait, need to get the boy a haircut, Jesus, when did I become his Mother? Still. Haircut. He bins the milk carton. 'You've got rid of everything' we're almost eye to eye now, his eyes are green, his Mother's, disconcerting. 'Yes, yes, most of it.' He's chewing his bottom lip, frowning. 'Was it her stuff?' Lena's. The sense of her filled this apartment for months. It still does, for me. 'Yes. And David's, and some from my brother and sister.' He looks down, takes his shoes off by the door. Christ, listed like that it seems like I know more ghosts than living people. 'I'm sleeping in your bed.' The door's closed before I say 'oh, ok, yes, fine, no problem.' It's 1700 and I cancelled a not-date to spend the evening with him.

After an hour of work I call, reinstate the not-date, a bar near the apartment, won't be gone long. He won't even notice. What's the harm? Write him a note with my number, leave a key on it, brush the sawdust out of my hair and leave. I lock the door, warm under my hand, hot day for London, still daylight at 2130. It takes me half an hour to walk around the corner, spot the Banker stepping out of a cab. Infernally well-dressed, makes me feel like a bumbling fool. Look down at myself, just to confirm I look like shit. I do. Jeans, work boots, badly fitting t-shirt - is that glue, on it? - plaid shirt, ah. Reflection in the bar window, still some sawdust in my hair, and he looks as though he stepped out of a catalogue. Splendid. His palm is smooth against mine, smell of his cologne and scratch of my cheek against his lips 'you smell wonderful' he says, 'sawdust. Shall we go in?' We do. And drink entirely too many bottles of white wine with clinking cubes of ice and twining of condensation-wet hands, cool fingertips on my arm and the brush of his knee against mine. I was tipsy before I left home, by the time we make our incautious way outside at midnight, I am ratted. It's small comfort that so is he. I offer coffee. At least, I listen to myself say the words while the caged, sober part of my brain is shrieking ineffectually and rattling the bars. What the fuck am I doing? There's a fourteen year old boy asleep in my apartment and really? When has coffee ever meant coffee?

I meant coffee, so I make coffee. Pour it into him and fend off his warm fingertips and dodge the brush of his knee. I shush him in that too-loud drunk way, which makes more noise than it silences. Call him a cab and get him upright and downstairs, can't find my keys, leave the apartment door open, front door open, stand under the buzzing porchlight. It's rained, the railing is wet under my hand. I've left my cane upstairs, bugger, how drunk am I? I think, horrified. Bloody drunk. Shit. He's kissing me. He's bloody kissing me and he wouldn't be doing that if he was sober. I wouldn't be letting him. God. I haven't been kissed like this in seven months. The scratch of stubble and smell of his cologne in the rain doesn't make it any less terrifying. It's different, odd. I haven't moved. Close your eyes you fool. I do. And in a flash it's her, a last chance, a last desperate chance to say goodbye. I close my hand on his arm, wait...it's not...the taste of white wine and scratch of his lip make the hollow of my chest clench viciously, it's not her. It's not her. She's gone. I push him towards the cab and lean on the doorframe for a second. Just in time to catch Godson's heels disappearing into the apartment. Shit. Bugger. Fuck. I have to catch him. But she's gone. She's gone and...no. Catch him.

He's in the kitchen, clenching his jaw and shredding my note into angry confetti scattered over the floor and counter. 'I'm sorry, I just...went out, for a bit.' He shouts at me, thought I was gone, thought I'd left him, thought I didn't give a fuck and then, on the doorstep, proof that I did not give a fuck. I went out to get fucked on his first night back? Had I forgotten her? Had I? What the fuck was wrong with me? And he was in the next room! I don't shout, I over-share instead; telling him that in my head I was kissing her, kissing her, the last time, please, stop. He winds down, slamming his fist into my chest over and over and over until I clench his wrists in my hand, hold them against his chest, he struggles until we're on the floor, leaning back against the couch. Panting, red-faced, his streaked with tears. I'm a bastard. He loves me, he says. In this context it seems odd. He really loves me, he's insistant. I don't know what to say. I need to tell him I love him but he's up and spitting words down at me before I can open my mouth. Tells me that I never fucking say anything, no matter what he says, I never speak and it's no wonder people leave me when I meet the next person before the previous one has even left my bed. That's it. At last, the final straw. I grab his calf, the nearest thing to me, and dig my fingers in to stop him leaving. I hate him, right then, I hate him more than anything. I raise my voice, for the first time in years; they didn't leave me, they're dead, they're fucking dead, my wife, my family, they're gone. And what the fuck does he know about that? I'm sobbing, by the end of it, drop my hand from his leg and rest my head on my knees. Haven't cried since Hong Kong, since the hospital. Since they told me. I cry myself sick in a way I'd almost forgotten, it's been a decade since I cried like that. Uncontrollably, in heaving, gasping sobs. He leaves me there and at some point I creep down to the basement to lick my wounds.

The Banker has called twice since then. I haven't answered. Ivan has avoided me. I haven't been the bigger person and initiated the conversation. I will today. He's here until September; we can't continue in silence and we certainly can't continue if he reacts this way every time I go out with someone. It happened in April, a much watered down version in which he slightly over-reacted to me having a date. This, this was positively apocalyptic.

I shouted. And cried.

Apparently I am still human.

#172 OR cheeky

I meant to come and write this about five hours ago. But I got distracted, as I am wont to do; by brown envelopes and coffee and rejigging the pipes under the bathroom sink and putting in a load of washing but forgetting detergent, or even to close the door until later when it's too late and I can see my keys spinning in clear water. And eventually by a film which Lena recommended to me almost a year ago but I...well, got distracted and never watched. So I finally unearthed it tonight, as a distraction from everything else that I should have been doing. 

It was good, I see why she tried to make me watch it. But perhaps it's more fitting that I watch it now. The guy's wife dies, early on, and it takes until the end of the film for him to say it out loud. Finally he yells it so loud that his voice cracks, maybe he cracks too, a little. She said the whole thing reminded her of me. I can see why. It's grainy and dark and the main character is quiet, serious, out of place, shabby in dark clothes, with long-fingered hands, unshaven jaw and he uses ridiculous words. And he's completely lost, utterly devastated. Although those are things I've only picked up in the last six months.

Figure she wanted me to watch it so she could curl againt me with that knowing smile and nudge me whenever he did something that I do. Make jokes about how she deserves copyright payments for putting up with me. Kiss the corner of my mouth, realize I haven't shaved and nudge me again, bursting out in that huge, inappropriate laugh of hers. And I'd probably mutter at her and go back to my book, scribbling things in the margins and glancing at the movie over the top of it and my glasses. All of which will make her nudge me and demand to know why I'm in a film with ginger hair.

Instead I watched it alone in the basement, without reading, without any distractions for once. And without laughing. When he nearly cried, I nearly cried. But it doesn't take much to shove me to the edge of almost-crying. God only knows what it would take to make me actually cry, though, because that hasn't happened yet. Not because I'm a terrible person. Not because I didn't love her. Not because I don't miss her, God no, not that. But because nothing's pushed me to the point of shouting yet. Almost, teetered right on the edge of it a few times. Just cracking and yelling that she's dead, she's fucking dead and gone and never coming back. And the dam will break and my voice will crack and I'll cry. Probably in a heap on the floor. It won't bring her back, but it'd be nice to stop carrying it around, just for a little while.

#183

This blog is starting to strongly resemble my apartment; empty apart from ghosts. Despite knowing that I don't need to defend this recent inability to post anything...things have been chaotic. An old, old friend dumped her fiance of five years and came to visit; my liver has barely recovered.The godson's summer vacation is almost upon me and, true to form, I had done nothing until this weekend when a sudden flurry of activity saw me repainting the hall, main bedroom, guest bedroom, and finally refitting the bathroom cabinets. Godson's mother finally called, after being unreachable for six months and leaving her son to the mercy of my dubious parenting skills. She was hysterical, sobbing, almost incoherent, it would almost have been better if she hadn't called. And of course, because it is summer and the weather has been fabulous and because I am busier than ever...the most atrocious chest infection has struck and combined with my asthma and smoking to render me incapable of walking to the front door without wheezing dramatically.

And that, solitary reader (who am I kidding, this is more like a diary) is what has driven me back to writing. Because sometimes, being ill is sort of nice. When there's someone at home who you've been thinking that you don't see enough of, drifting together after midnight to growl and snore and wrestle over the sheets, one of you always rising early and leaving the other still mumbling, curling around your impression in the mattress. Then one of you is sick, just a little, enough to wriggle your way out of work and spend the day prone on the sofa watching old childhood movies and lazily heating canned soup. Your healthier partner slips out of work early to fester on the sofa with you, catching you watching Mary Poppins and promising not to tell anyone. That's when it's almost nice to be sick. This, this is a fucking disaster.

Because, of course, this is the first time I've been sick and alone. The first time for everything hurts like hell, but after seven months it's been a while since I did anything for the first time since I lost them. It's been a long time since I was sick at all, it was her most recently. Well, not recently, it was almost a year ago now that she had the most atrocious morning sickness. And now it's my turn, except it's not the same when the flat is empty and you haven't spoken to another human being in six days and the nagging worry at the back of your mind is that this asthma attack may, in fact, be your last.

All I can think about, apart from this wretched coughing and wheezing, is that two years ago I had dengue fever (the last time I was unwell) and she was there, throughout the misery. Through shivering and headaches and bonebreaking aches and sky-high fever and IV bags. All I remember is being miserable and delirious and the feeling of her hand on my forehead, of cold cloths on my face and chest. Then, of course, just as I got out of hospital and staggered home; her cheek felt hot against mine, fever-bright eyes, and back we went to the hospital - roles reversed.

I suppose the short version is that I miss the shared misery just as much as I miss everything else.

#167

I came back a week ago, slightly jetlagged, vaguely reeling and entirely exhausted. Naturally, I fell right back into working eighteen hour days filling my nights with sawdust, bourbon and silence wild parties. Flicked my way to Blogger almost every evening, at the usual time of zero dark thirty. But then, a thought finally occurred, a thought that strikes me periodically and usually shakes me out of a slump for a little while. It's not particularly deep, or even particularly pretty, but it works for me: if you always do what you've always done, then you'll always get what you've always gotten*. So I ditched the blog (without any guilt, honestly, I doubt anyone noticed.) and the bourbon (well...I stopped drinking it alone...mostly) and the basement, all in favour of doing something more socially accepted healthy.

It worked, I guess. I've joined a gym, which is something that is long overdue but I hate doing. Gym bunnies tend to look askance at cripples with canes asking about membership so it's one of those things which requires...well, a spine. Perseverance paid off and I unearthed my ideal gym, run by a grizzled old guy with an artificial leg. Naturally I got so over-excited that I absolutely maintained my cool, suave exterior and didn't at all exclaim that it was bloody brilliant that he'd lost a limb. Sometimes...sometimes I really wonder how I've survived this long in polite society. I thought I was forgiven and then he challenged me to a race up the Arch climbing wall, said he'd been looking for someone who was on an even footing with him. I lost, emphatically. Re-match in a fortnight.

All of this is good, undoubtedly. Creeping my way slowly out of isolation and the twin prisons of work and the basement. But things still set me back and some sights or smells or sounds trigger intense memories or flashbacks and feed my nightmares. All of that conspires to make this feel less like progress and more like a prolonged flaying. I wasn't happy alone, in the dark and peace and thick wood-smell of the basement, I wasn't happy curled up in the bottom of a bottle and I'm still not happy. Except now I'm not happy in public, which seems worse somehow, to be seen to twitch and shake and sweat and remember, to zone out of conversations or stare oddly off into corners. But then...if you always do what you've always done...right?

* Yes, I know "gotten" makes my inner (British English) language nerd cringe desperately. Unfortunately it's a quotation so I feel obliged to keep the blasted thing intact.

#157 OR home movies

My shrink had me recording my evenings for five nights, initially it was a little unsettling to be recording myself but by the end of it I'd forgotten. Poor bugger had to sit through hours and hours of me talking to myself, getting drunk and generally being a basket case. He hasn't told me exactly what he thought, he's cutting together a best-of selection of my insanity. Something to show the grandchildren, for sure. He wanted to see what I'm not telling him, which is a lot. No hiding from the video camera though. He said watching me wake up from the fifth nightmare was pretty hard for him. I was a touch scornful. It's pretty fucking hard to live with, thanks. And he touched me. Not a handshake for only the third time in our illustrious decade-long history (first - I punched him, second - he hugged me) a strange, strong grip on the back of my neck and telling me very firmly while glaring that we will. Fix. This. I hope he's right.

It reminded me of home movies; got a bunch of them in the spare room that I haven't watched since January. There's never going to be a good time to track them all down and spend my time lost in hours of footage of my family. I prefer to carry an SLR but for a while took to hauling around the video camera as well (residual guilt from splurging on it in duty free, why does everything seems like a good idea at the airport?) and I'm glad I did. Glad that flight was delayed so I spent seven hours wandering the endless corridors of Bangkok's vast (and unpronounceable) airport. I have a few clips on my laptop which made me smile, re-watching them today. A smile! At a memory, a first, a relief, the end of this misery is in sight. It's all of sixty seconds, a friend is holding the camera, shaking, sound of him laughing and my wife shushing him. She creeps into frame, holding a saucepan of water, the camera pans across a little to me; asleep in a hammock strung across the porch. As she gets closer her grin gets wider and the camera shakes harder, my eyes open too late, she's already upended the pan and I'm soaked, disoriented and finally - flat on my ass on the deck. The two pranksters are roaring with laughter which turns to squeals as I pull her down onto me, grip her in a tight, wet hug and shake cold water from my hair onto her upturned face.

Christ, I can't believe it's June. Time is crawling and flying. In much the same way as this apartment is too full and too empty.

#153 OR hanakotoba

Nights like these I wish I didn't remember things so clearly. It all seems to disturbingly tangible. As though, if I just tried hard enough I could reach out and touch them. Sometimes I wake up as if she's lying right there with her lips in the hollow above my collarbone. For a blurry half-second I wonder why I can't feel her breath there. I don't move, don't open my eyes. Remember countless nights of insomnia; wide awake in the warm night, the weight of her down my left side, her hand on my chest. Eventually, through the soft dark the same muttered words as always "stop thinking, it's too loud" and she rolls away, collapses onto her back, smoothing the hair from her face with the back of her forearm. Flips the sheet up and I can hear her smiling in the dark as the cotton drifts back down slowly. Press a kiss to her temple, an apology. Hand on my cheek, scratch of stubble  against her palm, lips on mine; curved in a smile.

I'm looking for a tattoo artist, a good one. I met one today, recommended, we talked about how to finish a piece, about how I left in the middle of it. She traced her fingers over the lines on my wrist. Oddly intimate. Couldn't remember why.

Couldn't remember why.

It hit me on the train on the way home and I was doubly appalled. I couldn't remember. It's just the beginning of things slipping away, it will happen and it will hurt every time but this first forgetting... This first desperate grasping for information left me speechless. Remembering on the train; her fingers tracing lines of oil onto my fresh tattoo. Inspecting it, memorizing it the way we learned each others scars and ink. So relieved that I remembered, at last. And still so upset about forgetting. Hunched over on the plastic seat, flickering lights of the tube, hands folded on my cane, head on the back of my hands. Eyes closed. Can almost feel her fingers again. Remember her laughing and pointing a stern finger at me as she discovered the hidden letters, the date. Her name, hidden in the crests of a wave. Anniversary tucked away along the edge of a lotus petal. She told me not to, but I couldn't resist. Two years later she was pointing the same finger at me, making me promise to put our daughter's birthday in there somewhere. She drew a flower, an Iris, to hold her name, date of birth. She studied Japanese, lived there for six months, explained Hanakotoba and researched flowers to include in the design. There's space for more, luckily. A Red Spider Lily*, Sweet Pea** and of course, her Iris.

Missed my stop. Walked home with her fingers ghosting up my arm.




*Red Spider Lily - never to meet again
Lotus - far from the one he loves
**Sweet Pea - goodbye
Iris - good news, glad tidings