Maggie's Life.
1.
My Grandparents are in the kitchen, muttering under their breath and the cover of the whistling kettle and the radio. I don't need to hear them to know what they are talking about, that much I know for certain; they're talking about my dad. If I'm unlucky, about myself too.
My mother walked out on us exactly three and a half weeks ago, not giving a reason for her flightiness. She took everything that belonged to her, even the near-empty bottle of her favourite shampoo. It's as if she never existed, or it would be if it were not for my dad's heartwrenching grief. In those measly couple of weeks, our lives have been completely uphauled; my dad became the child, I became the parent and my brother Teddy is lost amongst the chaos. We quit our family home and moved in with my gran and grandpa. There hasn't been any time for me to sit and think which, if I'm being honest, I am grateful for.
I purposely stomp down the rest of the stairs, my favourite spot for eaves-dropping, and march into the kitchen. They both pull apart sheepishly, moving to different places in the cramped space. I can't get used to the thought of living here from now on. This room is so familiar, with its pots and pans hanging up against the wall and the old but reliable gas cooker shoved, though not unloved, into the corner. I scratch away some of the peeling, yellow paint on the closest wall with my fingernail, awkward being alone with my grandparents.
"Breakfast, Marg?" my Grandpa asks, holding out a bowl of porridge. I breath in the sickly sweet scent and shake my head.
Grandpa clucks in disapproval. He always tries to force feed me, even if I'm about to burst from food. I spare a moment to imagine turning him down constantly now that I live here and make a mental note to avoid the kitchen from now on.
Gran starts washing up the dishes and I focus my attention on the gentle clinking as she moves her hands around in the sink. My mother preferred a dishwasher, said she didn't want to spoil her nails. She loves painting her nails, always wanted to paint mine but I wouldn't let her. I wrench myself away from the thought, feeling the familiar bubble of anger stirring in my chest whenever I remember her. Too hard to think about.
The kitchen seems too bright, too sharp and so real all of a sudden, my will of forgetting her losing fiercely in a battle with my rationality. I grip the door frame to steady myself, my nails sinking into the wood. Gran is saying something to me but my ears are filled with buzzing. All I can think about is the destitute future lying before my family. Will we remain like this, drowning in sadness for a woman we thought would be there forever?
"Sorry, what did you say?" I spit out at Gran but my ears twitch at the sound of footsteps on the stairs and I freeze.
My anxiety has already reached dangerous levels before I see my dad shuffling into the room. Not even a month without her and he's a shell of what he used to be. It's impossible to believe that this gaunt, skeletal figure side-stepping me so purposely is the same dad who used to squeeze my shoulders gently when I was upset, or laugh wildly when I did something stupid, or beam with pride when he watched me in the school plays. Now, he can't stand to look at me, uses any excuse to not be near me and hasn't spoken to me for all of those three and a half weeks. The only exception is breakfast after my Gran all but dragged him down the stairs on our first morning here.
"James. Eat." Gran orders him, pushing a bowl brimming over with porridge towards him. There's a glimmer of his old self just now; the way he's staring down at the bowl in disbelief, his eyes implying that the quantity is far too much for any one person to eat by themselves.
I even nearly giggle. Nearly.
My Gran is relentless in her attempts to bring dad back to the world of the living and sane, as she likes to put it. She sets him tasks to do throughout the day so that he has something to look to, though I have to admit I find them fruitless efforts. I doubt getting him to hoover the living room or polish the furniture will have him doing cartwheels of joy around the house any time soon but I know she's doing it for mine and Teddy's benefit. We're floundering in a sea of desperation.
"James, dear." she coos, talking to him as if he's a lunatic. "James. I was wondering whether you'd like to do the shopping today, hmm? Go to the supermarket with Maggie?
His fingers tighten around the spoon he's picked up, I can see them turning white under the strain. There's a blob of porridge quivering on its underside but miraculously, Gran hasn't picked up on dad's behaviour. Perhaps she's trying to fool herself into thinking he'll just snap out of it with enough mollycoddling and time.
I have more sense and know that this is simply a step too far for him. I can't communicate to Gran what a huge mistake she is making.
"And maybe afterwards, you can come down here and watch television with us all? Wouldn't that be nice, James?" she asks him, the hope in her voice only too clear. "Wouldn't it? To spend time with your family again?"
My last hope, Grandpa, is leaning against the kitchen cabinets watching the scene unfold. I widen my eyes at him and pointedly jerk my head in the direction of dad, lowering my gaze to his trembling hands. It must be my lucky day because Grandpa gets the hint and enters the conversation with a gruff cough.
"None of that, Edith. I can handle the shopping. James needs rest, don't you?"
Dad relaxes, and I can see by the way his shoulders dramatically drop that he was wound so tight he could have sprung. I'm not letting the fact that he found the idea of shopping with me so appalling.
Gran's disappointment is evident. Her face has sunken, her whole frame is slumped. Her son is no more and from what she can tell, he's not coming back. She turns her back on all of us, continues washing the already clean dishes and pretends that her shaking shoulders is to keep in time with the music coming from the radio, not from her silent sobs.
It's all too much for me. I back out of the room and hurtle up the stairs, shutting out my collapsing world with the slam of a door.
My mother walked out on us exactly three and a half weeks ago, not giving a reason for her flightiness. She took everything that belonged to her, even the near-empty bottle of her favourite shampoo. It's as if she never existed, or it would be if it were not for my dad's heartwrenching grief. In those measly couple of weeks, our lives have been completely uphauled; my dad became the child, I became the parent and my brother Teddy is lost amongst the chaos. We quit our family home and moved in with my gran and grandpa. There hasn't been any time for me to sit and think which, if I'm being honest, I am grateful for.
I purposely stomp down the rest of the stairs, my favourite spot for eaves-dropping, and march into the kitchen. They both pull apart sheepishly, moving to different places in the cramped space. I can't get used to the thought of living here from now on. This room is so familiar, with its pots and pans hanging up against the wall and the old but reliable gas cooker shoved, though not unloved, into the corner. I scratch away some of the peeling, yellow paint on the closest wall with my fingernail, awkward being alone with my grandparents.
"Breakfast, Marg?" my Grandpa asks, holding out a bowl of porridge. I breath in the sickly sweet scent and shake my head.
Grandpa clucks in disapproval. He always tries to force feed me, even if I'm about to burst from food. I spare a moment to imagine turning him down constantly now that I live here and make a mental note to avoid the kitchen from now on.
Gran starts washing up the dishes and I focus my attention on the gentle clinking as she moves her hands around in the sink. My mother preferred a dishwasher, said she didn't want to spoil her nails. She loves painting her nails, always wanted to paint mine but I wouldn't let her. I wrench myself away from the thought, feeling the familiar bubble of anger stirring in my chest whenever I remember her. Too hard to think about.
The kitchen seems too bright, too sharp and so real all of a sudden, my will of forgetting her losing fiercely in a battle with my rationality. I grip the door frame to steady myself, my nails sinking into the wood. Gran is saying something to me but my ears are filled with buzzing. All I can think about is the destitute future lying before my family. Will we remain like this, drowning in sadness for a woman we thought would be there forever?
"Sorry, what did you say?" I spit out at Gran but my ears twitch at the sound of footsteps on the stairs and I freeze.
My anxiety has already reached dangerous levels before I see my dad shuffling into the room. Not even a month without her and he's a shell of what he used to be. It's impossible to believe that this gaunt, skeletal figure side-stepping me so purposely is the same dad who used to squeeze my shoulders gently when I was upset, or laugh wildly when I did something stupid, or beam with pride when he watched me in the school plays. Now, he can't stand to look at me, uses any excuse to not be near me and hasn't spoken to me for all of those three and a half weeks. The only exception is breakfast after my Gran all but dragged him down the stairs on our first morning here.
"James. Eat." Gran orders him, pushing a bowl brimming over with porridge towards him. There's a glimmer of his old self just now; the way he's staring down at the bowl in disbelief, his eyes implying that the quantity is far too much for any one person to eat by themselves.
I even nearly giggle. Nearly.
My Gran is relentless in her attempts to bring dad back to the world of the living and sane, as she likes to put it. She sets him tasks to do throughout the day so that he has something to look to, though I have to admit I find them fruitless efforts. I doubt getting him to hoover the living room or polish the furniture will have him doing cartwheels of joy around the house any time soon but I know she's doing it for mine and Teddy's benefit. We're floundering in a sea of desperation.
"James, dear." she coos, talking to him as if he's a lunatic. "James. I was wondering whether you'd like to do the shopping today, hmm? Go to the supermarket with Maggie?
His fingers tighten around the spoon he's picked up, I can see them turning white under the strain. There's a blob of porridge quivering on its underside but miraculously, Gran hasn't picked up on dad's behaviour. Perhaps she's trying to fool herself into thinking he'll just snap out of it with enough mollycoddling and time.
I have more sense and know that this is simply a step too far for him. I can't communicate to Gran what a huge mistake she is making.
"And maybe afterwards, you can come down here and watch television with us all? Wouldn't that be nice, James?" she asks him, the hope in her voice only too clear. "Wouldn't it? To spend time with your family again?"
My last hope, Grandpa, is leaning against the kitchen cabinets watching the scene unfold. I widen my eyes at him and pointedly jerk my head in the direction of dad, lowering my gaze to his trembling hands. It must be my lucky day because Grandpa gets the hint and enters the conversation with a gruff cough.
"None of that, Edith. I can handle the shopping. James needs rest, don't you?"
Dad relaxes, and I can see by the way his shoulders dramatically drop that he was wound so tight he could have sprung. I'm not letting the fact that he found the idea of shopping with me so appalling.
Gran's disappointment is evident. Her face has sunken, her whole frame is slumped. Her son is no more and from what she can tell, he's not coming back. She turns her back on all of us, continues washing the already clean dishes and pretends that her shaking shoulders is to keep in time with the music coming from the radio, not from her silent sobs.
It's all too much for me. I back out of the room and hurtle up the stairs, shutting out my collapsing world with the slam of a door.