Knots

Knots

With a heart of lead I stare at the wall clock. Its hands race towards 3.30. It is that time again; his bus will screech outside, breaking my illusion like a mirror. I peer through the hole in the net curtain. Greyness. Cars speed through the blinding rain, various shades of the same rusty grey, their wipers slashing against the glass.
It is time to find that smile, paint it on. I pick up the comb from the coffee table and drag its teeth through my hair. The strands are sticky, like warm tar. I can't remember the last time I washed it. Days, months, years weave together like one of those Brownie knots you learn as a child. But this one is too tight; too many little knots pulled into one irreversible tangle.
For a few hours I remain eluded that I am alone. But now the unmistakable heavy sound of a bus pulls up outside, and the reverse horn rings out, loud and urgent. I back out of the lounge and stand behind the kitchen door, gasping at the last few moments before reality enters in a torrent of screams and chaos.
Five seconds. A few thumps and the doorbell breaks the silence. The doorbell rings again. And again. My limbs are full of sand. I walk through the lounge, into the hall. I see his dark shape against the frosted glass of the front door, hear his giggles, and the faint edge of his escort's Scottish lilt. My smile is plastic as I pull at the latch.
A waft of cold air hits my face as he zooms past me, throwing his bag onto the sofa, the back of his head now out of sight. He is already seeking out the latest snacks in the kitchen, not waiting for anything I might push in front of him at tea time. I have long realised it is pointless; he won't eat a meal. He's out for odds and ends, anything he can get. Door-locks, bolts don't work; he is crafted at opening them. I tried to hide food to bring out on certain days but it didn't work for long. He keeps crying and wanting until I give in.
“Bye.” His escort gives me the usual glance before charging back up the soaked path to the bus. Always happy. I can't remember what that feels like. Maybe once, a long time ago, before the knots appeared. But soon they were everywhere I turned. I couldn't escape them. Each journey I made, each attempt to undo, led to a bigger knot. So now I've stopped trying. Stopped risking.
I find him pulling open the top cupboard. It is much higher than him, but he's a climber. He sees me and starts screeching. He wants something, but I don't know what. He doesn't speak. Sometimes I can guess, as he thrusts my hand in the direction of what it is. But often he doesn't; he just screams, desperate and alone, needing me to know.
He wasn't always like this. He used to have a few words. No sentences, mind, but real words. More, Marmite, ball, bye. But they disappeared into the empty air one day, no trace. His eyes became vacant almost overnight, like he no longer cared.
Everyone told me he was fine. Einstein didn't talk until he was two. But I knew. Mother's instinct, call it what you will. I think it was inevitable. Nothing else turned out right, why should this be any different?
His dad didn't think that way. He expected a real boy; a football player, a drummer. This child wasn't part of the plan. He'd made a wrong turn. He turned back, found someone else and tried again.
We had the odd phone-call at first, but like our marriage, that soon fizzled out. Only so much you can say to yourself isn't there? And the Christmas presents, but Mikey never played with them. He never plays with anything. I lied and told Colin he played with them all the time. But he knew Mikey all too well.
I pull down the pack of custard creams from the cupboard and give him one. He runs his eyes over it, checking for any missing corner, any crack. Then he takes a firm bite, sending splinters of biscuit scattering across the kitchen floor. It's pointless trying to hoover; mess reappears faster than it's removed. At least left there I know what I've got.
Colin didn't want a baby. It was my choice. He said it wasn't the right time. We were in student digs, a year out of college. I was ill, he didn't have a job. But the knots were there, pulling tighter and tighter, leaving me breathless, determined. I wanted a family. Love. Even the rows, the times he sped off in his car in the middle of the night, the accelerator screaming in protest, did little to persuade me otherwise.
I tell a lie. The doubts did creep in, once. Just after we got together. Something niggled at me; maybe he wasn't the right person. Maybe we should wait. But then I gazed at the hurt in his eyes, and vowed I could change. It was my fault. We needed a baby to ground us; the ribbon to tie us together. Eventually Colin came round. I knew he would.
I sit at the lounge table, gazing through the window at the darkening mid-winter afternoon. The enormous oak tree on the lawn, once covered in beautiful orange and green leaves, is now barren, a bare-boned shadow of itself. Rain pelts against the glass. Mikey follows, grabbing the pack of biscuits I left on the kitchen side on the way. He yanks his chair across the table and sits, munching through the next one, staring past me into the lounge.
The burring of the land-line cuts into the silence. It rings five times before abruptly switching to the answer phone. The earthy voice of Mikey's social worker breaks through our lounge, asking how we are, wanting a visit, next Wednesday perhaps, if I can let her know. She hangs up, her absence a long growling click, and my eyes fill with stupid tears at a person's kindness, her interest in our empty world. I gaze back at Mikey; he is undisturbed as usual, still working his way through the biscuits. My tears suddenly turn guilty, ashamed, and I stand up to take the pack from his hand. He screams in protest, his face distorted in rage.
My beautiful boy, I think as I quickly shove them back in the kitchen cupboard. Caring so much about biscuits. The innocence of it yanks at my stomach, at the knots, pulling them tighter until I think they will break. In my impulse I forgot to leave him a biscuit, and I realise it too late. Mikey follows behind, and suddenly lunges for my hair, squeezing it tight in his strong fingers. He twists and pulls until my scalp is on fire. I catch his hands and dig my nails in until he yelps and snatches them away, hitting the side of my head as he turns. The knots are pulling so tight, and my arms are burning. I smack him across the back.
My breathing slows, and I see him standing quietly beside me, his eyes bright.
The enormity of what I've done suffocates me. My throat is tight, and the words don't sound like mine.
“Oh I'm sorry,” I whisper. “Mikey I am so sorry sweetheart.”
I hear a strange wailing noise. It doesn't sound like me, but it must be. Mikey is calm. He is bending down, looking in the fridge.
In this instant, I know what I have to do. I drag myself back to my feet. Leaving Mikey safe where he is, I walk to the lounge and pick up the phone.

*****
It is done. He is gone. I asked her to take him. She said we will talk about it. She will see me tomorrow, and have an urgent chat. But I told her it's pointless. He isn't safe. He can't stay here, getting hurt from the person meant to care for him.
He is better off without me, I know that. He needs someone who will look after him, feed him good meals, spend time with him. Someone happy.
I open the back door and gaze out into the darkness. It has stopped raining and the sky is clear. The moon is a custard yellow, sliced in half. I see the red flashes of light from an aeroplane tracking through the air. Mikey loved to see planes. I remember his little eyes lighting up in wonder and desire for something so far away, out of reach.
The evening is cold. I turn away and lock the door. I walk towards the sofa as pain spreads through my veins. I throw the empty pack of pills onto the floor and lay down. As I gaze at the ceiling, waiting for the last knots to fade, there is a vague feeling of peace.