Spilt Milk

Peter knew it was a bad idea. 

They were standing in the kitchen. Him and Oliver. Later he wouldn't be able to remember why they were in there in the first place. That happened a lot. Him not remembering things.

Oliver was what the grownups called ‘angelic’ looking; with his mess of light blonde curls and a face that was so pretty that when Peter had first seen him he’d thought he was a girl that dressed funny

Standing in the kitchen, Peter became aware of a gleam in Oliver's eye.

'I want chocolate milk.' Oliver said.

Peter dug his teeth into his bottom lip. Nanny Carol was the only adult in the house right then, and she was upstairs, changing Jamie's nappy.

‘I’ll ask Nanny to make us some when she comes down.’

‘We can do it ourselves,’ said Oliver, ‘you always act like a baby, like you can’t do anything on your own.’

Peter gave in. He always gave in.

One time, he had not given in. It was an argument over a remote controlled car. Oliver wanted it but it was Peter’s favourite. He had dug his heels in, refusing to hand it over. His stubborness sent Oliver into a rage. He knocked Peter to the ground, gave him a black eye with his wildly flailing fists, and stomped the little car into tiny pieces. From then on Peter tried not to upset him.

It was no use going to the adults. Nobody ever shouted at Oliver or sent him to the room. The boy was always so quiet and so well behaved when adults were around nobody ever believed that it was Oliver who broke something, or Oliver who hurt him.

‘Stop telling fibs,’ they said to Peter.

And then Oliver would get him later for tattling.

He got the milk out of the refrigerator while Oliver got onto counter to get the chocolate mix. They poured it haphazardly into two glasses before adding heaped spoonfuls of cocoa.

‘More.’said Oliver ‘Put in lots.’

Peter did. They both did. They put in so much that when they tried to stir it, it just became a mess of powdery clumps. They stirred faster, until muddy lakes of chocolate milk spooled over the topography of the counter, but it stayed lumpy.

Peter shrugged and drank the milk like it was. using his finger wipe up the chocolate that had conglomerated at the bottom. He licked it off and grinned. It was good.

He looked up. Oliver had not touched his.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I don’t want it with lumps,’ said Oliver

‘It’s kind of nice that way,’ said Peter; ‘try it’

‘No.’

‘I’ll drink it then.’

Peter reached for the glass. With a deliberate movement that was almost lazy, Oliver knocked it from the counter and sent it it smashing to the floor in an silvery explosion, causing sea of chocolate milk strewn with islands of broken glass to spread over the polished linoleum at their feet. Peter froze, staring down at the mess. A sense of panic began to rise from the pit of his belly, clutching at his throat, pulling him inward.

‘Don’t touch anything!’  Nanny Carol had appeared in the doorway, Jamie on her hip. ‘What have you done? Get away!’

Peter and Oliver edged toward the kitchen door, making a bid for the yard.

‘Oh no you don’t' She snapped. 'In the living room. Now. While I clean this up.’. On her hip Jamie was starting to make a fuss.

Peter walked miserably to the living room, flopping down on the sofa. He knew what was going to happen next.

She followed him fifteen minutes later, getting down on her knees to meet him at eye level. All the grownups did that now when he was in trouble. It was what the psychologist told them to do.

‘You know you’re not allowed to pick up anything made out of glass’

‘Yes’ he stared at the floor.

‘You could have hurt yourself’

‘I know’

He glanced over her shoulder at Oliver. A sense of injustice overwhelmed him.

‘It wasn’t me! It was him!’ 

‘Calm down.’

‘It was him! It was! You never believe me! You treat him like he never does anything wrong but he does! It’s not fair,’ the words came out in a rush. Nanny Carol grabbed his shoulders.

‘You can’t blame him for everything.'

‘But it was him! It was him!’ His voice got louder and louder till he was shouting. He couldn’t help it.

‘Stop. Listen.' Her fingers dug into his flesh. 'If you don’t calm down I’m going to take you to the room’

This sent him into hysterics.

He very nearly threw himself onto the floor the same way Oliver sometimes did, but she snatched him up and put him under her arm like a brief case; He kicked and screamed all the way down the passage way with the old creaking wooden floor.

The hallway that led to the room.

It was not his room. His mom called it an guestroom, even though they never had guests. Nanny Carol had long since learned it was the best way to punish him. She put him down, keeping one hand on the doorknob so that she could slam it shut behind her before he could dodge past her to freedom. Through his sobs he heard the click of the lock. For a moment his sobs stalled with the realisation that he was alone.

Wiping his nose with his sleeve through tearful hiccups, he let his eyes dart across the room.

It was neat. Pale drapes matched the lemon yellow bedspread and pillows. An antique drawer stood against the wall. It was an ancient family heirloom like the house itself, passed down the generations, just like the antique mahogany rocking chair that stood in the furthest corner near the window.

He slumped against the heavy oak door. Oliver would be outside now, Oliver never came to the room. The golden haired boy was as afraid of it as he was.  It was one of the nice things about Oliver; he believed Peter about these things. But they never spoke of it. Except once.
.
‘It’s where I became like I am now.’ Oliver had said.

That was all. They did not dare mention it again.

He dragged his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms about his legs and shut his eyes into tight corkscrews. He was OK as long as he couldn’t see her. He would do anything not to see her. But he could still hear the old rocking chair creak and moan as it rocked back and forth.

Back and forth.

A choking scream echoed from the room, hurtling down the passageway.


When Peter's mother came home, Nanny Carol was waiting for her.

‘We need to talk about him.’ She said.

Elizabeth paused by the basin and pinched the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger, her face puckering into a grimace.

‘Again?’

‘He just won't stop.’

‘The psychologist said an imaginary friend is good for a child, that it shows creativity.’

‘Not like this,’ Nanny Carol stated firmly. ‘He broke a glass earlier and guess who he blamed?’

Elizabeth pulled a chair from the table, sitting down and heaving a sigh.

‘Oliver?’

‘Oliver.’

‘We’ll talk to him again.’

‘I have been a nanny for fifteen years and this just is not normal, Beth.’



Upstairs, in the playpen, One-year-old Jamie was watching his rattle shake. He squealed with laughter. It’s a pity his mother wasn’t nearby because Jamie was about to utter very first word.

‘Oliver.’

He giggled. He had pronounced his brother's name perfectly.