A few months ago I entered a short story competition. The story had to be based around one word: 'future'. And I didn't win, so here it is!
Sat on the
front doorstep, I could feel sun on my cheeks, the cold stone on my feet and
the breeze making the skin over my ribs tingle through my thin t-shirt. As the
evening sun abated, hyperactive school children celebrating the end of the
school week were being summoned inside by their equally-as-relieved parents on
the doorsteps of their townhouses.
If I’d just
woken from a coma, I wondered, would I know what day it was? I was certain that
the smell of the air, the palpable relief emitting from those walking by and
the general feeling in the atmosphere was distinctive of how only a Friday
evening felt.
The smells
drifting lazily past shifted from fragrant wet grass and barbeques to the cool aroma
of a summer’s evening, which cannot be likened to anything other than the permeation
of the earth’s surface cooling down after a hot day.
With my
legs stretched out in front of me, I remembered when I was a young girl and,
sitting on the front doorstep, I used to try to reach the front step with my
feet. I smiled slightly as I realised that some things hadn’t changed over the
last decade.
The distant
hum of lawnmowers and children playing faded as I remembered the dread I felt walking
up the steps to the front door on a Sunday night for a glass of milk and a
biscuit, bath, bed and another week of school. I realised how vivid my memory
was now that I was back in my childhood home. Since I’d left for university, my
recollections of being a child only existed as questionable dots in my
consciousness – but being back in the same place again had transformed them
into veritable visions that intermittently blurred into the present.
I heard the
familiar sound of the television getting louder and I instantly became aware of
the disparity between my memories of being here as a child and the present. I
stood up, subconsciously wiped my hands over the back of my legs, and turned
around.
“Mum!” I
shouted, walking into the living room, the first room as you entered the house.
She jumped up and looked at me with a startled expression. I walked over to the
sofa, picked up the television remote and turned the volume down.
Her
expression fell into a look of despondency. She asked, “That thing turns the
volume up, doesn’t it?”
“It does,
yeah. Let’s leave it on top of the fireplace shall we? Just so you don’t sit on
it again”. I withheld from telling her that this was far from a new idea – but
that we went through this routine on a weekly basis.
“Good
idea”, she said, proudly looking at me with a deep stare that was once reserved
for bad news and severe telling offs. It’s funny how expressions are so unique
to a person’s face – it takes a lot of getting used to when they change.
Being
suddenly interrupted from my cogitative state had left me feeling as if I’d
been suddenly awoken from a deep sleep. I rubbed my eyes and, looking over at
my mother, I watched her sit down, and her expression perked up at once – typically
capricious, but at least she was rarely in a bad mood for long.
“What are
we having for tea tonight, dear?” I heard her ask as I walked into the kitchen.
“Oh, not
sure yet mum”, I shouted back as I cleared away our dirty plates. The leftovers
were still warm.
Later that
evening, I sat in the bath and, still feeling particularly contemplative, I
absentmindedly turned the cold tap on and off with my foot. I listened to the
soothing whisper of bubbles as they disintegrated around the sides of my head.
I began to close my eyes when I heard a familiar buzz coming from the direction
of the bathroom windowsill.
I shot out
of the bath and ran into my bedroom, with a towel hanging across my dripping
body. I swapped my phone into my other hand and wiped the bubbles from my arms.
“Caroline, hi. It’s Jeff.”
“Jeff, hi!
How’s things?”
“I’m going
to cut to the chase. We’re a reporter down. Jill’s just left and Charlie’s handed
in his notice.”
I
swallowed. I knew what was coming next. I secured my towel and walked
downstairs, popping my head around the corner. I was safe – she was asleep on
the sofa.
“Jeff, you
know I –“
“I know.
Can you promise me you’ll think about it, though? Listen – I don’t have a
problem with recruiting someone else, I just wanted to give you the opportunity
to re-think things. The features desk is really suffering, Caroline.”
I sat on
the edge of my bed, ignoring the fact that I was still covered in bubbles. I
didn’t respond. “I know your situation is difficult, but in this economy it’s
unheard of for a boss to ring up someone who left and beg like this. Sod my
pride, Caroline. It’s becoming obvious around here that you can’t be replaced.”
Two hours
later I was still wrapped in my towel. In every direction of my bedroom was
evidence of a life lived to the full. I tapped my toes on an old pile of teen
magazines that were worn out from Saturdays of lazing around with friends,
giggling over fantasies of being married to members the latest boyband. Except,
that life was ten years ago.
I often experienced
nostalgia like a spectrum – a pendulum of warmth, wistfulness, melancholy and
longing. This time, however, I didn’t feel any desire to have the carefree life
of my teenage years back. I wanted my future, but my present made that
difficult.
Moving back home was an innate response – but I
suppose I was just turning out to be more selfish than I thought. My ambitions
were on hold, and every day they continued to grow inside me like a malevolent
disease. I opened my drawer, ignoring the faded stickers stuck to it, and put
on some clothes. On my way downstairs I opened mum’s bedroom door. Leaning on
the doorframe, my eyes began to sting as they fell upon the abundance of notes
stuck to furniture around the room. They reminded her what to do when she woke
up. I slowly crept over to the mirror. ‘You’re 60. You live at 122 King’s
Crescent with Caroline. Dom is no longer here.’ I felt a tightness in my chest
spread down to my stomach.
I gently
made my way to the kitchen and furtively slid some bread into the toaster. I
clung onto the doorframe and swung into the entrance of the living room. I saw
mum’s chest slowly rise and fall with each breath. I thought back to when I was
younger, when I used to always check that she was still breathing when she was
napping. And if she’d been asleep for too long, I’d wake her up just to make
sure that she was still alive. I realised a long time ago that I had always
felt that overprotective ‘mother’s instinct’, just as my mum did. Just like
she’d watch me walk up the street to school every morning, I’d wait downstairs
for her to get home from her weekly night class. I still remember the
overwhelming relief on hearing the sound of her key in the front door.
Just as
predicted, the smell of toast wafted into the room and she began to stir.
“I’ve made
you some toast”, I tentatively handed her the plate. I drew my hand to my lap,
and suddenly didn’t know what to do with it. I instinctively traced my fingers
over my lips.
“Do I...”
“Yes, mum.
You like toast. In fact, pretty much everyone likes toast”.
I
compensated for the frustrated tone that my sentence tailed off with by
smiling. She looked at the plate suspiciously and pushed down on the spongiest
bit of the bread, right in the middle. The butter rose to the surface around
the edges of her fingertip, and we both watched, hypnotised for a few seconds.
“Mum, I’ve
just been on the phone to Jeff”.
Her
eyebrows rose, apologetically.
“My old
boss”. I felt my eyes sting once again, and found my gaze focusing on the toast
again. Saying something that felt unbearably stuck in my throat was a lot
easier without eye contact. “He wants, well – needs me to go back to work”.
“Okay...
well, that’s fine, Caroline”. For a few seconds I saw a glimpse of the old mum.
I heard a glimmer of her steady, rational voice that only came out when we had
a conflict of interest. “You always did enjoy making those sandwiches.” My
stomach sank as I thought back to my part-time job when I was 17.
A week later, I stood on the front doorstep
and breathed in as deeply as my lungs allowed. As much as I’d missed the city
air, I knew I’d miss the smell of home again. I balanced my suitcase on the top
step, containing the last remains of my room, and turned to the living room.
Mum stood
awkwardly in front of the door. For a second, I wondered if she’d forgotten
that I was moving out.
“Bye,
sweetie”.
“Promise
you’ll be okay?”
“We’ll be
fine. See you tonight”. I smiled in resignation.
I shut the
door. The image of her stood awkwardly, with her arm around Robo-Assist 500
would haunt me forever.
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