Day 12: You

It’s 7.15. That makes it 45 minutes before I can see you again. Approximately. I must remind myself that it’s all approximate. Otherwise I become fidgety and nervous with every minute that passes beyond our scheduled hour of reunion. 

“Mummy” Andrew calls from the kitchen table, where he’s sat, bent over his homework. “I can’t do this one.” I clench my fists, wishing you were here.

“Coming darling.”

He looks up at me imploringly, pathetically even, wanting me to tell him the answers. It would certainly be easier on us both and I might get him off to bed earlier too… I have awful thoughts about him sometimes, especially when he keeps me from you. 

It’s another one of those daft gap-fills, we both hate them. Insert the appropriate adverb. What’s an adverb again? I’m useless. I need you. To give myself time to think, I read the question aloud:

“David ate his lunch …………..”

That’s right, adverbs are the ones that describe how someone did something. Exhaling slowly, I try to remember what Peanut-Nutter-75 from Mumsnet said about helping with homework. Ask, don’t tell. That was it.

“What do you think the answer is?”

“I don’t know”

“David ate his lunch. What’s the next word?”

“Yesterday?”

Already frustrated, I try once more. “No love, how did he eat his lunch?”

“With a spoon?”

I give up, he’s right; that does describe how someone ate something. His teacher can explain why he’s still got the answer wrong tomorrow. It’s what she’s paid for and he’d be better off getting to bed on time than staying up all night doing this meaningless task.

“Is that right Mummy?” has asks and I can’t lie to him. You’ll have to wait and he’ll have to have 15 minutes less sleep.

“No darling because it’s not an adverb.” He looks crushed. “Look here, you’ve underlined all the adverbs at the top in red. What’s the same about them?”

“I don’t know.” He’s sulking. “I want to watch the Simpsons.” We can’t always have what we want, I think, irritated. I want to be with you… but that’s not his fault.

“Darling you can do this. What do they all end with?” He doesn’t answer. I look at my phone: 7.18. Has it really only been three minutes? “They all end in ly… so, you need to find a word that ends with ly”. I hope I’m right. “David ate his lunch... how did he eat it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes you do. David ate his lunch….”

“Quickly?”

“Yes, good, that’s right!” Thank God for that. “Well done darling. Now write it down. Q-U-I-C-K-L-Y.” I shouldn’t be spelling it for him, but I don’t care. I’ll be a better mother tomorrow. “Now see if you can do the others yourself.” He looks worried. “There’s only four more. Just do your best. Then we can watch The Simpsons.”

I return to the dishes and think about how the same wide eyes and nervous little expression can be about so many things – lost lunchboxes, tricky homework, me being poorly… He always looks at me to resolve everything, to know every answer, to find all objects and to calm each doubt, even when I’m the cause of his worry. 

If he knew you and I were together again, he’d be devastated and scared. Ever since you put me in hospital he has no trust for you. And when I see that face, for a moment my resolve returns and I think that I will end it between us again. But I know, before I even finish the thought, that it’s pointless. Because when I think of your feel, your taste, how my breathing changes when I’m in your presence and how I’m never fully right until we’re together, I know that you’re more than my addiction – you’re the only real friend I have ever had. 

For a while, after you nearly killed me, I felt as Andrew does about you. But it wasn’t really your fault – just your nature. I was warned, but I’ve loved you since I was too young and too stupid to know any better.

“Finished!” That was quicker than I expected. I check his work. He has written quickly or slowly for every answer, but at least it’s an adverb each time. I consider questioning the woman ran slowly, but if he’s picturing me trying to run that would only confuse him. Tomorrow is Thursday, so it will be maths. We’re both a lot better at maths. 

As promised, we watch The Simpsons, cuddling on the sofa. He giggles throughout, and I start to relax. I wouldn’t swap this for anything, although I still crave you. We’ll be together soon enough now.

I rush bedtime because I don’t want to keep you waiting; my anxiety is rising. Andrew is tired anyway. By the time he’s finally in bed it’s 8.09 and I sit with him until he falls asleep. I think about you, waiting for me outside, but I want to be certain he’s asleep and won’t hear the door open and close. He can’t know. Nobody can. 

By 8.20 he’s snoring like an angel. I kiss him lightly and for a moment I hate myself for what we’re about to do. You and I. 

At 8.21 I unlatch the back door and step outside into the cold. There you are at last, in the tin behind the flowerpot where I keep you. He’s definitely asleep, I reassure myself as I pull you slowly out of the packet and feel your lightness between my fingers, then my lips. Cupping my hand around you, to shield you from the wind, I fumble with a lighter for a few seconds. I attempt to ignite you four times; each time the wind kills the flame and I start to panic. Finally, on my fifth attempt, you glow orange and I inhale deeply, tasting your bitterness. I am complete at last, hunched around you in the darkness.

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