“Evidently.”
“Did Polly call you?”
“She did. As did you, five times. So, not a good night for either of us, it would seem.”
I close my eyes. “I’m so sorry. Was she angry with me?”
“I’d say more worried. Are you coming home?”
The clock by the bed says 8:47 a.m.
“I will be. Might need a little bit of time to turn myself around here, though.”
“Well, I’m leaving for work now, so I won’t be in.”
“Oh,” I say pathetically. Then, “I cleaned the house,” as if this somehow explains or mitigates last night’s behavior, and the state I’m in now.
“You said already. Quite a few times.”
“So I’ll see you later?”
“I’m staying at the hospital tonight. I guess I’ll see you when I see you.” He hangs up. Hospital. The word triggers a new sick feeling, unrelated to the alcohol. I’d forgotten all about it: Johns Hopkins, six months.
Tube
The journey home is hell, testing all my basic faculties: movement, sight, balance, breathing, temperature control. Everything seems completely absurd and utterly pointless, not least the ad for a new chocolate bar repeated all the way down the escalator wall.
As I’m waiting on the platform, a recorded message advises passengers to heed the safety advice printed on signs around the station.
—
On the train, I watch a lonely corn puff roll on the floor, before it’s crushed to cheesy powder by an indifferent desert boot. My car fills up with a crocodile of children holding hands, all wearing red school caps. One of them, a small girl with stringy brown hair, stares at me, her mouth a tiny “o,” and shrinks away when I attempt a smile.
Paradox
Nausea equaled only by snarling hunger; but there’s nothing on this earth I want to eat.
Fighting talk
On my road, a woman strides by in an uncomfortable-looking suit, screaming into her phone, “What are the side effects? What’s the life expectancy?”
Dad
At home, I send flowers to Polly and Will with a note reading, Sorry for everything. I mooch around the house in leggings and one of Luke’s jumpers (“boyfriend fit” being more snug than magazines and the fashion industry would have me believe). Waking from a short, deep nap on the sofa, I see I have a voicemail from my dad. I listen — the phrase “nothing urgent” crops up four times. I phone back immediately.
“What’s wrong?”
“Ah! It’s Claire! My favorite child! I’m just at home, sitting down to some lunch!” He sounds exactly how someone being told to “act normal” by a gun-toting madman would sound.
“At home? Do you have the day off? Eleven thirty’s early for lunch.” On his end, the landline starts to ring. “I can wait while you get that.”
“No, no, don’t worry — it’s no one. A nonsense caller.”
“Huh? Oh, nuisance, you mean. How do you know?”
“If it’s important, they’ll call again. So, what can I do for you?”
“You left me a message. I was phoning you back.”
The ringing stops.
“It was nothing urgent. Just, ah, checking in to see how things were with you.”
The ringing starts again, somehow more insistent the second time around.
“Honestly, it’s fine to get that. I’ll call back in—”
“One moment.” There’s a crunching noise and it ceases, mid-ring. “There! It’s stopped! Everyone happy?”
“Dad, you’re being weird. Is everything all right?” In the silence, a new sound like a sort of panting in the background. “Is that…? Can I hear a dog?”
“Possibly.”
“In the house? You hate dogs. Mum hates dogs.”
“She doesn’t mind Walnut.”
“Walnut…” My addled brain tries to make sense of this. “Do you mean…Hazelnut?” Hazelnut belongs to their neighbors a few doors down.
“Whatever. I hope it’s him, anyway. Otherwise I don’t know who I have here.”
“Pretty sure Hazelnut’s a she.”
“Listen, do you think I should give it a tomato?”
“Dad, what’s going on?”
“Nothing. Doesn’t matter. Completely normal. Anyway, how are you? Did I already ask?”
“I’m good. No news really.” I shut my eyes tight to ride out a splitting headache, and try a different angle. “How’s work?”
After a few seconds of silence, he says, “The thing I want you to remember, Claire, is that the person in charge on a day-to-day basis is a small, shortsighted, arrogant arsehole.”
Now we’re getting somewhere. I have a thousand questions, but decide to let him continue, in the hope that any logic will emerge in the telling. His narration, though spirited, is typically roundabout: amid the twists and turns I identify a clear villain (the shortsighted, arrogant arsehole — I honestly can’t tell if “short-sighted” means this person wears glasses, lacks judiciousness or both), a victim (Dad) and an ongoing campaign of persecution. Dad makes more references to Hitler and the Jews than I’d let him get away with were anyone else listening, but he’s clearly in a bad way, so I park my objections and make a mental note to return to them later. At last, he gets to the crux: a frank exchange of words this morning (the Hitler — Jew analogy among them, alas), resulting in my father being asked to leave.
“Asked to leave the premises or to leave the firm?”
“Claire, I don’t know.”
“Is Mum with you?”
“She is not.”
“Have you told her?”
“Not yet.”
“I think…” I take a stab, “I might come over if you don’t mind? I have no plans today anyway, and it sounds as if maybe you could do with some company.”
“Well. I have Walnut.”
“Hazelnut, of course.” I’d forgotten all about the dog.
“It’s been answering to Walnut,” he muses. “Do they answer to anything if you use the right tone of voice? Peanut!” There’s a pause. “Marmalade!” Another pause. “Andrew! No, that didn’t work.”
“Shall I come over, then?”
“If you wish,” he says.
I pull on my shoes.
Home
From the train station, I take a taxi to my parents’ house. Dad greets me at the door with the dog by his side. Over suit trousers and shirt he has on a frilly pink apron — an ironic gift someone gave years ago to my mother, who hates cooking. His hands are enormous in oven mitts, feet surprisingly small in socks. He reminds me of one of those dancing bears trussed up in a tutu.
“Hi, Dad,” I say. His embrace is tight; the mitts up around my ears muffle his greeting. “Is this your special dog-handling outfit?”
“Guess again.” He pulls away, making for the kitchen, with Hazelnut sashaying slowly at his heels.
—
The oven is open and a delicious, comforting aroma has diffused throughout the room.
“I was just checking on it when you arrived,” he says, tilting the cake pan, teeth clamped appraisingly over bottom lip. “Needs a bit longer.” He shoves it back in and slams the oven shut. The kitchen is in total chaos: utensils and ingredients have taken over every surface. By the bin, a whole tomato sits in a saucer.