A short story that’ll make perfect bedtime reading
For the first time in 18 years, I was moving to the spare room.
I saw it in Paul’s eyes then. Defeat.
He gave up arguing and watched me pick up my pyjamas.
We broke eye contact at the door, both aware that if I stepped into the hall, a line would be crossed.
I stepped into the hall. Whilst part of my mind yelled at me to go back, I kept walking. I held the tears in until I’d closed the spare room door and was sitting on the bed, then I let them go.
The ending was beginning. Once I started, I couldn’t stop crying.
If Paul heard me, he didn’t come in.And why would he? I was the one who’d left our bed; made my own bed.
But somebody heard me: the one person I had to hide this from – Amy.
“Mummy? Why are you in here?”
I drew a breath and looked up at the door.
Silhouetted in the light from the hall stood Amy, a small angel who carried a hug and brought it straight to me, just the way I’d comfort her.
I had time to be proud of her, and of myself for teaching her to be like this, before I dissolved into grief once again. “What’s wrong, Mummy?” I couldn’t say anything.With all my will I gathered myself together, wiped my eyes and looked at her.
“Did somebody die?” she asked. “No, sweetheart. I’m sad because Mummy and Daddy had a falling out.”
We’d always said we’d be honest with her.
“I heard that,”Amy said, disapproval in her tone.“You were shouty.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Lame, Laura, so lame, I said to myself.
“I’m sorry you heard it.”
“I hear you a lot,” she said.“You argue when I’m in bed.”
“Amy, honey, do you mind if we talk in the morning? I’ve got a bad headache and you’ve got school tomorrow.
“I love you,” I added, wishing that love could magically make it all right.
“Are you getting divorced?” She stared at me until her eyes were all I could see.
Paul’s eyes.
I shook my head, but I wasn’t sure if it was a denial or not.
“No, of course not. I just... grown-ups...”
My words failed me. How could I explain it to her?
How could I explain that Paul and I had forgotten how to make it work?
“Don’t worry,” I said.
“I’m not worried,” I added, “everything will be fine.”
Amy looked at me, cocked her head to one side and pursed her lips.
“You look worried,” she said. I forced a smile.
“I’m tired, sweetheart. I need to sleep.”
“Wait there,”Amy said.
She dashed from the room and returned seconds later.
“I got these on our school trip to the market yesterday.” She held something brightly coloured out to me.
The school trip. I’d not even asked her how it went, preferring to text Paul furious messages for most of the afternoon.
“I’m sorry, I...” I had nothing to tell her.
I held out my hand for the object.
Amy thrust it towards me. “These are called Worry People.You put them under your pillow and tell them all your worries.And in the morning, whoosh! All gone.They’ll help you, Mummy.”
“Is that right?” I smiled at her. “Thank you. Now go to bed, OK?”
I gave her one last hug and a kiss and she left the room, glancing back at me from the door.
I couldn’t read her expression. I tried to remember how many of her friends’ parents were divorced, and where she’d learned to say the word so clearly.
I didn’t think I was going to be able to sleep.
I looked at the Worry People. They were stuck along a small piece of wood.
They fitted into the palm of my hand, tiny cloth figures that were stitched together in a row of colour.
Their faces wore minuscule smiles, half-hidden under little bowler hats.
I sighed and put them under my pillow so I could at least tell Amy one truth in the morning.
I heard her talking to Paul, and though I didn’t feel tired, exhaustion overcame me and I fell back on to the bed, unable to think about anything any more. I just wanted oblivion.
I’d not slept well for days, waking up in the night to think about Paul and me, and what we should do. I wasn’t sure I even loved him any more, and I didn’t understand where it had gone.
As I fell asleep I half-heard a voice say,“Help me”, and I thought it might have been my own, but I was drifting away, feeling myself sink down into the mattress.
“Sí?” a voice said.
I opened my eyes and screamed.
I was sitting on the apex of the roof of our house. I grabbed the tiles for support as the world wobbled around me.
“Sí?” the voice said again. I looked around and saw a small woman perched just behind me, knitting at a furious speed.
I twisted around to face her. I tried to speak, but my words wouldn’t come out.
“What do you want?” Her voice was impatient and she made a tutting noise as she dropped a stitch.
I looked down from our roof and saw my jungled garden from above, with the washing I’d forgotten to take in against the backdrop of sodium lights and stars.
“I’m dreaming.”
“Sí, y no,” the woman said.“Yes and no.You called me, I came. What’s your problem? Because I’m pretty busy tonight.” “You’re...the Worry People?” She looked around. “Person.You see more?”
I shook my head.
I gave myself a surreptitious pinch. I remained on the roof. She sighed.
“OK, OK. I know already.You don’t know if you love your husband any more. I help. Easy to fix.”
She laid her knitting on her lap and took one of my hands in her shiny brown ones. She stroked it.
“Shut your eyes,” she said. “Now tell me about Paul. Anything.”
I did as I was told.
I didn’t know I was going to speak until the words started coming, as if pulled from my soul.
They fell over themselves, tangled up their letters and tumbled down off the roof, telling our story as they went.
I told her all about our wedding, which was the happiest day of my life, and how, when we danced, I cried and held Paul and knew I was safe.
I told her about meeting him for the first time when I was single and cynical and didn’t believe in love at first sight, and then I saw Paul and suddenly I did.
I told her about when he first kissed me under a tree in a park, the bark rough against my shoulder as I turned to feel the most tender kiss I’d ever known.
Soon I was telling her all about giving birth to Amy, how Paul and I looked at each other and communicated thousands of things without words.
I told her how we held Amy, this baby we’d waited to meet for five long years, this tiny perfect human who completed our circle and bound us together, for ever.
I told her the promises we made to our daughter as we named her and stroked her miniature hands and felt her warmth and life.
Finally, I took a deep breath and told her how, years later, when we found out Amy would never have a sibling, we held each other and sobbed because we wanted to multiply our love all over again because that’s how it felt, having a child.
I told the woman how our love had begun to change and that we didn’t know how or why, and that we seemed powerless to stop the arguments.
Then I told her about how I noticed Carl one day at work, and he made me see how old I’d become by making jokes I didn’t understand and flirting with me.
At first I was confused and didn’t know when to laugh, but gradually I relaxed. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt attractive, but when he smiled at me, I felt beautiful.
When I looked in the mirror I didn’t recognise myself any more. My wrinkles stood out. My smiles looked forced.
Carl made me laugh – when was the last time Paul and I had laughed?
I began to wear make-up to work and think about my clothes in a way that made me feel young. I enjoyed it and make excuses to have to visit Carl’s desk.
He asked for my number and, pleased and blushing, I’d given it to him.
One day Carl texted me, a silly, flirtatious text, and I’d replied, and Paul had seen it and it had created a whole new level of arguments.
“Stop,” the woman said.
I opened my eyes.
“No, keep them closed.” She put her hands on my head and twisted them slightly. It hurt.
“Ow!”
“That’s better,” she said.“Now, continue.”
So I tried to tell her about Carl again, and our arguments, but the words wouldn’t come. I couldn’t see Carl’s face. I didn’t want to see Carl’s face.
All I felt inside was how much I loved Paul and how stupid we’d been to let all that good feeling go.The arguments really were trivial.
Instead I recalled how soft and warm Amy had been when she was first born, this child that was half of each of us, our love brought to life.
I tried again to say that we couldn’t communicate any longer and shouting was a part of our day, but all I could see were his eyes during our wedding dance, as we slowly twirled and the lights flashed by and the cheering of the wedding guests spun us faster until all we could see was each other.
I wanted to tell her how I believed it would be easier alone, with no fighting, no misunderstanding or bewildered silences in which we’d once laughed, but all I could see was Paul and me at a charity comedy night, laughing so hard and having to clutch each other in order not to fall off the plastic chairs. I opened my eyes.
“I love him,” I said, and the words surprised me.
“Of course you do,” the woman replied.“You just forgot for a while, and let life get in the way.
“The more love you start with, the easier it is to find if you lose it.You had lots of love.That’s how it should be.
“Now, I go.” She let go of my hands. From somewhere in her bulky skirts she pulled a stripy bag into which she tucked her knitting. She stood up.
“But,” I began.
“I have somebody else to see. Shut your eyes and think of your bed. Sweet dreams!”
There was a pop in the air and a hole where she’d been before the air moved with a shimmer and filled the space.
I stared and shook my head. I was left alone in the dark.
I closed my eyes as she’d instructed.
Instead of the spare bed, I saw our bed. It looked far too big for just one person.
In a second I felt my familiar soft pillow and duvet tucking me close to Paul’s warmth. He snored gently, a sound that had lately been driving me nuts but now was like music.
He stirred in his sleep and murmured,“Worry Person? What?”
I slid my hand under his pillow and felt the cloth figures, just like mine.