“What do I say?” Frank turned, his body shaking in anger. His lips curled away from his gritted teeth.
“What do I say? I say fuck you. Fuck you and all the rest of them.” A tremor ran through him. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a class to teach.”
Frank barged past and swung the door open. It hit the shelf behind. The coil of wire fell to the floor.
The class sat in a stunned silence as he burst back in.
“Sneddon!” he screamed. “My office! Dinner time!”
2.
Anne pressed the bruise with her finger and moaned from the dull pain that bloomed under her skin. The dark crescent on her side, just below the ribs, had turned the colour of rotten fruit, surrounded by shades of yellow. She pressed the bruise again.
Anne Harper perched on the side of the bath in her gloomy bathroom. Though a fine day outside, the narrow window allowed only a small amount of light in. Anne enjoyed the dimness. Brighter light would allow for a closer inspection that might reveal more bruises. She dropped her T-shirt back over her chest and belly.
She cursed herself again for wearing that top: a little pink number, not too revealing. It had slid up her body while she reached into a high cupboard. Charlie noticed the bruising.
I walked into the dining table
, she had told her son and carried on cooking. He’d made some comment about the table being the wrong height to cause such a bruise. A look darkened his face, such a look of sadness and pity, out of place on the usually cheery face of the ten year old boy. Anne had felt like crying, but had managed to keep the tears inside. A weeping wreck could not prepare a meal for her family.
On the other side of the bathroom door, the children ran up and down the stairs, tormenting Betsy with a chew toy. The dog was a Tibetan terrier, which to Anne sounded grand and mysterious. Betsy in reality was a huggable ball of black and white hair, whose tongue always lolled out of the side of her mouth.
Maybe we can treat her to a good long walk later
, Anne thought,
the weather is great and as soon as Frank gets home from school…
Frank.
Please let him have a good day!
She stood from the side of the bath and turned on the cold tap at the sink. The water ran for a few seconds. She swept her hand underneath and splashed the chilly water onto her face. It refreshed her skin and explained the redness around her eyes.
No, Charlie
, she would say,
I haven’t been crying! I washed my face, that’s all. Must have got some soap in my eye.
She caught her reflection in the small mirror over the sink and met her own stare. The petite woman looking back appeared too old to be just past thirty. The lines around her eyes were etched too deep, and the hair—once long, full and jet black—showed the first signs of grey.
He doesn’t mean it
, she thought at the woman in the mirror. It’s his temper. He just can’t control his temper. His body reacts, that’s all.
The woman in the mirror retained her stony and accusing glare.
He loves me, me and the kids. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He loves us.
The reflection seemed unmoved.
But what about the kids? What if one day, you aren’t there? What if he gets in one of his tempers and Charlie or Bronwyn does something to upset him? What then?
Anne closed her eyes. She forced away the niggling voice.
Her body shivered. Tears gathered along the edge of her lower eyelids and swelled, cascading down each cheek. She wept in silence, a knack perfected over many nights lying next to her husband.
Wasn’t everything her fault? The reason Frank got so mad, why the kids were always asking if everything was okay? During one particularly hard week, the week Frank had stormed onto a football pitch to apprehend a pupil, she’d started to plan her own death. Her hand had rifled through the contents of the medicine cabinet, like a child would run his hand over jars of sweets.
Razor blades were her front runner for a while; to go out in a red blaze of glory to make up for her timid and mundane existence. She thought against it. The mess would surely get Frank in a rage. Slashing your wrists was a very selfish way to commit suicide. She opted for the pills. An overdose of painkillers, fall asleep…hello oblivion. The voice had crept up again—the annoying, nagging voice she supposed was her conscience. If she swallowed all the painkillers in the house, what about Frank and his headaches? He’d lash out, of course, and without her around…
The idea of suicide had come and gone within the week.
Things haven’t been this bad since Katie…
The memories flew thick and fast, pounding into her. She gripped the sink to keep from falling, swept to the floor by the sudden tidal wave of sounds and images. She almost smelt the hospital and felt the touch of her daughter’s hand…
No!
She refused to wander down this corridor again.
I’m sorry, but the latest test results aren’t good.
3.
“I’m sorry, but the test results aren’t good.”
“What do you mean? They aren’t good?” Frank demanded.
The doctor glanced down at his notes on the clipboard in his hands. He looked young, in his early thirties at the most. It did nothing to reassure Frank and Anne that Katie was receiving the utmost care; especially Frank. He preferred an old pro, the consultant himself, to be on hand.
“Her stats have dropped over the last twenty four hours. The next twenty four will be crucial to see if she can get through this.”
“Thank you, doctor,” Anne said from behind her husband.
She sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair by her daughter’s bedside, clutching Katie’s small, pale hand. A mountain of pillows supported Katie’s head, and the brilliantly white bed sheets were drawn up beneath her chin. Her arm hung out of the side of the bed.
The doctor said his goodbyes and left, his white coat billowing out behind him as he walked down the ward, like some medical superhero. Frank joined Anne by the bed, sitting on another chair at the opposite side.
Katie had never been a strong girl. Having been born premature, it seemed life had already marked her for a tough ride. She was so small when she was born that Frank could fit her into the palm of his hand. Sure, the nurses thought it was cute, but Anne realised their smiles and good natured comments hid their worry. Babies should not be that small, and they had seen enough to know it.
At age ten, Katie was still the smallest in her class, and Charlie had nearly reached her height, despite being five years her junior. She caught diseases easily: measles, mumps, chicken pox – she’d had them all, and Anne had spent many days just like this, holding her daughter’s hand while the latest infection had run rampant.
But this? This was far worse than any of those. Katie hung in the destructive grip of leukaemia. It explained why she was so weak, and why her immune system was so low, something that Anne always put down to being an early child.
The body eating itself, it was a thought that made Anne sick. She imagined a cluster of mutated cells, all disfigured and oozing. The creatures from dozens of fifties’ B-grade movies popped into her head, like
The Blob
or
The Brain from Planet Arous,
invading her daughter’s body. She could see it creeping through her daughter, taking a bite from this or a nibble of that.
She guessed that Frank, ever the physicist, saw it differently. Probably a formula, something like tumour size divided by survival expectancy multiplied by a hundred, would give the amount of shit they were in.
The worst of it was the chemotherapy. She saw the chemo as a wave of steaming green liquid, like boiling bleach, flowing through her daughter’s veins and arteries, dissolving the beasties on contact. But in her mind’s eye, she also saw Katie’s body dissolve a little too.
The effects of the chemo were more visible than the cancer. Katie’s hair, which had been long enough for her to sit on at one point, was gone; only feathery tufts remained. Her gums were so full of sores that she could barely talk during the rare times that she was awake.
She wasn’t coping with the raging battle between the cancer and the chemo. She looked like a straw doll, limp and lifeless, not the vibrant daughter that Anne once knew.
Frank lifted the bed sheet back enough to find Katie’s other hand and gripped it.
“She’ll make it,” he said. “She’s a fighter.”
Anne felt the tears coming again.
“That’s just it, Frank.” She sniffed. “I don’t think she can fight any more.”
4.
“Mum!”
Her daughter’s call snapped her back to reality. Away from the hospital room that stank of disinfectant, Anne returned to the dim bathroom of their home on Penny Crescent, the cold tap still running.
“Mummy!”
Anne wiped her eyes.
“W-what is it, dear?”
“Mum! Dad’s home!”
The words hit Anne like the blare of an alarm. She swept her hair back, wiped her face dry and sniffed the drip from her nose.
“I’ll be right there, babe,” she called through the closed door. She looked into the mirror again. Her eyes were puffy and red.
God help me if he thinks I’ve been crying – oh shit – Frank’s home, Frank’s home!
She steadied herself in a long breath. Like her ability to weep in silence, the trick of stopping her tears had also been a harsh lesson over the years. She turned off the tap and, refusing to look into the mirror again, unlocked the bathroom door and stepped onto the landing.
Betsy caused a din in the living room at the front of the house, a daily tradition. The dog always welcomed the master home with a series of excited barks and whimpers. Anne presumed the children stood with her, waving at their father through the large window.
With one last readjustment of her hair and a sweep of her hands across her damp cheeks, she started towards the stairs.
It’s Friday
, she thought,
everything will be fine. He’s finished for the weekend. I can go and finish making the food and-
The front door opened and hit the wall behind it with a crash. Anne stopped at the head of the stairs.
Oh no.
Gripping the banister, she rushed down, slippers pattering on each step. As she reached halfway, her husband stepped over the threshold.
He wore his long coat, despite the pleasant warmth of the day. His briefcase hung by his side, gripped in a hand that shook in small, random movements. Raising this quivering hand, he flung the case down in the hallway. The catch popped and sprang open, spilling pens and sheets of paper all over the carpet. He looked up at Anne, who still stood on the stairs in shock, and without a word, he stormed through the hallway and into the kitchen.
Anne descended the remaining stairs and closed the front door. She examined the deep dent in the wallpaper.
“Mummy?”
Bronwyn emerged from the living room, eyes darting in her sockets. She bit her lip.
“It’s okay, honey.” Anne swallowed. “Charlie?”
He appeared in the doorway, holding Betsy by the collar. Her tongue, as always, hung out the side of her mouth.
“Charlie, take Betsy and your sister upstairs…”
“Can’t we go outside?” whined Bronwyn. “I want to play in the garden and so does Betsy.”
“You can’t. The Dean twins are outside, and I’d prefer it if you went upstairs.”
“But Mummy-”
“Upstairs!”
Both children flinched. Bronwyn’s chin trembled, and she stared up at her mother.
“Charlie,” Anne said, quieter, “take her upstairs.”
Charlie nodded and with a small tug of his sister’s golden hair, led the way.
Hearing them step onto the landing, Anne sighed and ventured into the kitchen. She walked straight in, fighting the urge to peek around the doorframe first, acting as natural as possible. Something had pissed him off.
No need to rile him further.
She discovered him hunched over the sink, shoulders trembling. Beside him, the kettle boiled, and coffee granules lay in and around a large mug. Frank stared out the window at the garden beyond.
Anne feared to ask him. His fuse had been lit…but she needed to know.
“Frank?” She cleared her sandy throat. “What’s the matter? What’s happened?”
He snarled at his own reflection. Anne stepped back.
“That place. The kids, the…” His fists clenched. “…the staff! Nothing is going my way. Nothing.”
“Sit down, we can talk about it.”
“You giving me orders now?”
He spun away from the sink and faced her. His eyes were pink and swollen.
“Talking! Everyone today wants to talk. That fat prick Quackenbush had plenty to say earlier. They want me out, Anne, they want me out!”
He gripped the back of a dining chair, appearing weakened, as if revealing this shame had sapped his strength.
“Did th-they fire you?”
He shook his head.
“Well then,” said Anne. “It’s not
that
bad. If they really wanted you out, they’d have fired you, wouldn’t they?”
His fingers clamped tighter on the back of the chair, knuckles paling.
“Are you so stupid?” he spat. “They’re wearing me down. They want me to quit, the final insult.”
He shoved the chair away, and it hit the dining table with a heavy thud. Anne worried about what the kids could hear.
Frank returned to the window. The kettle had only just clicked off. He picked it up and poured the steaming water into the mug.
“Frank, please. You need to calm down…”
“Stop telling me what to do!”
Anne froze, recognising the danger zone of Frank’s temper, the place where fists did the talking.
“Okay, just tell me what happened,” she said quietly.
He closed his eyes and billowed out a lungful of air through his nostrils.
“Quackenbush wants me to take some time off. Thinks I’m losing it, basically.”
“He said that?”
“I can read between the lines, Anne.”