Just a little drabble. I own nothing. Thanks.
I clack into the lounge in my shortest, tightest sundress, grab the remote from the arm of the sofa, and push the button. The telly goes black and I move in front of it, bending to pat Dudley's feet off the coffee table, pretending that I don't see him gaping at my arse while I busy myself with the magazines and Ruthie's colouring book.
"Blimey," I hear from behind.
"Happy birthday, Big Man," I say over my shoulder. "Now, round up your daughter. It's time."
In the car, speeding along at 72 miles per hour, listening as Ruthie sings nonsense with the radio, I roll my lips together and watch Dudley's hands on the wheel. At ten and two, the scars across his knuckles turn white, then pink, then white. I reach over and pat his chest gently, telling him to sit up, he's slouching. He straightens, but when next I look over, he's slumped, again.
"They'll have to learn to live with it," I say.
He shakes his head. "In sixteen years, they never learned to live with it, Siobhan. It won't be any different for her."
I turn in my seat and look at our daughter. Ruthie's podgy, little hand bears down hard with Hot Magenta, darkly filling the black outline of a seashell. Above her fingers, Magic Mint swirls away of its own accord, colouring her cloudless, psychedelic sky.
She has the same blonde hair and brown eyes she had before all these strange things began, the same doe lashes that cast shadows on her cheeks in the sun. I have a hard time imagining anyone rejecting this child for something she didn't choose, but if anyone could be so small and stupid, it would be his parents.
I rest my wrist on Dudley's shoulder and let my fingertips lay against his neck. His head sinks back, but he keeps his eyes on the road.
o0o0o0o0o0o
Old Pet is a sliver in the doorway. She heaves herself against Dudley and then pulls away, her fingers sliding against those pearls she wears, eyeing me like I'm some half-chewed vermin that was hoiked up on her spotless doorstep.
She says, "Come give Grand-mummy a kiss, darling," then closes in on Ruthie with that plastic, cat face she's stitched and peeled herself into. Ruthie wraps one arm around her neck, then melds to Dudley's leg, terrified. I can't blame her. The woman looks as if she might grab her up by the neck with her teeth and hide her behind the boiler.
The promise of chocolate, however, overcomes all fear, and Ruthie scampers inside, leaving Dudley stooped, staring after her. I take his hand and squeeze.
He says, "I used to live for my birthday-the presents, the cake."
I lift my hand, the compact perfection of the crayon box inside. "You've better things to live for now, yeah?"
He breathes deep. His spine straightens. His shoulders roll back.
"Yeah." He smiles, taking the box from me. "I do."