Читать книгу After You Fell - J.S. Lark - Страница 8

‘Don’t touch me!’ An urge for flight darts into my legs and I step back; every muscle in my body is quivering, exhausted by the fight.

I imagine the feel of pavement under my feet. I am running – running and running.

‘You’re upsetting the children. All you think about is yourself. Your baby is crying in there!’ His hand thrusts out, gesturing in a circular motion directing my eyes to the noise coming from the kitchen.

The sound tears at my heart and rips through my head.

‘I can’t cope with her.’ Or you. I don’t want to hear the screams any more. Let me leave.

‘You wanted her.’ His pitch drops, accusing me of betrayal. ‘You promised you would try.’

‘I tried. I can’t do it.’ I can’t cope with the look in your eyes. I failed. But it is not just me. We have failed.

His clenched fist lifts and hovers an inch from my face. One day he’ll break, then he’ll hit me or put his hands around my neck.

‘I can’t help it.’ The words leave my throat in a whisper because he’s too close.

‘You have to help it. I can’t deal with you and if I can’t then the children don’t stand a chance.’ His hand opens.

I think he’s going to slap me.

There’s no loyalty between us any more. No love. No hope. Nothing except anger and arguments.

His hand drops, but he snarls in my face, sounding like an attacking wolf. Then he turns away in a sudden movement, lifting his arm again and striking a fist into the wall.

His mother’s favourite blue and white china vase, an antique on the bookshelf near him, wobbles as if touched by the strength of his anger. Then it falls on the parquet floor, shattering with a sharp sound that breaks our argument. Stop.

His mother found that vase at a car boot sale. She bought it for next to nothing. She was so proud of it. But she is proud of her son too.

He shakes out the hand he’s hurt, ignoring the ruined vase.

‘Mum …’ Our son stands in the centre of the open doorway, his beautiful face distorted in an expression of fear.

‘I’m all right, love. We are both all right. Daddy is just having a tantrum.’

He thrusts a glare over his shoulder with the toss of a dagger, then walks out of the room, herding our son out of the way.

I pull the mobile from the back pocket of my jeans. It drops on the floor with a clatter because my fingers are shaking even harder now the adrenalin is ebbing away.

The phone lies there, looking up at me with a fresh crack across the screen, another testimony of our failure.

Bile rises in my throat, a bitter taste that wants me to be sick. I bend to pick up the phone. I can’t remember when I last ate.

The desire to hear my mother’s voice screams as loudly as my child.

I bring up my recent calls, and touch the icon saying ‘Mum’.

The phone rings twice before she answers. ‘Hello, love.’

‘Mum.’ Help me.

‘Yes, darling.’

I sniff back the tears before they run from my nose as well as my eyes.

‘Are you all right?’

‘No. We argued.’

‘Again.’ A tut echoes from the phone.

We haven’t made it through a single day without arguing this year.

A tear drips from my chin, falling to leave a tiny puddle on the floor that will run into a crack between the blocks of wood. The story of my marriage is shouting, shattered china, cracked glass and puddles of tears.

I swipe other tears away with the heel of a shaking palm. But tears trickle from my nose. I wipe them on the back of my hand. ‘He doesn’t love me. None of them do.’

‘The children do.’

‘No. They hate me. They blame me because he does.’

‘The children love you. Shall we come over to see you? Would that calm the argument?’

‘Do you think he’ll leave? Do you think he’ll take the children?’

‘No.’

‘He can’t stand to be in a room with me.’ Our marriage is cracked down the middle, as if the earth between us has been torn open in an earthquake and his position is on the other side of the ravine, with a glowering expression of judgement. I have tried to reach out. But I can’t reach him. He has other women because I do not want him to touch me like that. But I still want to be hugged sometimes. Those moments never happen. He doesn’t even kiss my cheek.

‘We’ll come and talk to him.’

‘Mum, you can’t. It will cause more trouble.’

‘I can’t leave you this upset. We’ll be there in twenty minutes.’

At least if they came they would be here for the children.

His parents have gone out for the day. They turn their backs on our rows.

‘All right. But I’m going out, Mum. I need to get away from the house. I love you. Look after the children when you get here.’

‘I love you too, darling. We’ll see you soon.’

‘Goodbye, Mum.’

‘Goodbye, dear.’

I step over the broken china, to look for paper and a pen in the drawer of the television stand and write a note telling him where I am going. To stop him being angry when he discovers that I have gone.

The note left beside the television, and the china and my tears left on the floor, I push down the door handle to get out.

The patio door glides open with a whisper, keeping my departure a secret. He will not know I have gone for a while. I’ll use the back gate into the alley beside the house.

The sound of a lawnmower cutting grass in a nearby garden enters the living room. The breeze carries the scent of freshly cut grass and the sweet perfume of the mauve wisteria flowers that dangle from the plant above the door.

The note I left by the TV blows off the side and flutters to the floor.