On Wednesday afternoon I call my parents. They don’t even know that they talk to me. I flick the tv to the sports channel to make the atmosphere more convincing.
My father, Tom, answers, ‘Hello?’
‘Hi Dad, how are you? How’s Mum?’
‘Victor, my boy, I’m fine. Rosemary isn’t feelin’ any better, I’m afraid. I’ll let her tell yer ’bout it. How’s work? Stayin’ out of trouble I hope.’
‘Of course. We’re working out in the ’burbs at the moment for a development company, keeps us very busy.’ Victor is a partner in a small building company just like Dad used to be. My father is so proud to have one son that followed in his footsteps. ‘How about you, any news?’
‘No, not much. Only thing on this week is Blanche bringing Elliot over on Saturday. Rosemary really looks forward to seeing them, y’know. She’s makin’ her best fruitcake and all. I wish yer brother would fucken man up and talk to her. Thinks he’s too good for us.’
‘Dad, I don’t think that’s the reason…’
‘You think it’s ok what he’s doing to that kid, do yer, Victor? And to Blanche, lettin’ her struggle on her own?’ Tom always gets fired up about Blanche and Elliot.
‘I didn’t say that,’ the last thing I need is to make trouble for Victor. ‘Of course it isn’t ok.’
My father tells me some about his garden and hands the phone to my mother, Rosemary.
‘How are you, Mum? Dad says you’re not feeling any better.’
‘Not really, no and I’m not getting any better either. The doctor says it’s spreading and there’s not much they can do. He said they could put me through chemo but the chance of success is pretty low.’
‘Are you going to do it?’
‘No, honey, I’m not. I’ve had my time, I’ve seen you boys grow up. I’ve met Elliot. I don’t think the side effects and false hope will be worth it. I’ve got a few months left and all I want now is to see us all together again. You know I love you and Tony no matter what.’
‘I love you too, Mum and so does Tony. I was with him on the weekend and he asked about you both. He’s still too afraid of how Dad will react if he visits you.’
'Oh Victor, you know Tom, there’s not much I can do to wrangle him. He does love you both. You know he can’t forgive Tony for doing what his father did. Can’t we talk about something more cheerful? How are you, honey? How did your date go last night?’
She asks me every time, and even now she wants to know if there’s a potential for any more grandchildren. We chat a while and I tell her what Victor told me on the weekend, lamenting about my (his) love life. I gloss over the fact I have nothing to tell her about the date last night. She seems content.
We are interrupted by my apartment’s buzzer. I tell her I have to go and give her my love. Except I in my voice. Shit. I hang up quickly and hope she didn’t notice. I answer my buzzer; it’s the delivery guy from Baby Plus. I press the button to let him in downstairs and unlock my door.
I let him in and show him to the nursery. It is rather bare: only a chest with a few blankets on top occupies the space. He places the flat packed cot in the corner, near the window.
‘Nice view,’ his attempt at small talk is an obvious lie. The view from my window is that of a smoggy city centre in the distance and in the foreground it is filled by brick boxes and concrete rarely broken with a hint of green. It is an ugly urban wasteland.
‘Yeah, I’m pretty lucky up here,’ whatever, I’ll play along. He glances at me sideways and tries his best to smile. I’m not fooled. I sign something for him and he shows himself out.
I stare at the piece of paper I have been handed for a while after the delivery guy is gone. I feel inadequate. I remember he was handsome. I think about his odd glances toward me and his attempts at small talk. I remember that I am unattractive: my belly juxtaposed onto my scrawny frame. I stare some more.
The television is still on the sports channel; I flick it over to some holiday show and wait for Victor, who is due in an hour or so.
The programme bores me but I don’t bother to change it. I sit there and continue to feel sorry for myself. The phone rings. The handset is on the coffee table in front of me. I ignore it. It insists with a metallic cry. It stops shrieking but within a few seconds resumes.
I lean forward begrudgingly. It is Victor. He says he won’t be over tonight. I ask him what I’m meant to do with his ‘thank you’ feast now. He says put it in the fridge. I don’t mention I’m joking.
I lull back onto the couch exhaling slowly. Fucking Victor, the one night I need his help and he “can’t make it”. No excuse, just can’t make it. I scrunch my fists up like a newborn. I struggle to stand and stomp towards the nursery. I stand at the open door and stare at the newly delivered carton. Without noticing I have begun to cry. My face is wet as I move toward the box. I examine the outside and go to the kitchen for a blade to cut open the tape.
I stumble over something in the kitchen; I look down to see a bowl of cereal on the floor. The contents have cemented themselves to the porcelain. I have a vague memory of staring at the kitchen cupboards this morning. Since when have I taken to eating breakfast on the floor? I put it in the sink and fill it with water.
I find a blade in the second draw and return to the nursery. I stare at the box in the corner for a minute, considering the task ahead. If Antonia can assemble a flat-packed cot, why can’t I? I lay the box flat on the floor. The blade slides through the tape satisfyingly easily. It feels like a good start. The pieces have little numbered stickers and the instructions are comprehensive: I can do this. I stop - not included: Phillips head screwdriver. I do not own a screwdriver of any description. It is as simple as that. I am not one of those people who have an idea about home maintenance. I stare at the instructions until the letters swim around, into new words “We can defeat you Tony. You have no idea.” Although there is no rush for the thing to be constructed I cannot let it lie. I pull on my overcoat and grab my keys and wallet.
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