I’m fragile, brittle. Like the crack in the window downstairs we haven’t fixed that hasn’t shattered yet but could at any moment. In my peripheral vision there’s Harry in the doorway of the en suite wearing an Italian cycling cap, fluorescent base layer, one high-tech cycling sock and nothing else.
“Don’t talk to me until you’ve put that thing away.” I’m not joking, the way I used to about his midlife Lycra crisis. I’m blunt, unamused. Before Rocky I used to think Harry’s middle-aged cyclist costume was funny, with the weird bib shorts and the tight tops, but now I feel like if I had known that Harry puts his socks on before his underwear every day I don’t think I would’ve married him. I scrounge around the bedroom floor for diaper rash cream.
“Gigi, you’ve caught me in the middle of getting ready, is that allowed? This is still my bedroom, isn’t it?” Harry says, half-smiling, trying to defuse the bomb.
“What’s that supposed to mean? What kind of comment is that?” I say, noticing that he put on the other sock. But still nothing on his piece.
“It means that this is where I sleep and change my clothes because it’s my bedroom.”
“Really, you sleep in here? That’s interesting.” I’m so raw. I feel like raw red meat being shredded on a cheese grater. And I can’t find the goddam…what’s it called, the fucking, what is it called, Desitin, no, that’s America, what is that shit called here…
To keep myself from screaming I start pulling apart piles of clothes on the floor. I know they’re not hiding it, but if I don’t keep moving, if I don’t find it, if I don’t stay focused on this one thing…
“Why are you having a go at me first thing in the morning? What’s happened?” Harry asks.
“Oh, sorry, you must have missed it because of all the sleeping you were doing.”
He sighs. “If it was a bad night that’s all you have to say, you don’t have to bludgeon me like this.”
Through gritted teeth, hardly above a whisper, I say, “I was up with the baby every hour and Johnny had that nightmare again.”
“Ah, yes, I heard him.”
“You heard him?”
“Yes, at about four, was it? He called for Mama.” Snap.
“You heard him at about four?”
“Yes. I heard you too.” Crackle.
“You heard me? And you thought, Well, she’s on it so I’ll just fucking go back to my forty winks?”
“What did you want me to do?” Pop.
“GET-THE-FUCK-OUT-OF-BED!”
I don’t know how I got here but I find myself with my hands clutching Harry’s fluorescent shoulders, his back against the wall, his dick, unbelievably, still roaming free.
“Gigi? Are you alright?” He leans his head down to find my eyes, loosening my grip, gently detaching me from his shirt to help me sit on the bed. I’m afraid, ashamed. Insane. I run my hand through my hair and a clump of gray and brown strands comes out from the back of my head somewhere.
Harry’s staring at me, unsure what to do.
All I can say is “What did you do with the fucking Sudocrem?” That’s what it’s called, motherfucking Sudocrem.
“It’s in the bathroom. I used it because I ran out of chafing cream for cycling. I’ll get it. Then we need to talk about how to help you get through today.”
He goes into the bathroom and I think about that word, “help,” how gentle that sounds, how nice. If someone helped me. A moment of hope and then Harry, finally fully clothed, hands me the tub. It’s nearly weightless in my palm, which can only mean one thing. I take off the lid. Empty.
“I’m sorry, I…” Harry says, but doesn’t finish.
I let it fall out of my hand to the floor. I watch it roll toward the windows. “I told you these floors were uneven,” I say in a calm, clear voice.
I leave the room, walk downstairs, grab my keys, wallet and phone. In the background the baby’s crying. Johnny’s grabbing my sleeve but I can’t hear what he’s saying. Harry runs down the stairs and I think he’s calling my name, yelling it. A stack of mail on the floor. A series of plastic bottles lined up next to the recycling bin. A pile of laundry festering in a corner. A carpet of Weetabix crumbs under the table.
Rocky needs something and so does Johnny. So does Harry. So do I. I put on my flip-flops, pull my robe close around me, and then I trip over Harry’s shoes. He left them by the door again. I pick them up, open the door, and hurl them into the street. A car alarm goes off.
I start walking.
14 steel A Wednesday in August 2016, 10:30 p.m. London, Grand Euro Star Lodge Hotel, Room 506
I hear Sharon’s voice asking me what to tell Harry. I say, “Thanks, girls, I gotta go. Don’t worry, I’ll be OK.” I hear their worry as I hang up. I’ll explain tomorrow.
I get my calling card and dial my parents again.
My father picks up. “Yeah.”
“It’s me again.”
He says, “What’s up, you OK?”
“Yeah, just checking on Ma. Did you make her the soup?”
My father yells, “What?” He’s turned up the TV again.
“Did you make her the soup, Dad, cream of chicken?”
“Oh, yeah, yeah.” I can see him, eyes glazed over, barbecue sauce on his undershirt. His face lit up in the dark by the blue light of the screen.
“Well, Dad? Dad?” Trying to get his attention. “Dad! Did she eat it?”
“What, the soup?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Yeah, she came out the room and she had some soup. She’s cleaning the kitchen now.”
“Really?” I feel a sliver of relief, not sure whether it’s for her or me, or both of us.
“Yeah, Jeej, you know the routine. She’ll be OK. Listen, I
