The House Swap(32)
Eddie has slept well, too, and prattles through his breakfast, a barely comprehensible stream of consciousness that could be conversation or the aftermath of some half-remembered dream.
‘Come on,’ I tell him, bringing him his clothes. ‘Arms up,’ and he obediently stretches, his fingers splayed and grasping for the skies.
‘You want to go to the playground,’ he says, his voice muffled as I pull his T-shirt over his head. It’s a strange little quirk that always makes me smile, this inability to differentiate between the first and second person, as if we’re two indistinguishable halves of the same whole.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘We can do that. I’m not sure about Daddy …’ I glance at Francis, expecting him to make some excuse, but he smiles.
‘Why not?’ he says. ‘Nice day for it. We could go down to that one near the river.’
‘There you go, Eddie.’ I nudge him gently in the ribs. ‘Mummy and Daddy will both come. Does that sound good?’
‘Yes!’ He beams and throws himself between us on the sofa, arms stretched haphazardly in an attempted cuddle. You could take a snapshot of us now, I find myself thinking, and we’d look like a happy family. And although I know that pictures lie and moments are transitory, it’s a comfort, nonetheless, to think that, even momentarily, the pieces have clicked into place and are fitting together the way they were always meant to.
‘We could leave now,’ I suggest tentatively. A little thought is flickering at the back of my mind – I don’t think he has taken anything this morning, and if I can get us out of the house … He frowns slightly as he weighs up my proposal. For an instant, the air between us sharpens and tightens as I wait. Then he nods, and I’m rushing Eddie into his shoes and jacket, pulling on my own clothes and getting the buggy ready, filled with a crazy, stupid sense of elation.
We take the bus to the playground, and all the way Eddie sings loudly, tracing patterns in the air with his hands as if he’s conducting the passengers. Sometimes, strangers can be unfriendly, but today it’s all indulgent looks and doting smiles. ‘He’s lovely,’ an elderly woman comments to us as she hobbles off the bus. It feels like an award, a seal of approval. We’ve done something right. Francis brushes my hand with his fingertips and my eyes fill up with tears.
At the playground, Eddie runs ahead and launches himself straight on to the climbing wall, struggling to get a grip in his canvas shoes. I buy a carton of juice from the café and stand watching him, laughing as he grudgingly accepts an offer of help from an older boy, then follows him minutes later to the sandpit and stands shyly, waiting to be invited to play.
On the bench behind me, Francis laughs, too, and it strikes me that I haven’t heard this sound in a while. I twist around and look at him, trying to see him through fresh eyes. So many times in the past few months I’ve been ambushed by the sharp, unpleasant thought that he’s little more than a ruin of who he once was – the pale, bloated face, the glazed eyes. But today, with the brightness of the early summer sun streaming across his face and the happiness he radiates as he watches Eddie, he looks almost well.
He catches me staring and gets up, hands in his pockets as he strolls towards me. ‘He’s enjoying it,’ he comments. A beat, and then he slips his arm around my waist. ‘I am, too,’ he says.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
‘Listen,’ he says quietly, bending his head closer towards mine. ‘I’m sorry. I know I’ve been rubbish lately. I’m going to change things, you know.’
It’s the first time for months that he has said these words, and it feels as if some tension has snapped and released. The warmth of the sun is on our faces and we’re watching our child playing and, even though I’ve heard it all before, in this moment it feels like there’s nothing wrong and nothing in the way.
The words I’ve held back for weeks are forcing themselves to the surface. ‘The pills …’ I say. ‘I know you say you aren’t, but I know you’re taking them again.’ I hesitate. ‘Too much,’ I force myself to say.
His eyes cloud and I think he will shrug and retreat into another distant denial. Then he gives a brisk, decisive nod. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘It’s stupid. I don’t know why.’
‘I know,’ I say softly, and I do believe this. I used to search for a reason. I tried to unpick it, rationalize it, trace it back to those first few weeks when a bout of stress at work and a few lingering family tensions had driven me to suggest that he should get some help. It has taken me a long time to realize that, try as I might, this won’t fall into the neat little boxes of cause and effect I want it to. It’s bigger than that. Senseless, irrational, powerful.
‘They did help in the beginning, you know,’ Francis says. ‘Too well. When you’re so used to being wound so tight, and then that gets released, it’s a relief. More than that. And of course, you want that feeling again and again. It’s not just the big stuff – it makes everything easier. But that’s the trouble with those pills. The more you take, the more …’ He breaks off, frowns in half-surprise. ‘The more you need,’ he says finally, and his face is briefly flooded with an almost childlike revelation.
‘I understand,’ I say. I’ve heard these things before, but there’s something different about his tone. Despite the sun, I’m shivering slightly. I have the feeling of walking a tightrope, delicately balanced, not wanting to move too fast. I bite my tongue, watching him as he looks out across the playground at Eddie in the sandpit, his hair fluttering in the wind as he bends his head in concentration.