The Last House on Needless Street(5)

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘But I have to go now. She and I don’t get much time together. And you know, the place is a mess.’

‘How are you doing, Ted?’ she asks. ‘Really, how are you?’

‘I’m good.’

‘How is your mother? I wish she would write.’

‘She’s good.’

‘OK,’ she says after about a minute. ‘I guess I’ll see you.’

‘Hey, Dad!’ Lauren shouts when the door is safely closed behind the Chihuahua lady. ‘Chile!’

‘Santiago!’ I bawl.

Lauren screams and rides away, darting and swerving around the furniture. She sings loudly as she pedals, a song she made up about woodlice, and if I were not a parent I would never have believed that a song about a woodlouse could make me feel such joy. But that’s what love does, it reaches right into you like a hand.

She stops suddenly, tyres squeaking on the wooden boards.

‘Stop following, Ted,’ she says.

‘But we’re playing a game.’ My heart sinks. Here we go.

‘I don’t want to play any more. Go away, you’re annoying me.’

‘Sorry, kitten,’ I say. ‘I can’t. You might need me.’

‘I don’t need you,’ she says. ‘And I want to ride on my own.’ Her voice rises. ‘I want to live in a house on my own, and eat on my own, and watch TV on my own, and never see anyone ever again. I want to go to Santiago, Chile.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘But kids can’t do that on their own. An adult has to look after them.’

‘One day I will,’ she says.

‘Now, kitten,’ I say, as gently as I can. ‘You know that can’t ever happen.’ I try to be as honest with her as possible.

‘I hate you, Ted.’ The words always feel the same, no matter how many times she says them: like being hit hard, at speed, from behind.

‘Dad, not Ted,’ I say. ‘And you don’t mean that.’

‘I mean it,’ she says, voice thin and quiet as a spider. ‘Hate you.’

‘Shall we have some ice cream?’ I sound guilty even to me.

‘I wish I’d never been born,’ she says and pedals away, bell trilling, riding right over the drawing she made earlier, of a black cat with jewel-green eyes. Olivia.

I wasn’t lying earlier; the place really is a mess. Lauren spilled some jelly in the kitchen then rode right through, leaving a sticky track through the house. There are broken crayons all over the couch and dirty dishes everywhere. One of Lauren’s favourite games is to take each plate out of the cupboard one by one and lick it. Then she yells, ‘Dad, all the plates are dirty.’ Now she rolls off the bike onto the floor and starts pretending to be a tractor, growling and crawling. ‘As long as she’s happy,’ I mutter to myself. Parenting.

I’m taking my noon pill with a drink of water when Lauren bumps into me. The water slops out of the glass onto the blue rug and the pill falls from my fingers, bounces, a tiny yellow airborne dot, and is gone. I kneel and peer under the couch. I can’t see it anywhere. I’m running low, too.

‘Damn it,’ I say, without thinking. ‘God damn.’

Lauren begins to scream. Her voice becomes a siren, rising until my head is ready to explode. ‘You’re swearing,’ she weeps. ‘You big, fat horrible man, don’t swear!’

And I just snap. I don’t mean to, but I do. I’d like to say that it wasn’t the big, fat part that set me off, but I can’t. ‘That’s it,’ I shout. ‘Time out, right now.’

‘No.’ She claws at my face, her sharp fingers seek my eyes.

‘You can’t play in here if you can’t behave.’ I manage to hold her back and eventually she stops fighting.

‘I think you need some sleep, kitten,’ I say. I put her down and start the record. The whisper of the turntable is soothing. The woman’s pretty voice filters through the air. It’s a winter night and no one has an extra bed, no one has any candy … I can’t recall the singer’s name right now. Her eyes are full of compassion. She is like a mother, but one you don’t have to be afraid of.

I pick up the crayons and felt-tip pens and count them. They are all there, good.

I sleep-trained Lauren with this music. She was a fussy child and she is growing into a difficult adolescent. What do they call it? A tween. Some days, like today, she seems very young and all she wants to do is ride her pink bicycle. I worry about what happened today. There is a lot to worry about.

First, and this is the big one: I’ve been going away more often. It happens when I’m stressed. What if I go away one day and I don’t come back? Lauren and Olivia would be alone. I need stronger pills. I’ll speak to the bug man. The beer is cold in my palm and hisses like a snake as I pull the tab. I take three dill pickles from the jar, slice them in half and top them with peanut butter. Crunchy. It’s the best snack and it goes really well with the beer, but I can’t enjoy it.

Second worry: noise. Our house is by the dead end; beyond, there’s only forest. And the house on the left has been empty since for ever; the newspaper taped to the inside of the windows is yellow and curled. So I have relaxed my guard over the years. I let Lauren shout and sing. That needs thinking on. The Chihuahua lady heard her.