years filled with football and Wii, jerk chicken and study, hours spent peering into mirrors and carrying out the meticulous investigation of new baby hair on cheeks and chin. There are so many of them, so strong and dark and beautiful, alive everywhere, and their presence occupies me like an obsessive-compulsive disorder that breaks the heart.
When I leave the market it is without having bought anything, more of a resignation than an ending. The weather is holding up and so I walk in the direction of the park. The high street is busy with Saturday shopping traffic, the roads and pavements and bus stops are heaving. I stop at the corner of a block where it is possible to jaywalk rather than walk to the lights that youâre meant to use to cross this busy road safely, notice once again that it is the perfect spot to die.
I wait there, watching the buses as they leave the stop about two hundred meters up the street. The traffic lights are another hundred meters past where I am standing. There are no zebra crossings or humps or reasons for a busy bus to slow and so they always pick up speed along this stretch. When Ryan was young, I read that a jeep traveling at thirty miles an hour that hits a child will almost certainly kill him. It stands to reason a bus maybe ten times that weight traveling at a similar speed is enough to kill an adult. I watch the bus that is at the stop fill with the queuing passengers and their shopping and bags, close its doors. It departs slowly, pulls from the curbside to the center, begins picking up speed. Precision timing is the key to ensuring the only life you take is your own. A person who stepped out too early would be seen by the driver, who might attempt to steer around them,possibly crash in the process, and others might die. There is a point about five meters away at which, if the driver has his foot down, you could simply step off the curb in front of the bus and be instantly killed. I can see it is traveling fast enough already. As it gets closer, I begin to make out the features on the driverâs face. It is almost at the perfect spot . . . nearly there . . .
I am stunned to feel the top of my arm being pulled, to hear the blare of the bus horn, to feel the gust of turbulence as the bus passes me, raising a whirlwind of street dust in its wake, and turn around to face a woman who isnât familiar, staring at me, scared.
âYou okay?â she asks.
I blink furiously, wipe my left eye, can feel grit in it. My heart is pounding. I collect myself and nod. âYes.â
She says, âYouâre the mother, arenât you?â
âSorry?â
âOf that boy who got stabbed. The one who died. I read about it in the papers when it happened. Itâs terrible. My sons go to the same school. I donât know what Iâd do if anything happened to them.â
She lied; she does know. She didnât just recognize me, she also saw the trail of my thinking. She knows too well what she might be moved to do, but lucky her, it wasnât her sons, it was mine. I donât want to discuss this, so I simply wait in the hope sheâll move on.
âAre you sure youâre okay?â she asks again. She doesnât want to leave me here, will not go.
âYes,â I say and walk away. I hate unnecessary rudeness, and Iâm acutely aware of just how rude Iâm being, but I cannot talk to her, cannot talk about it. I walk away quickly in the general direction of the park.
I buy myself a cookie and a coffee from the café near the park entrance and go inside. I find a bench close to the swings, take a seat, observe the children playing, and listen to them laugh. I watch the mothers more critically than I ever did before, upset when they exhibit the same impatience I exhibited when my Ryan was young enough to be taken to the swings and old enough to be uncooperative.
That woman on the high street asked me if I was âthe mother.â I
When I leave the market it is without having bought anything, more of a resignation than an ending. The weather is holding up and so I walk in the direction of the park. The high street is busy with Saturday shopping traffic, the roads and pavements and bus stops are heaving. I stop at the corner of a block where it is possible to jaywalk rather than walk to the lights that youâre meant to use to cross this busy road safely, notice once again that it is the perfect spot to die.
I wait there, watching the buses as they leave the stop about two hundred meters up the street. The traffic lights are another hundred meters past where I am standing. There are no zebra crossings or humps or reasons for a busy bus to slow and so they always pick up speed along this stretch. When Ryan was young, I read that a jeep traveling at thirty miles an hour that hits a child will almost certainly kill him. It stands to reason a bus maybe ten times that weight traveling at a similar speed is enough to kill an adult. I watch the bus that is at the stop fill with the queuing passengers and their shopping and bags, close its doors. It departs slowly, pulls from the curbside to the center, begins picking up speed. Precision timing is the key to ensuring the only life you take is your own. A person who stepped out too early would be seen by the driver, who might attempt to steer around them,possibly crash in the process, and others might die. There is a point about five meters away at which, if the driver has his foot down, you could simply step off the curb in front of the bus and be instantly killed. I can see it is traveling fast enough already. As it gets closer, I begin to make out the features on the driverâs face. It is almost at the perfect spot . . . nearly there . . .
I am stunned to feel the top of my arm being pulled, to hear the blare of the bus horn, to feel the gust of turbulence as the bus passes me, raising a whirlwind of street dust in its wake, and turn around to face a woman who isnât familiar, staring at me, scared.
âYou okay?â she asks.
I blink furiously, wipe my left eye, can feel grit in it. My heart is pounding. I collect myself and nod. âYes.â
She says, âYouâre the mother, arenât you?â
âSorry?â
âOf that boy who got stabbed. The one who died. I read about it in the papers when it happened. Itâs terrible. My sons go to the same school. I donât know what Iâd do if anything happened to them.â
She lied; she does know. She didnât just recognize me, she also saw the trail of my thinking. She knows too well what she might be moved to do, but lucky her, it wasnât her sons, it was mine. I donât want to discuss this, so I simply wait in the hope sheâll move on.
âAre you sure youâre okay?â she asks again. She doesnât want to leave me here, will not go.
âYes,â I say and walk away. I hate unnecessary rudeness, and Iâm acutely aware of just how rude Iâm being, but I cannot talk to her, cannot talk about it. I walk away quickly in the general direction of the park.
I buy myself a cookie and a coffee from the café near the park entrance and go inside. I find a bench close to the swings, take a seat, observe the children playing, and listen to them laugh. I watch the mothers more critically than I ever did before, upset when they exhibit the same impatience I exhibited when my Ryan was young enough to be taken to the swings and old enough to be uncooperative.
That woman on the high street asked me if I was âthe mother.â I
Similar Books
