At this stage we don’t think it is meningitis. At least not yet.
You shudder. It is cold in the hospital. Your little boy is curled up on the bed blotchy and exhausted from vomiting and a temperature so high you could scramble an egg on his tummy. It is a virus they say. That catch all phrase for we have no idea what is wrong but we think he will survive it without our intervention. You can take him home but come straight back if he deteriorates please.
So you wrap him up in a
I’m sorry baby, you say. I’m so so sorry. And hope with all your heart that he forgives you. Though you who are obliged to teach him how, struggle to forgive yourself. One day he says "Me and Daddy took
You can’t forgive him that. No-one would expect you to. Though had he asked if he could take Finn to meet her, perhaps now you might have said yes. You’ve seen the hurt on his face and the stupid, relentlessly forgiving part of who you used to be, still wants to make his world alright. To win her back for him. Her with the nasty green eyeshadow. You worry about yourself.
And so the week ticks by. A melody of anger and frustration. You make yourself beautiful. Night after night you apply rose scented cream to your face and rub chamomile balm into the cracked soles of your feet. And for what? For yourself? For the man you will sit next to at the weekend? Another shooting star landing in your lap…
You buy cerise underwear sprayed with frilly lime green lace. Parade around your bedroom in it and feel lovely for a while. You eat sushi till it comes out of your ears and stare at the bruises on your legs. You are always bruised. Your legs speckled like corn beef. You drink
The souls of your feet are cracked.