This story won second place in the June 2010 Global Short Story Competition at http://www.globalshortstories.net/index.html

The trouble with Adam

I’m waiting in the reception area at Happy Bunnies day care. In one corner of the room child-sized sunhats hang on low pegs, and dusty sandals poke out from underneath a wooden bench strewn with empty lunch boxes. On the wall opposite there’s a notice board plastered with photos of young children riding tricycles, petting farm animals and building towers out of wooden blocks. The air smells of baby soap, sunscreen and play dough. Through the open window I can hear the shouts of children playing outside, and an enthusiastic rendition of ‘Heads and shoulders’ is coming from the toddlers’ room next door. I listen for Adam’s voice, but I can’t make it out.

A bitter taste fills my mouth. I’m biting my nails. I really ought to have kicked the habit by now, especially with the wedding coming up in a couple of months. But I guess the events of the past few weeks have made me more anxious than usual.

The door to the toddlers’ room opens and Mrs Johnson, the manager of the day care centre, bursts through. She’s a middle-aged woman with greying hair and a face brimming with good humour. When she sees me she smiles.

‘Hello Ms Harris,’ she says, ‘Thanks for coming in.’

‘Please, call me Natalie,’ I say, standing up and offering my hand to shake, but she holds her palms out towards me. They’re covered in glitter.

‘Occupational hazard, I’m afraid,’ she says, with a laugh. She pushes open the door of her office with an elbow, and ushers me in.

There’s a trio of matching chairs in different sizes in front of Mrs Johnson’s desk. I feel like Goldilocks. I sit down on the medium-sized chair. 

‘Is there a problem?’ I ask.

Mrs Johnson opens a large container of baby wipes on her desk, pulls out a couple of sheets, and begins wiping her hands.

‘Well, Natalie,’ she says, ‘we’re worried about Adam.’

‘Me too,’ I say. ‘He’s so clingy in the mornings when I drop him off. It’s been nearly two weeks; I thought he’d be getting used to it by now.’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ says Mrs Johnson. ‘Adam’s been at home up until now, hasn’t he? It’s bound to take him a while to settle in at day care.’

‘There’s another problem?’ I ask. My hands are itching to find my mouth. I shove them under my thighs instead.

Mrs Johnson leans forward in her seat. ‘Adam’s behaviour is giving us cause for concern,’ she says quietly.

‘In what way?’ I ask.

‘Every day, after lunch, he collects all the plastic dolls and pulls their heads off. Then he puts the heads in a pushchair and walks around with it. If anyone touches the pushchair he has a screaming fit.’

‘Oh,’ I say, swallowing hard.  My eyes start welling up with tears, but I manage to fight them back. I feel like I ought to say something else, but I have no idea what. Thankfully, Mrs Johnson breaks the silence.

‘Have there been any changes at home lately?’ she asks.

‘Yes. Our live-in nanny, Sophie, left us a few weeks ago. That’s why I enrolled Adam at Happy Bunnies.’

‘Was Adam fond of Sophie?’ Mrs Johnson asks.

‘Very,’ I say. ‘Sophie came to live with us when Adam was six weeks old. She was like a second mother to him.’

‘Does Adam have any other important adults in his life?’ asks Mrs Johnson.

‘Well, there’s my fiancé, Bob. He moved in about six months ago, just after Adam’s second birthday.’

‘And how do Bob and Adam get on?’ Mrs Johnson asks.

‘Oh, well enough,’ I say. ‘They don’t see each other that often. Bob’s a surgeon and he works long hours. When Bob’s at home, Adam’s usually asleep. And I hate to wake him up once he’s got off to sleep, because he’s such a poor sleeper.’

‘Did he start having problems sleeping after Sophie left, or before?’ asks Mrs Johnson.

‘Definitely before,’ I reply. ‘But there are other things that started after she left. He’s afraid of the dark now, when he never used to be. And he always used to be such a confident and outgoing little boy. Now he clings to me all the time and he never wants to let me out of his sight. I’m really worried about him.’

The tears come again, and this time I can’t stop them. Mrs Johnson offers me a tissue. It smells of glue sticks.

*

As I’m opening the front door the phone starts ringing. I chivvy Adam inside. The old Adam would have run off to play in the garden. The new Adam sits at the bottom of the stairs. Keeping an eye on me. I take the business card Mrs Johnson gave me out of my pocket and put it on the hall table, next to the phone. It reads, ‘Raj Prasad, child psychologist’.

I pick up the phone. It’s Sophie’s dad.

‘I’m sorry to bother you, Natalie,’ he says, ‘only we can’t reach Sophie on her mobile.’

‘Sophie’s not with us any more,’ I say. ‘Didn’t she tell you?’

‘No. What happened?’

‘I don’t really know,’ I say. ‘She just went. She left us a letter, saying she had some personal problems and was going back home. I assumed she was with you.’

‘We’ve not seen or heard from her in weeks,’ replies Sophie’s dad.

For the second time today I have no idea what to say.

‘Hello, Natalie? Are you still there?’

I need to feel like I’m doing something useful, so I give Sophie’s dad the name of the boy Sophie was seeing while she was with us. I ask him to call me again in the morning, but I know I’ll end up calling him first. I hang up.

I put on my best breezy smile for Adam.

‘Would you like an ice lolly?’ I ask.

Adam nods.

‘Come on then,’ I say, holding out my hand. ‘Let’s go and choose one.’

Adam puts his hand in mine, and follows me down the hall, but as soon as I open the door to the basement, he pulls his hand out of mine, and wraps his arms around my legs.

‘No, Mummy, no!’ he pleads.

I extricate myself from his grasp, and get down to his eye level. ‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘You don’t have to go. I’ll get the lolly.’

I make my way down the stairs to the basement, humming a cheery tune.

Half way down the stairs I turn round and check on Adam. He’s watching me intently, his bottom lip quivering.

The chest freezer is right at the bottom of the stairs.

‘You like raspberry ones, don’t you?’ I call up to him.

The ice lolly box is not where I expect it to be. I’m rummaging around, trying to find it, when my hand touches something unfamiliar. It’s heavy and irregularly shaped, and it feels like it’s wrapped in cling film.  I pull it out to take a look.

It’s Sophie’s head. Beneath the hazy glaze of the cling film her pale skin is tinged blue and frosted with ice crystals. Her green eyes are open and staring, and her mouth is horribly contorted. Her blonde hair is streaked with blood. Her neck is cut off neatly and precisely, in a perfectly horizontal line, like the line where a doll’s head joins her body.

There’s a heavy thump. I look down to see Sophie’s head rolling along the basement floor, towards the bottom of the stairs.

It’s only when Adam lets out an ear-splitting scream that I remember he’s there. I jump over the still-rolling head and run up the stairs. By the time I reach Adam his scream has become a wail. I kneel down and hold him tightly, rocking gently back and forth, whispering into his ear, ‘It’s all right, it’s all right, it’s all right.’ Eventually his wailing gives way to sobbing, and I pull away from him, holding his shoulder with one hand and gently smoothing his hair with the other. ‘What did you see, Adam?’ I ask. ‘What did you see?’

Between sobs, Adam repeats a single syllable: ‘Bob.’

© Helen Whittaker http://theduckside.com

As usual, I thoroughly enjoyed taking part in SPARK but unfortunately I didn’t get the opportunity to spend as much time as I would have liked on my response. I was away from home on an unscheduled visit to the UK for the first seven days of the round, and I was suffering from jet lag for the last three days. I plan on coming back to Cheryl’s inspiration piece again some time, and giving it another go. I already have the germ of an idea for a short story. Watch this space. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The inspiration piece I sent to Cheryl

Perfect

I always thought my perfect date
would go like this (well more or less):
we’d fly to Paris in his jet,
he’d wear a tux, I’d wear a dress
by Calvin Klein or Lagerfeld,
to-die-for shoes by Jimmy Choo,
and nestled snugly round my neck
Tahitian pearls – a string or two.

We’d dine at Le Palais Royal
our faces lit by candlelight,
he’d order lobster thermidor
and feed me, bite by perfect bite.
And after dark we’d stumble on
La Fontaine de la Lumière. 
We’d make a wish and then we’d kiss,
his fingers running through my hair.

We’d walk together hand in hand
across Le Pont Louis-Phillipe.
Below, the waters of the Seine
would lay the stars beneath our feet.
And when the Sun rose in the east
and sister Moon sank in the west
I’d watch the city shrink below
and lay my head upon his chest.

Then yesterday I met a man
who asked me out, and I said yes.
We drove to Northwich in his van,
he wore a fleece from M & S,
I wore my oldest pair of jeans.
I had no time to wash my hair
or even put my make up on.
Sounds crazy, but I didn’t care.

We opted for a Maccy D’s
and sitting on the plastic bench
ate greasy French fries with our hands
(the only thing remotely French).
And afterwards we went to see
Tom Hanks in ‘The DaVinci Code’.
The Paris captured on the screen
was beautiful, but left me cold.

And when the ushers chucked us out 
we walked together arm in arm
along the Macclesfield canal.
Who’d think old junk could hold such charm?
And when the dawn broke in the east,
and stained the clouds in peach and red,
it found us in his basement flat
sardined into his single bed. 

I can’t recall a thing before
last night. It’s all gone up in smoke.
Forget about the perfect date,
I’d rather have the perfect bloke.

© Helen Whittaker http://theduckside.com

Cheryl’s response

Perfect

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The inspiration piece Cheryl sent to me

red and black study

My response

Tasting freedom

Beyond the bars
a crescent moon rises
like a dead fish
in a stagnant pond.

Poking out from under the bed
a pair of striped legs:
Jimmy the Switch’s nightly impression
of a car mechanic.

The chirp of unseen crickets
masks the scratching sound
as Jimmy’s teaspoon scrapes away
a few more molecules of concrete.

The jailhouse semaphore
starts up on the water pipes.
Jimmy hides the teaspoon behind the skirting board
and jumps onto the bed.

Freedom is a dish
he’ll take however it comes.
For now he’s sampling it
one spoonful at a time.

© Helen Whittaker http://theduckside.com

a jagged scar has
knitted up the wound I made
when I pushed you in.

© Helen Whittaker http://theduckside.com

That green sheet
doesn’t look anything like
your bridesmaid’s dress
and the purple stain on your lips
won’t come off
no matter how hard I scrub.

© Helen Whittaker http://theduckside.com

© Helen Whittaker http://theduckside.com

At home she follows me from room to room.
When I go out she tags along:
to the college where I work as a library assistant,
to the supermarket where I buy my single serve ready meals,
to the cemetery where I put flowers on my mother’s grave.

However fast I walk she’s always right beside me
and she never
ever
stops talking.

At night I lie awake,
her voice droning on through the wall
that separates my room from hers.

Lately I’ve stopped going out.
I sit on the sofa with the curtains drawn.
The sound of the TV muffles her voice.

She arrived three years ago, not long after my mother died.
I never even put an ad in the paper;
she just turned up on the doorstep one day.
‘Hi,’ she said, holding out her hand for me to shake.
‘I’ve come to live with you. My name’s Phobia.’

© Helen Whittaker http://theduckside.com

Young Max’s eyes well up, his bottom lip sticks out.
Beneath his breath he calls his sister by a name.
A couple of millennia have passed since then,
And on another August afternoon I stare

At casts of two small bodies lying in a frame
Of stones. They hold each other tight and at their feet,
Some knuckle bones lie waiting to resume the game.
Nearby a teenage boy pulls closer to his mother.

Our instinct in the face of death’s always the same:
We cling to what we value most in life – each other.

© Helen Whittaker http://theduckside.com

‘This morning’s talk should really be about
Cycloidal drives and epicyclic gears,
But since I’ll be retiring Friday week
I thought I’d stray off topic.’ (Raucous cheers)

‘I’ve been a fellow here since eighty-nine.
The day that I arrived I made a vow
To spend my leisure time indulging in
A project I’ve kept secret – until now.’

The students all leant forward in their seats.
Professor Itty’s hobby was the buzz,
A subject of debate; a hundred bets
Were placed this week alone on what it was.

‘So let me share with you,’ proclaimed the Prof,
‘This formula I’ve found; it’s very neat,
Although you’d be advised to stand well back,
Because it does produce a bit of heat.’

I tried to follow everything he did
But it was so involved I soon lost track.
I looked around at everybody else;
Like me, their eyes were glazed, their jaws were slack.

Then suddenly a blinding flash of light,
A sonic boom, a muffled cry of ‘Duck!’
And when I stood back up the sight I saw
Punched out my breath and left me thunderstruck.       

A hundred thousand glowing points of light      
Hung silently about us in the hall
Each one a slightly different shape and size –
Some spiral, some elliptical, but all

Rotated slowly as they moved apart.
‘Each one’s a galaxy,’ explained the Prof.
‘I’ve just designed a whole new universe,
And now I need some serious time off.’

© Helen Whittaker http://theduckside.com

© Helen Whittaker http://theduckside.com

Up ’til now he’s remained unresponsive
To the kiss he receives every day,
Yet I still find him strangely attractive,
In a flat, two-dimensional way.

What would be the reaction, I wonder,
Of this man, who’s seen models undressed
Glimpsing me in my bri-nylon nightie?
I doubt if he’d be too impressed.

He’s unlikely to get all excited
At the sight of my goose-pimpled skin
Clad in heavyweight undies from Tesco’s
As I squeeze out a spot on my chin.

And he’d hardly be thrilled to discover
All the terrible secrets I keep,
Like my habit of picking my toenails
Or the way that I snore in my sleep.

But hold on! Just a sec! Wait a minute!
Even heroes can have feet of clay,
And if flesh could be moulded from paper
All my daydreams might flutter away.

I could find him a self-centred moron
And his cool conversation a bore.
He might suffer severe halitosis;
Leave his smalls in a heap on the floor.

So I think I’ll stop dangerous dreaming,
‘Cos I really prefer him this way.
A fifty by seventy poster
Can’t turn out to be or married or gay.

© Helen Whittaker http://theduckside.com