Tomato soup. Lapping at his thumbs. Steam drifting towards his nose. The can lay in the garbage under the sink. Was the microwave door still open? He stepped slowly across the carpet, heel to toe. Katie was sulking in her room. Dettie was staying over. She was over a lot since his father left. She and his mother were on the veranda. They had hospital papers. It was a week until he had to go to hospital. He could hear them whispering.
‘He’s going through something terrible, Dettie,’ his mother said. ‘Maybe he needs you to talk to him.’
There was something about the papers. His mother was waving them. But the soup was almost spilling. It had dribbled around the handle of the spoon where it met the bowl.
‘I wouldn’t even know how to talk to him.’ Dettie’s voice was tight. She sniffed.
Sam’s mother took a deep breath. She was leaning against the back of her chair. ‘You’re acting like he’s dead or something,’ she said.
Sam wasn’t watching where his feet went. Katie had left out her shoes.
‘He may as well be dead,’ Dettie hissed.
The concrete bit into his knees, his hands were scalded. His mother jumped in surprise. She called his name and knelt by his shoulder.
But there was something before that—back when he was inching towards the glass doors. As the curtains quivered in the breeze. They’d been whispering. Arguing about something. He’d heard them. He’d forgotten.
It was hard to remember. They were talking so softly. And the bowl was so hot on his fingertips.
‘He says he’s worried,’ he heard his mother murmuring. ‘About you. About how you’re dealing with things.’
His vision was filled with the ripples on the soup, but he could make out their voices.
‘He shouldn’t be asking.’ Dettie was sniffing. But it might have been sobs.
Sam felt carpet between his toes. The fish tank bubbled by the window. He was almost at the door.
‘He thinks he’s made a horrible mistake.’ His mother exhaled. ‘I think he wants to try and make it up to you.’
‘Not a mistake, Joanne,’ Dettie spat. ‘A choice. He made a choice. His decision. And after all this time? No.’
Then they were quiet. Sam was confused. He inched closer, balancing the bowl. If he looked up he could see their silhouettes. It reminded him of the conversation Dettie and his mother had had after his father left—except this time it was Dettie who seemed upset, with his mother consoling her. A bubble winked on the surface of the soup.
‘He’s been going through something terrible, Dettie,’ his mother had said. ‘Maybe he needs you to talk to him.’
Dettie’s wedding ring clacked on the handrail. ‘I wouldn’t even know how to talk to him.’
The hospital papers in his mother’s hand. His papers. There was something written on them. It was written small. Written sideways. But as he got closer he could make it out. He tilted his head. It was his mother’s handwriting. Two words. But they didn’t make sense.
But by then he was stumbling. He felt the concrete.
When his mother knelt down he could see the papers lying on the ground in front of him. Scribbled in pen beside the doctor’s contact numbers, on the pages she always left by the phone, his mother had scribbled and underlined two words:
Ted called.