‘Why couldn’t I have been the perfect one? The one who’s … cherished.’ Mouse watches Soli pacing the room like a dog in the back of a stationary pick-up.
‘The squeaky wheel on the bike always gets the attention, mate,’ she responds, fierce, like he should get it. ‘They never worry about me. I never get any hovering. And I don’t look like any of you guys, either.’ You lean; there’s a pale, soft underbelly in her voice that she rarely allows out. ‘Maybe I was adopted.’ Tremulous, younger than she’s sounded for years. Oh, love. She’s blue-eyed and black-haired and none of the rest of you are but it means nothing and you need to tell her, enfold her in your arms; need to tell her how vividly different all your three children are and it constantly amazes you. Need to tell her that when you were pregnant with her Motl would put his hand on the drum of your belly and a calmness would bloom through you; need to tell her that as a tiny baby she taught you to relinquish control, to shed selfishness, and you’re so grateful for that.
‘You’ve got Mum’s laugh,’ Tidge says brightly. That boy. It’s as if he’s permanently surrounded by bluebells and daisies when there’s not a bluebell or daisy in sight.
‘Not lately, mate.’
‘Well, we could all do with it back,’ Mouse says by way of apology.
A soft quiet. Peace at last. They need this. When the twins were in utero they’d jump awake when they heard Soli’s toddler cry, so blood-bound, all of them, and over the years the fundamental force of that has been lost. Perhaps, perhaps, this room can knit it back.
Mouse flops down on the bed and opens out his arms. A cuddle’s needed. ‘Sis?’ He clings then pulls her off in alarm. ‘Where are you?’ Running his hands over her skinniness, feeling her bones, the jittery pulse of her flesh. And the bananas going off, and the apples bruised, and two days now up.
Engineers fashion wells, carpenters fashion wood, the wise fashion themselves.