‘Mum,’ I said. ‘When you look at Dad, do your pupils dilate? Is there a rush of blood to your epidermis and a fluttering in the pit of your stomach?’
Breakfast is the perfect time for serious conversation. A new day is starting but it’s the calm before the day’s metaphorical storm.
Mum looked at Dad.
Descriptive note: father. Name: Alan Patrick Fitzgerald. Age: … who knows such things? Old. Not really old, like Grandad, who is little more than a collection of wrinkles in a nest of greyness, but averagely old. Could be forty-five. Could be fifty-eight. An age, I imagine, when you’ve stopped caring how old you are. Or possibly even remembering. Dad, at least when sitting at the kitchen table, is a sphere on top of a sphere, like a fleshy snowman. His head is bald and he has more chins than standard. I sometimes get the urge to put my fingers up his nostrils, such is the resemblance to a bowling ball, although I have resisted this, for obvious reasons. Alan Patrick Fitzgerald also has a belly like a sail in a strong wind. It stretches the fabric of his white shirt to the extent that gaps between buttons gape. Dark and wiry hairs protrude from those gaps as if he keeps either a dark rug or a dead primate tucked down there. Maybe his head hair migrated south.
Mum looked at Dad. Dad looked at the sports pages of our local newspaper, lost in the US Open golf tournament, and deaf to my words. She glanced back at me.
‘I don’t know about fluttering,’ she said, ‘but he sometimes turns my stomach.’
I gave a small, disapproving frown and cocked my head to one side. Mum buttered toast.
‘Why do you ask, Rob?’ she said.
‘I have become a student of love,’ I replied. ‘It’s a mystery and I hoped you and Dad could shed some light on it, since you’ve been together for many, many years. Do you still display all those signs of love?’
Mum chewed her toast and considered the question.
‘The thing is,’ she replied finally, ‘it’s impossible to maintain that first heady flush of love. No one’s got the stamina.’
I thought about this. If Mum was constantly blushing, with pupils dilating and stomach fluttering, it would be difficult to carry on a normal daily routine. You’d bump into things, for example, and be permanently orange, like Donald Trump.
‘So love fades. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘No. “Fades” isn’t the right word. It changes.’ She gazed at the dining table as if for inspiration. Or maybe it was just to avoid my eyes. Some people, according to reading I’ve done on the subject, find the topic of love embarrassing, if not distasteful. Then she did meet my eyes, as though a decision had been made. ‘You’re probably old enough to talk about this kind of stuff,’ she said. ‘And maybe it’s time we did. The thing is, all those things you described – the rush of blood, the eyes dilating, the butterflies in the stomach – well, those are more to do with physical love, with desire. Do you know what I mean?’
I looked at Dad and tried to imagine someone finding him physically attractive. I couldn’t, but that didn’t mean it was impossible.
‘Sure,’ I said.
‘Proper love is more than that,’ she continued. ‘It’s to do with trust and affection and knowing what the other person is thinking without being told. It’s to do with the ordinary stuff of life shared with someone special. It’s doing the dishes together, paying bills, watching television, laughing. Laughter is vital. Love is often not glamorous. You find it in the humdrum. Is this making sense?’
I nodded. Parents often assume their kids are stupid.
‘It’s a complex emotion,’ I said.
‘Very true,’ said Mum. She started collecting plates. ‘And why have you become a “student” of this particular subject?’ I could hear the quotation marks.
‘I think I’m in love,’ I said.
‘But you’re thirteen,’ she said.
‘Is there an age limit involved?’ I asked. ‘Am I barred, like trying to get in to watch a horror movie at the cinema?’
Dad folded the newspaper and rejoined the land of the living.
‘Dad,’ I said. ‘The greatest, most wonderful love of your life?’
He didn’t hesitate.
‘Golf,’ he said.