Uncanny Shift
Dad pauses at my door, coat already on, shoulders weighed down under his rucksack. He’ll be leaving now, following where his camera leads.
When he comes back the chin will be lost in a coarse white beard and I’ll wonder what this man did with my dad; the dad who taught me silly songs to march to, who chased me along paths in pretence of a crocodile, who hoisted me to his shoulders where my hair could brush the sky. Does he ever look at me and wonder the same?
He raps on the door frame, though he already has my attention. ‘All right, I’m off now. Sure you don’t want me to bring anything back from Chad?’
‘Dad.’
The tone catches him but now he’s listening, my voice fails. Because what can I say? Work is trying to get rid of me, to make me think I’m mad; my closest friend in the world has betrayed me for the sake of his job? In my mind, the memory of the eagle simulation replays. It’s too much to expect of words. My fingers dig into the mattress, feeling the moment stretch from my grasp like elastic . . . and snap.
He shifts his rucksack higher up his shoulder. ‘I’ve really got to go now if I’m to catch my plane. You can call me when I have signal. Remember it’s going to be a couple of hours until the carer arrives, I think it’s Caroline tonight, so Mum’ll need some lunch. There should be some leftover pasta in the fridge. Don’t give her the pie, though, she found it hard to swallow.’
‘Right. Bye.’
He lifts a hand and leaves.
I sit in the emptiness he leaves behind, trying to sense outward towards its edges. But they’re too far to reach.
I drift about for a while, then go to the living room. Mum is slumped in her recliner by the window, unmoving save for the flitter of her eyes, chasing the flight of birds.
Every day. Every week. Every month. Years slipping by in this quiet light; just watching. What does she even see of them? A flash of colour and shadow? With her eyesight it must be hard to catch anything, but she likes the idea at least.
I can’t understand her answer to whether she wants a drink, so I put the sippy cup to her mouth anyway. Her lips pucker round it and then slacken so that a dribble of juice runs down her chin. The full-stops of her pupils fidget about my face, something vacant about them. Almost . . . Ressy-like. I pat her dry with a tea towel and sit.
The photo frame next to her shows a picture of baby me, so old it’s static 2D. The almost disembodied grin of a younger, healthier Mum hovers at the edge of the frame, brandishing the chocolate that is the cause of the baby’s – my – sticky merriment.
I take the frame down and balance it on the arm of her recliner. We got this for her a couple of years back – her grasp on reality is tenuous enough without introducing Specs – although I doubt she can even see it now.
Next shot is of me and Dad: a couple of years later so it’s moving but still not in 3D. Dad holds me steady on top of a donkey as I slaver my face with ice cream. He has dark hair but it’s still very much him. This was the trip when I dropped the 99 on his head and cried all the way home. Of course, I don’t remember it myself, but Dad has tortured me with the story so many times it’s tempting to think that I can. I stare at the pixels of delight on my face. That child will keep on licking until the real me is dust in a grave, and still the ice cream won’t be finished.
Now a photo of Mum and Dad, sitting on a wall in front of a garden I don’t recognise. This one must be out of order because they look so very young, perhaps at university, as old as I am now – they’re wearing clothes that are cringeworthy enough to be from the noughties. I stare into those features, but they don’t let me any deeper in.
Next, tenth birthday. Sitting in a paddling pool with friends, kicking up white walls of water. I do remember this day, but it’s vague, like the memory of a story told about someone else’s life.
An excited twelve-year-old replaces it, braces unashamedly bared, not even conscious of the threat of teeth as she thrusts a piece of paper towards the lens. The day I was accepted into ShenCorp. The choice seemed so simple then.
Next, a close-up of a face that’s almost mine. Fifteen? Sixteen? What secret geometry of features is it that holds together Katherine North from one year to the next? The expression flickers from a smile to a glower as I realised a picture was being taken. In the background, Mum sags in her wheelchair, her face is puffy but there’s still something of the old Mum there. Her smile looks so very tired.
I put the photo frame back on its shelf. The people in these photos are strangers.
Mum groans and I take her hand. What is it about her skin? I can never quite put it into words – clamminess, softness, like old rubber or a newly dead fish. the grip is weak yet desperate, she clings with the little strength she has.
Outside a young goldfinch has alighted on the feeder; its breast is puffed up, mouth gaped larger than its head. Its parent nuzzles into the feeder, ignoring it.
‘Look,’ I say.
Her eyes shiver as they try to focus. perhaps she doesn’t see – perhaps I watch alone – but I like the idea at least.
As she begins to doze, her fingers slacken from mine. The muscles of her face droop, dough-like. her breath smells sweetly of fermentation.
After a long five minutes, I disentangle myself, but at the movement her eyes fly open. Her grip closes on my wrist, as if snatching at a thief.
Even slurred by sleep and illness, the fear in her voice is clear.
‘Who are you?’ she says.