25th November
As I spoon potato and spinach into Henry’s open mouth the 5Live DJ stops talking about death tourism and asks, ‘to what lengths have you gone to get back something you’ve lost?’ It is a quarter to one in the afternoon on a Tuesday. Alex is at work, Henry and I are at home. I’ll try to get him to sleep after he’s finished eating. He is teething, and going through a sleep regression, and responding by rubbing his head so hard on his mattress at bedtimes that he gives himself friction burns, red-raw coins at the centre of his forehead which weep, and scab over. Alex places a soft-as-silk sheet at the top of his mattress, but he crawls down to the other, rougher end, to rub his head there instead; when he realises that we will continue to place him on the fake silk and he will have to rub there or not at all, he rubs with such renewed determination that his scabs come off, and we begin to find streaks of brown blood on the sheet. We try plasters but they bunch on his skin and further irritate him, or his pudgy one-year-old fingers absently peel them off. We try putting him in a hat and it seems to work, but we feel so sorry for him as he wrestles with it in his sleep that we don’t try it again. Hatless he is undeterrable from this new disposition, hunching on his elbows and knees, head down as though racked with prayer, furiously nodding yes yes yes with his head pressed hard to the bed. I wonder if there is some deep itch below his skin he is trying to get to. He looks up at me while slurping at his sippy cup and I make myself cross-eyed, and as he drinks he laughs. The DJ is reading a text message from listener Mark, who says he recommends attaching a magnet to a length of bamboo to retrieve lost bolts, and screws.
19th December
‘Seventeen months,’ I reply, holding Henry close to me on my lap, touching my lips to the top of his hat hair. He sits still facing away from me, sucks loud and slowly on his dummy, his feet dangling either side of my pressed-together knees. The doctor draws her notepad over the desk towards her under the flat of her hand. She turns to Henry and smiles tired at him as he gazes steadily back at her. Steps pass by closed door, disappear.
‘Walking, talking, eating well, seeming well in himself?’ she says, opening her notebook and fixing Henry in a searching look.
‘No walking or talking just yet,’ I say, automatically almost sorry-sounding. ‘Crawling, chattering. But yeah. Taking his time.’
‘And diet?’ says the doctor, and makes a note.
‘Oh, yeah, fine. Eats everything, healthy, great. Everything normal, everything good.’
‘But you mentioned his,’ she says, gesturing to her forehead, meaning Henry’s.
‘Yes, the, um,’ I say, and gently I push back Henry’s hair to show his latest scab more clearly. His sleep has been slightly less disturbed actually and it looks at least not as angry as it has. ‘We think it’s just a, you know.’
‘Well,’ the doctor says and lowers her chin while still looking searchingly at Henry, eyes roving the surface of his forehead, then when back down looks for something in her notes. She finds it and makes a small ‘ah’ sound to herself. ‘Um.’
‘So,’ I say.
‘So before the deadline we want to make sure everything’s OK in terms of plan eligibility.’
‘Sure,’ I say.
‘And obviously a recurring skin complaint would often be cause for concern, not what we want to see in a recipient near deadline. But I think this is just behavioural.’
‘Right.’
‘Lots of babies do this sort of thing. So I think good to bring him in for a look but nothing to be concerned about.’
‘That’s good.’
‘And how have you been feeling.’
‘Not too bad.’
‘No major changes.’
‘No.’
Her office is overheated. A pane of sweat glazes my back underneath my thick shirt.
‘OK, so,’ she breathes, ‘we’ll do the usual for you both, I’ll fill out everything then send to reception, you can sign it there.’
‘OK.’
‘I’m just quickly making a note of,’ she begins.
16th January
Alex passes by the living room door and sees me, pauses. I look up at her brightly and fold and slip the half-opened mail into my shirt top pocket.
‘More crap for Florin Pop,’ I say as she looks at me not looking at it. Florin Pop is our house’s previous tenant. We enjoy singing her name whenever we see it on an envelope, William Telling to each other: Florin Pop Florin Pop Florin Pop Pop Pop.
‘Just give it here, I’ll chuck it out,’ Alex says coming in, her hand outstretched.
‘It’s alright, I’ll stick it back in the postbox later.’
Her hand retracts and she looks at me.
‘OK.’
She takes a rocking step back and through bay window interstices, blind-light lights the top of her head and tiny tendrils of her hair luminesce orange, and dance.
‘You OK?’ I say.
‘Sure,’ she sighs, minutely shaking her head and frowning, then says as I stand up and gather her up in both arms like winnings, ‘oh, before I forget.’
‘Mm?’
‘Fresh canisters coming tomorrow.’
‘Finally,’ I say muffled into the top of her head. ‘Did you book the empties collection?’
‘Um,’ Alex says and detaches herself from me slightly and produces her phone, tapping at its pane of light. ‘Yes, all done. Just need to make sure they get two back or they can’t give us two.’
‘OK, let me–’ I begin but then Alex and I both look up the ceiling at the sound of thumping. I glance down at the baby monitor on the coffee table and Henry is on his hands and knees, nodding and nodding.
‘I’ll get him,’ and she touches my arm and says sit down.
8th April
I remember coming downstairs after bedtime when small to golden hum, never that now. I look at myself in the reflection of the TV where the sunlight through the top blind comes, not now. I remember Henry stunned as he worked out the mirror, delighted at two Henrys, two daddies, an infinite other possible, now. I look at myself and the fat sleek envelope is on the table. The bottle, gasp. Henry. He and Alex are above me and I feel them through the floorboards, the ceiling, their powerful sleep filling up the room, and me. I could have sent off the signed form today. I don’t want to think further than now, now. Now there is a quiet thump from above me as Henry turns over heavily in his cot. I look up to where he is now. I drink and smile, and drink.
Joseph Coward is a writer. His novel Run-Out Groove was published in 2023; he is an English PhD candidate at the University of London; he edits Death Kit magazine.