including Hector’s underpants.
Find little jobs that will make his life easier and more pleasant.
Listening to the rise and swell of the music, the muscles in my legs begin to twitch, as if I have trapped a nerve. They long to be stretched. Putting the iron down, I place my hands face down on the ironing board. As I point my toes, my legs lengthen and the gentle hairs catch the light. The music reaches a crescendo and I pull my leg up further, ignoring a tremor of pain.
Letting go, I move the ironing board and rise up onto the tips of my toes in one motion, feeling the arch of my foot. Stepping from one foot to the other, I lift my curved arms backwards and then forwards. My body knows what to do. I rise onto one leg, sweeping the other in a semicircle, raising my arms and turning, turning, turning, always bringing my head back to the same point.
Just as I am beginning to overbalance, I feel a hand catch my leg and hold it, helping take the weight. There is another hand on the small of my back. I open my eyes and the girl from last night is there, smiling, swaying a little to the music as she supports me, her eyes closed.
I stay very still, not wanting her to go. Her blonde hair isn’t as messy, tied up high on her head. The white pyjamas she was wearing the last time I saw her are clean now, too short at the arms and legs, dotted with tiny pink hearts. Her body is more filled out, and I can see the muscles of her legs, and the definition of her stomach. She opens her eyes and looks right at me.
‘What are you doing?’
I jump, and turn towards the living-room door. Hector is standing there, watching me. I feel my cheeks redden. When I look behind me, she is gone.
‘I didn’t think you were up yet,’ I say, my heart pounding.
A smile cracks the corner of Hector’s mouth. ‘You look ridiculous,’ he says. ‘What was that supposed to be?’
I look down at the floor.
He laughs then, short and sharp. ‘You looked like a crazy person. Dancing in your nightgown. Whatever next? Just wait until I tell Kylan.’
I shoot him a look. ‘Don’t, Hector,’ I say. ‘Please.’
He smiles. ‘I won’t,’ he says, moving closer, putting his hand on my back where hers was a moment ago. ‘Not if you don’t want me to.’ He rubs my back, up and down. ‘Have you taken your pill?’ he says.
‘Not yet,’ I say.
Hector leaves the room, returning with the bottle.
‘Open your mouth,’ he says.
He takes out a pink pill and puts it in my mouth. I mock-swallow, letting the pill slip underneath my tongue, then open again. He nods.
Once he has left, I spit the pill into my hand, going to the fireplace and dropping it into the grate. Then I move the ironing board back into place and continue to work.
There is something, just out of reach, which I can feel shifting inside me. I shut my eyes, willing it to come forward. It’s a smell first, of detergent and sweat, and a rapid image that shuttles before my eyes too fast for me to grasp. Hard, shiny wood floors, a wall lined with mirrors. The tight material against my legs, my hair scraped back and held aloft with too many sharp pins. Then the chords: classical music played softly, a few bars and then nothing. The picture spreads for a moment like ink through blotting paper, and then, just as quickly, it is gone.
After what feels like a long time, Hector re-enters the room. He walks slowly to his chair, easing himself into it. I hear the newspaper open. The only sound is the rustle of the pages and the hiss of the iron. The palm of my hand is slippery with sweat, making it hard to get a good grip.
Some time later, when I am finished, I turn to lift the pile of ironed clothes into the basket, and catch a glimpse of him. He holds the newspaper up, but he is staring straight past it, at the far wall. He looks so tired and old and drawn, his half-moon spectacles resting on his nose. His face is clouded with something I can’t read. I almost don’t recognize him.
I
Find little jobs that will make his life easier and more pleasant.
Listening to the rise and swell of the music, the muscles in my legs begin to twitch, as if I have trapped a nerve. They long to be stretched. Putting the iron down, I place my hands face down on the ironing board. As I point my toes, my legs lengthen and the gentle hairs catch the light. The music reaches a crescendo and I pull my leg up further, ignoring a tremor of pain.
Letting go, I move the ironing board and rise up onto the tips of my toes in one motion, feeling the arch of my foot. Stepping from one foot to the other, I lift my curved arms backwards and then forwards. My body knows what to do. I rise onto one leg, sweeping the other in a semicircle, raising my arms and turning, turning, turning, always bringing my head back to the same point.
Just as I am beginning to overbalance, I feel a hand catch my leg and hold it, helping take the weight. There is another hand on the small of my back. I open my eyes and the girl from last night is there, smiling, swaying a little to the music as she supports me, her eyes closed.
I stay very still, not wanting her to go. Her blonde hair isn’t as messy, tied up high on her head. The white pyjamas she was wearing the last time I saw her are clean now, too short at the arms and legs, dotted with tiny pink hearts. Her body is more filled out, and I can see the muscles of her legs, and the definition of her stomach. She opens her eyes and looks right at me.
‘What are you doing?’
I jump, and turn towards the living-room door. Hector is standing there, watching me. I feel my cheeks redden. When I look behind me, she is gone.
‘I didn’t think you were up yet,’ I say, my heart pounding.
A smile cracks the corner of Hector’s mouth. ‘You look ridiculous,’ he says. ‘What was that supposed to be?’
I look down at the floor.
He laughs then, short and sharp. ‘You looked like a crazy person. Dancing in your nightgown. Whatever next? Just wait until I tell Kylan.’
I shoot him a look. ‘Don’t, Hector,’ I say. ‘Please.’
He smiles. ‘I won’t,’ he says, moving closer, putting his hand on my back where hers was a moment ago. ‘Not if you don’t want me to.’ He rubs my back, up and down. ‘Have you taken your pill?’ he says.
‘Not yet,’ I say.
Hector leaves the room, returning with the bottle.
‘Open your mouth,’ he says.
He takes out a pink pill and puts it in my mouth. I mock-swallow, letting the pill slip underneath my tongue, then open again. He nods.
Once he has left, I spit the pill into my hand, going to the fireplace and dropping it into the grate. Then I move the ironing board back into place and continue to work.
There is something, just out of reach, which I can feel shifting inside me. I shut my eyes, willing it to come forward. It’s a smell first, of detergent and sweat, and a rapid image that shuttles before my eyes too fast for me to grasp. Hard, shiny wood floors, a wall lined with mirrors. The tight material against my legs, my hair scraped back and held aloft with too many sharp pins. Then the chords: classical music played softly, a few bars and then nothing. The picture spreads for a moment like ink through blotting paper, and then, just as quickly, it is gone.
After what feels like a long time, Hector re-enters the room. He walks slowly to his chair, easing himself into it. I hear the newspaper open. The only sound is the rustle of the pages and the hiss of the iron. The palm of my hand is slippery with sweat, making it hard to get a good grip.
Some time later, when I am finished, I turn to lift the pile of ironed clothes into the basket, and catch a glimpse of him. He holds the newspaper up, but he is staring straight past it, at the far wall. He looks so tired and old and drawn, his half-moon spectacles resting on his nose. His face is clouded with something I can’t read. I almost don’t recognize him.
I
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