The Pause by John Larkin

the tree. It’s a little swollen and it’s stiffened up a bit, but I don’t think it’s broken and I feel a sense of relief that it’s still connected to me and not lying on a railway sleeper somewhere, reaching out to me. I stretch out my fingers. They’re sore but they’ll be okay. People will think I’m mad anyway. Probably best if I don’t mention anything about beating up the local flora. They might just throw away the key. Hello padded cell.
    The door swings open. ‘Hey, Dec,’ says Mum gently. ‘What’s going on?’ Her soft touch tells me that she knows exactly what’s going on but is at a loss as to how to handle it (that dreaded pronoun again). It’s not every day your eldest child almost kills himself. She’s not trained to deal with it. Or to know what to say. Parenting manuals don’t really cover this.
    Mum, Dad and the doctor crowd into my little consulting room, stepping carefully on eggshells as they do.
    â€˜Declan. This is Dr Hitchiner. He’s the psychiatrist at the hospital.’
    I look up and feel guilty about Mum’s smeared mascara.
    â€˜I’m so sorry,’ I manage to choke out.
    She immediately drops down and hugs me, her body wracking with sobs. She tells me that everything is going to be okay. That she’ll protectme. That she’ll wrap herself around me. That she’ll quit her job if she has to.
    I tell her again that I’m sorry, but it sounds half-hearted, even though it’s not. I really am genuinely sorry for the hurt I’ve caused her. She doesn’t deserve this. What was I thinking?
    â€˜You should bloody well be sorry.’ Dad joins the discussion in his own subtle way.
    Mum gets up and glares at Dad. ‘Shaun. There are times when we have to shut up and just listen.’
    â€˜Mr and Mrs O’Malley. This isn’t really helping anyone.’
    Dad glares at the psychiatrist. ‘So we’re all supposed to pussyfoot around him now, are we?’
    â€˜Piss off, Dad!’
    â€˜That’s it!’ snaps Mum in what turns out to be the beginning of the end of their marriage. More guilt to shovel my way. ‘Get out!’
    Dad folds his arms. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
    â€˜Some things are just too important to leave to chance,’ continues Mum, ‘and I’m not risking this. So either get out, or I’ll throw you out.’
    Dad stalks out and Mum follows him. She closes the door behind them and basically tears him a new one.
    While Mum and Dad go at it, Dr Hitchiner attempts to ask me a few questions, perhaps hoping to draw my attention away from thedivorce proceedings that have begun outside the door. I don’t really hear him as I’m too busy listening to Mum slicing and dicing Dad. When it comes to a verbal joust, an accountant isn’t going to be much of a match for a barrister at the best of times, but listening to their one-sided debate is kind of like watching Ironman taking on Mr Bean. It isn’t pretty. She tells him in no uncertain terms that he is to be either part of the solution, or else seek his accommodation needs elsewhere. Either way he isn’t allowed back in and no , she will not be taking a taxi home. He has to.
    He tells her that he doesn’t have any money, that he left his wallet at home. On hearing of Dad’s impoverished state, her sigh is so deep and long that for a moment I mistake it for the breeze. She must have had a fifty on her because when she comes back in it’s just her, or else Dad is hitchhiking home.
    I kind of feel sorry for Dad, in a way. He can’t tell me that he loves me. He’s never been able to. The only way he can deal with what’s happened is by getting angry. Getting angry with me. I realise that this is his way of telling me he loves me. That he’s angry at me for almost leaving him. How messed up is that?
    Mum and Dr Hitchiner take charge of my