‘I see the colour of happy too, Mr T. Mine is pink, what is yours?’
He doesn’t answer, which is fine, perhaps there are no words, or perhaps a specific colour is too limiting, perhaps it’s a spectrum of colours. His silence is fine. I can leave him with it, and I don’t need to make it mean that he’s being disrespectful, or that he’s ignoring me. He’s entitled to his silence.
I drive slowly, luxuriating in our new-found ease of saying nothing.
We stop off at our local shop on the way home, the two boys from that day when I lost Tommy slouching behind the counter, a shared recognition, though, wisely, a wordless one.
‘It’s the little fella’s birthday!’ I say.
‘Happy birthday,’ they say almost in unison.
‘We need Rice Krispies, cake holders and melting chocolate. Oh, and matches and candles!’
They run down different aisles and return in triple-quick time with the items.
‘Thank you, boys. Very kind. We’ll bring you in some chocolate krispie cakes.’
I pay, they wave, smiling, in relief. ‘Bye, birthday boy.’
Yelps of excitement greet us as I open the front door and let the animals out into the yard, the evening air mellow and kind, not too cold, wet, damp, windy, or anything at all, the kind of weather I’d usually call insipid. Back in the kitchen I melt the chocolate, pour it into a large bowl. Once it’s cooled, I allow Tommy to dig his hands in. He goes to feed Herbie.
‘Hey, chocolate is poison to dogs.’
He looks at me like he doesn’t quite believe me, but says, ‘How about cats?’
‘I wouldn’t risk it.’
He lifts a mouthful to his lips. ‘Poor Marmie, poor Herbie.’ Closes his eyes, savours.
‘Want to pour in the krispies?’
He takes the open packet and pours the contents in. ‘Snap, pop, Yaya.’
‘Crackle,’ I say as we knead our hands into the mix. I lay out little bun cases and we scoop handfuls into them.
‘Let’s leave them to set in the fridge for a while, ok?’
He opens the fridge, sniffs, looks around, as I place a tray of krispie cakes on the bottom shelf.
‘Hey, how about we blow up some balloons, Mr T?’
He squints at me as I pull the packet apart, hand him a pink one, then change my mind, and give him yellow, me pink. It’s going to be a pink-balloon night; I’ll make sure of that. We both blow, his tiny, mine huge, and I tell him to hold them as I stretch their necks, loop and tie, then throw them in the air.
‘Wheee!’ I say.
‘Wheee,’ he repeats back, distinctly unimpressed.
The animals love them, barking and squealing, until one lands on Marmie and is savaged. It pops loudly; Tommy laughs, and jumps on the other one. I don’t feel like blowing up any more.
‘How about musical statues?’
He looks unsure.
‘I’ll put some music on and every time it stops we have to freeze, ok?’
I turn the radio on, but the Billie Holiday CD blasts out: ‘And after all is said and done To think that I’m the lucky one I can’t believe that you’re in love with me…’
Shit. My son is frozen alright, terrified. That bloody song hurtling us both back to that moment when I was taken over, possessed by a terrible need, when I almost suffocated him with that need. I quickly switch to radio mode, and fiddle around to find something benign, alight on bland retro pop, a nasal high-pitched girly voice, singing about spinning right round, baby… I open my arms, offer him my hands. He doesn’t take them.
He walks away into the living room, opens the art drawer and gets the glitter, brings it back into the kitchen. He removes the lid, sniffs, then closes it again. My heart is hammering. I hold my hand out, he places the tube into it, then I open the bin and deposit the tiny winking eyes into it.
The whispers start, yet there is something else there too, a stillness, space to hold it all.
‘Messy stuff, Mr T.’
His head moves up, down, up, down. I turn off the music. We look at each other.
‘Is it dark enough yet?’
He opens his eyes, looks through the window. ‘Hmmm-mm.’
I get the box of matches, offer it to him. He studies it a moment, then shakes his head.
‘It’s fine with me here.’
He takes the box in his hands, pushes his thumb against the lower lid, opens it, stares, his body trembling.
‘But Clare said it’s dangerous.’
‘It’s ok, I promise, it’s safe with me here. You know how to, right?’