Chapter 21
A memory hits me one morning. It’s been over six weeks since I’ve woken up in a hospital bed, two since I have been sent home. Winnie and I are sitting at the round breakfast table, and Ash is in the kitchen emptying the dishwasher.
“Da, sing!” Winnie demands, her excited little hands banging on the surface.
And something I don’t quite recognise escapes my lips, a slow melody that just makes sense.
Busy with her cereal, Winnie hums along.
“Win… honey?” I call for the child’s attention.
Her dark eyes are immediately on me.
“Is this my song?”
Winnie smiles at me and it’s just another person in this family with a breath-taking, white-teethed grin, isn’t it? “My son!” The toddler yelps and then, she’s busy throwing cereal again.
I think for a blink and when nothing comes to mind I shout, “Ash!”
Ash rushes to the dining-room. “You good?”
I clear my throat a couple of times before I manage the words out. “Did I write songs?”
The confused look on Ash’s face makes me smile. “Like, in your life? Ever?”
“No, I mean, recently. About… this.” I know I’ve been writing melodies since I was in uni, but it was never serious. And this music is nothing I’m familiar with.
Pulling a chair out, Ash sits with Winnie and me at the table.
Propping a foot up, he hugs his leg to his chest and rests his chin on top of his knee.
He looks exhausted, somewhat younger and older at the same time.
The Ash from the photos on my phone, the man before the accident, he’s all smiles and laughter.
This Ash, on the other hand, is moody. One day he’s dark bags under his eyes, long sighs, deep frowns.
The next day he’s horny, endearing, an affectionate father.
I hate that I’m the cause of his chaos. I hate that I am the one driving him insane.
“Yes, yeah you did,” he admits eventually.
I’m quiet while Ash helps Winnie finish her breakfast and I’m quiet when ten minutes later, Ash picks the child up and walks out of the room. Winnie fits perfectly around his hip, her little hands grasping Ash’s shoulder.
“Your laptop’s in the study downstairs. You should have music stuff there. Your password is Gotham City or something.”
Indeed, my laptop is in the study. Indeed, my password is Gotham City, followed by a combination of numbers that matches Ash’s birthday. I’m not sure where the memory comes from, but my fingers type out the code before I can question it.
And indeed, my laptop is filled with music, song lyrics, half-finished sets and naturally, more photos, more videos.
It adds another layer.
I study the contents the entire day, stopping only for a quick nap with Winnie, scared of getting too overwhelmed. But the panic doesn’t come. Maybe I’m in total shock—the thought does cross my mind.
Or maybe, it just makes sense. It makes so much sense that when in the evening Winnie begs me shyly, “Song for bed,” I nod promptly.
I tuck her in with her bear, and it’s probably a sick twisted joke that it’s the Pooh bear.
But hey, karma, right? Staring at the bear and its silly red crop-top, I sing to Winnie.
I’m surprised when she hums along to all the songs I pick but then again, I’m not. This is my daughter. It makes sense.
“My song, Da,” she demands and then, the same melody as that morning comes out of my mouth. Within minutes, she’s asleep.
I sit by her bed for a long time, catching my breath, wiping my tears.
???
The next morning, I wake up to the sound of the shower.
I’m alone in bed and without Ash the sheets feel icy against my skin.
Weekends are different now that Ash is around.
After mom left, it was only us—Dad and I.
He would try to distract me, bring me out for dinner on Saturday, go to a game on Sunday.
But the more time we spent together, the more Mom’s absence got heavier between us.
Until eventually, like a good teenager, I started filling my weekends with friends.
It didn’t even matter which friends, as long as I was surrounded by people and loud music and colourful cocktails.
At university, it got worse. I used to feel angsty, the urgency of doing something, meeting someone—anyone—was the sole reason for my waking in the morning.
And that’s when I really started filling my weekends with alcohol.
Beer, Whiskey. Anything that made my lonely life seem less miserable, my family seem less broken.
Now, on the weekend, I can’t wait to spend Saturday with my own family.
I can’t wait to see Winnie in the morning, hug her to me and swing back and forth while Ash tries to cook breakfast for us.
And I can’t wait to see Ash when he steps out of the shower, his pale skin wet and his hair dripping down his lithe neck.
Ash, in the shower. Turning to lay on my back, I think about the last time we were in there together, the image of us chasing our release under the hot water making me feel feverish.
Ash walks back into the bedroom a moment later, smelling like soap and toothpaste and slow mornings, and I have to cross my legs under the blanket to hide the effect that he has on me. He has a towel around his hips, as low as it gets without revealing anything.
I thank the Lord I don’t usually blush, and ask Ash, “So, we’re meeting my dad and your brothers?”
Ash picks a t-shirt and pulls it over his head. Then he picks a pair of jeans and underwear and hooks those under his arm. “Yeah,” he says. “Pippa’s mom called to request a playdate. I thought we could go to the park, perhaps to the duck pond? We could meet your dad and the boys there too.”
Remembering the name from the contacts in my phone, I enquire, “Pippa’s mom?”
“They live down the street. Winnie and Pippa are inseparable. She was waiting here at the house when you first came home?”
I sort of remember her, yes. Tin of shortbread. Very yummy, long gone.
As Ash makes a move to leave the room, a hand holding the towel around his hips, I scramble with words.
“You can change here, you know.”
Pausing by the door, Ash ducks his head and I see him wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue. I close my eyes, hoping with all of me that he will stay and will trust me to want him here, with me.
“Ford,” he mutters, his voice incredibly low. His forehead is leaning against the door now and is banging against it softly, as if fighting the urge to flight.
“Please. Change here,” I beg him anxiously. My leg starts twitching under the covers and I push it down.
Finally, Ash turns and sags against the wooden door, eyes fixated on me. His lids are heavy and his teeth are sinking into his lower lip. He’s hugging his clothes to his chest, but it doesn’t stop his body from trembling.
I have no idea how a simple conversation has turned into this, how this desperation and this yearning have infiltrated our breezy morning. But looking at Ash, I shouldn’t be surprised. His lashes are long and dark, framing the eyes that in the gloomy light appear greyish.
He’s the same Ash I’ve known since I was seven and he was six, full of life and sure of himself yet incredibly shy and insecure.
I want to reach for him, pull him in my arms and tell him that everything is alright.
But since I don’t know that it actually is, I don’t move and I hope he’ll move for the both of us.
Ash hinges from his hips and stands up straight, gaze meeting mine in a challenge. As if to say, you want to see? You’ll see.
I watch as Ash brings a trembling hand to the precarious knot that’s holding the towel up and releases it deliberately.
The hem of Ash’s t-shirt falls lower but I can still see all of him, naked from the waist down.
Mine to see. Thinking of Ash as mine makes my heart skip a beat and I bite the inside of my cheek.
Absent-mindedly, I start stroking my right forearm, trailing the fingers up and down the skin that was trapped in a cast for weeks and now is free to breathe, at least at night-time.
Ash’s gaze tears from mine and he focuses on the movement of my arm, the fingers tracing an irregular pattern.
He drops his fresh clothes on the floor and his hands grab a fistful of his shirt as if to stop himself from touching, chest raising quickly.
The tips of Ash’s ears are the brightest red as he scans my entire body now, stopping briefly at where the sheets are covering my crotch area. His stare jumps back to my face, then, and the lines on his forehead deepen.
“Are you-?” he asks and there is no reason to deny it. I want Ash, I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anything. What we have done until now is not enough. Not nearly.
With a shaky hand I gesture for him to come closer and Ash takes a deep breath, stumbling on his feet as he takes one uncertain step. And then another one. His knees are about to hit the edge of the bed and I’m about to lose my mind, when in the distance, a phone rings.
Ash stops before the bed and squeezes his eyes shut.
“That must be our family calling,” he mutters, retreating towards the door.
I nod as he picks up the clothes from the floor and quickly slides his underwear on.
“Go, answer.”
Ash blushes furiously and from the baby monitor, I hear Winnie beginning to wake up. I shift my legs uncomfortably and I move a hand to adjust myself, the other to brush my hair back.
“Don’t touch it. That’s mine,” Ash orders. “I want it later.”
I want to ask more questions; what does he mean he wants it later? What does it mean I cannot touch? I need more, I need him to stay where he is and strip off all the clothes he’s just put on.
Instead, Ash simply winks at me and leaves the room.
Fuck him.
???