Sorry for the wait- technical problems and masses of homework! Crits welcomed!
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Lyla. Part 11.
A swarm of gnats was visible in the orange glow coming from the sensor light in the back garden. I watched them circle around each other, travelling across the silent night. The majestic weeping willow from next doors garden hung over the fence, its long wispy branches swaying in the gentle breeze. In the dark it reminded me of the long, glossy hair of a Geisha.
I scanned the grass and found Tom lying on the same spot as I had been that very afternoon. As I began towards the grass I felt my mobile vibrate in my pyjama pocket. I had to think for a second of what was vibrating, as something as normal as a mobile seemed so strange to me tonight. I picked it out and flipped it open, finding a message from Sarah.
Hi, are you ok?
I read it and made a mental note to text her back later. Was she psychic? I smiled a little at the thought. She just knew me too well. She must have realised that I was a bit off on the phone earlier. Putting my phone back, I saw the time as ten fifteen.
I slowly lowered myself onto the cold grass next to Tom. For a second I thought I saw his hand flick up and wipe his face, but I ignored this. Instead I stared intently at the rose bush as though it was about to run away.
It was a couple of minutes before he spoke and his voice was raspy. “I’m sorry.”
I tried to laugh but it came out sounding fake and childish.
“Unless you agree with what she said you have nothing to apologise for,” I said quietly.
There was a rustle and I could see Tom’s outline roll over, so that he was facing me in the dark. “I hate her.”
“No you don’t,” I said. “She’s your mum. And she loves you. That’s why she came here tonight; because she cares for you.”
“Please don’t stick up for her, Lyla.”
“Stick up for her?!” I exclaimed. “It was me she was shouting at. You know how sick I feel? I feel like I want to…die.”
That produced a response. Tom’s face was now level with mine, his hand snaking its way across my bump.
“Don’t say things like that,” he whispered. He sounded so hurt that I didn’t argue. There was no need to upset him any more than he already was.
The familiar exhaustion was stealing me away again. My back hurt and the prospect of bed seemed fantastic.
“Come on,” I said, taking Tom’s cold hand. “Let’s go make up the sofa.”
One thirty-two am. Why is it that time seems to slow to a slugs pace when you can’t sleep? I stared at my alarm clock, the same as I had been for the past hour. I had fallen asleep almost instantly when I first came to bed, only to wake forty-five minutes later with excruciating stomach pains. I had got out of bed, paced my room for a while in the dull glow from my lamp and then returned to bed, feeling better but wide awake.
So now, as I listened to the ticking of my alarm clock I thought of the boy asleep downstairs and his baby, thriving inside me. I thought of tiny shoes, sat side by side, waiting for their owner. Cards on the mantelpiece, with pictures of teddies on them, horribly customary phrases on them, such as ‘Congratulations on the new arrival’ and ‘best wishes for the baby’.
It was when I was thinking about sleepless nights and endless feeding that I fell asleep.
Eggs, toast, maybe even some tomatoes. I stood by the banister yawning and guessing what food accompanied the smells that were teasing my nose.
The bathroom door opened and I jumped, feeling guilty for no reason. Dad stopped and looked at me. I wondered how much mum had told him about the events of the previous night. He obviously knew that Tom had stayed the night on the sofa.
“I’m sorry, Dad. He couldn’t go-”Dad held his hand up to stop me from going on.
“It’s fine.” He stretched his arms out to me and I nuzzled into his shoulder. I couldn’t remember the last time we had shown affection towards each other. Dad just wasn’t like that. When we broke apart I found myself smiling. It was nice to feel marginally happy again.
“Sam! Lyla! Hurry up before it gets cold.” Mum’s voice echoed up from the kitchen. Dad winked at me then made his way down. ‘He’s trying to be cheerful for me,’ I thought. But I dismissed this quickly, with the notion that I needed to have a good day today. Otherwise I might just start cracking up.
I adjusted one of my straps on the garish yellow sundress that I had shoved on that morning. It was loose and slightly too big for me, comfortable nonetheless and that was all that mattered. I no longer cared for fashion; only comfort.
I made my way downstairs, into the bright kitchen, shocked at the scene I found.
Tom, in shorts and my favourite of his T-Shirts was toasting and buttering bread. He was chatting away to my mum who was putting everything on the table. Mum kissed Dad on the cheek as she sat down his plate of food.
I felt like an outsider who had stumbled across a happy family having breakfast together.
“Lyla, I couldn’t remember if you had sugar in your tea or not,” Tom said, spotting me.
“I don’t drink tea anymore,” I replied as nicely as I could. “It makes me vomit.” I added by way of an explanation.
“Oh.” Tom poured the tea down the sink, slightly deflated and opened the cupboard above his head. “Er…fruit tea? Peppermint…I think I can see some chamomile as well-”
“Tom.” I walked into the kitchen, stroked his bare arm and smiled as best as I could at him. “Go eat. I can do it myself. Thanks anyway.” He nodded, smiling, but I could still see the dark haunted expression behind his smile. I doubt he had slept much.
“OK.” He glanced guiltily at my bump and then joined my parents at the table. Why had he looked at me like that?
As I poured myself a glass of orange juice I silently watched Tom shovel down mouthfuls of bacon and toast. Boys never seemed to loose their appetite, despite what was playing on their mind.
Ten minutes later and my plate of food had barely a dent in it. However much I reminded myself that I was attempting to be cheerful, I just couldn’t face more than a slice of toast.
“Tom,” my father said suddenly, making me look up so fast I nearly sprained my neck. “How about you come out with me today? I owe one of my mates a favour and as the weather’s good today I said I’d do some gardening for him. You fancy helping me?”
Tom glanced at my mother, who smiled over the rim of her mug of tea.
“Sure,” he answered and I watched in amazement as they left the house together.
“Did I just miss something?” I asked my mum as I scraped the remains of breakfast off the plates and into the bin. Dad was never really accepting of Tom and they hardly spoke, let alone do anything together. Mum turned on the tap and began scrubbing at the various pans and dishes.
“I think your Dad’s in a good mood. Besides, Tom needs something to take his mind off last night.”
‘I need something too,’ I thought.
Mum rinsed the soapy water off the cutlery and placed them on the draining board for me to dry.
“Tom came to me last night,” she said, looking away from me.
“What?”
“After you went to bed. He knocked on my bedroom door and I got up and we came downstairs so as not to wake you. He wanted to talk.”
I stared at my mother. As much as I wanted to know what had happened last night I was also worried. It upset me that my boyfriend would turn to my mother rather than me to confide in.
“He was very upset you know. He made me swear not to tell you about what we talked about, but I feel like you need to know. He loves you a lot and doesn’t want to hurt you in any way.”
I put my towel down and leant against the counter, one hand resting on my bump. “What did he say?” I said softly, like I was trespassing upon some huge secret that terrified me as much as it intrigued me.
“That he was scared. That he wishes he had never led you into any kind of danger-”
“I’m not in any kind of danger! I’m not dieing!” I exclaimed.
“Well perhaps ‘danger’ is the wrong word.” Mum turned to face me. “He was crying, Lyla. He thinks he’s wrecked everyone’s lives. Yours, his mothers, mine and your dad’s. And I think the extent of the situation you are both in has finally sunk in. He worries about being a seventeen year old father. He worries that you are both too young.”
I opened my mouth to speak but my throat was dry. I could feel the extra weight I was carrying pulling me down, further and further, until the ground collapsed around me and all I became was a speck in a deep dark hole.
“Lyla, don’t tell him what I’ve said. I think he was too embarrassed to go to you. He just needed a shoulder to cry on.” Mum gave me an encouraging smile, the same one you give to a child who was learning to ride a bike but just fell off of it.
“Mum,” I began cautiously, drying up a plate and placing it in the cupboard. “Did I do the right thing? Did I choose the right option?”
Mum shook her head and placed the saucepan on the draining board.
“Think about what you are saying. Only you know if you’ve chosen the right path or not. Deep down I don’t think you even meant to ask me that question.”
I stayed quiet. That wasn’t reassuring at all.
