I Unlove You by Matthew Turner Page B

delight.
    Homes that housed my youthful dreams and fantasies line the
other side of the bank. My father and I used to walk along here
every Sunday morning, him bringing his guitar to teach me snippets
of tunes. Gazing at those houses, I ’ d imagine sitting in
their gardens with a guitar of my own, playing and strumming, until
one day I ’ d teach my own son.
    I keep thinking about my father,
and long ago memories of no real significance. Simple moments, such
as the time he wrapped my arm in a bandage, telling me a story
about when he fell out of a tree. Laughing at his mocked squeals
and silly voices, I forgot about the pain.
    Or
a random memory of standing in a school playground, Dad crouched on
one knee and tying my shoelace. “ You ’ ll be able to do
this for yourself soon, kiddo, ” he said, looking up at me. “ I ’ ll teach
you when we get home, if you like. ”
    “ Yes, please, ” I said, hopping on
one foot.
    I
didn ’ t have a father, rather a superhero. Big, strong, fast
and funny. I ’ d read comic books
each day after school, picturing him as one of the X Men, or saving
Spiderman after he ran into trouble. Each day, I looked up to him
in awe, loving him, but in a different way to my mother; a
father ’ s role, that of protector and monster-beater.
Soon my own son or daughter will look up to me like that. But
I ’ m no superhero. I ’ m not strong enough,
or fast enough, or funny enough.
    Wiping my forehead with my free
hand, I breathe the fresh air scented with freshly cut grass.
Today, the shade only does so much, the heat too intense for my
poor Yorkshire body. I wear shorts for the first time in years, the
faded blue denim frayed along the bottom, the right pocket
half-torn and hanging down my thigh.
    “ I can ’ t remember the last
time it was so hot, ” I say, wiping my forehead
again.
    “ This is what
I ’ m saying. And you ’ re not carrying
another human being in your tummy. ”
    “ You can hardly call it a human
being. ”
    “ It ?
Did you just refer to my son or daughter as an it ? ”
    I
bite my lip and scrunch my nose. “ I think I
did, ” I
say. “ I ’ ve been meaning to ask you. How do we refer
to … well, it ? ”
    Laughing, she places her head on my shoulder again; it
bouncing up and down with each gentle step. “ Well, not as it . And I
don ’ t know. I think some couples create a nickname of
sorts. ”
    “ What, like Baby B or Mini
Aus? ”
    “ I guess, something like
that, ” she says. “ Or we could come up with a name
that ’ s gender neutral, so whatever he or she turns out to
be, we already have a name. ”
    “ A name?
Already? ”
    “ Maybe, ” she says, shrugging. “ We need to
come up with one at some point. ”
    “ Yeah, but not yet,
right? ”
    Lifting her head, she laughs and
closes her eyes.
    “ Sorry, ” I say. “ I
didn ’ t mean it like that. ”
    “ Of course
not, “ she says, kissing my cheek and quickening her step. She
laughs again. “ It still makes me laugh when I think of your face the
other day. ”
    “ Don ’ t. ”
    “ I ’ m sorry, but it was
funny. ”
    “ The fact I ’ m a
terrible father ’ s funny? ”
    “ Stop it.
That ’ s not true. ”
    I
mumble under my breath, glancing over the water once more. The
first scan still keeps me awake at night, as I remain unnerved by
my reaction. In the waiting room beforehand, I
didn ’ t comfort B or calm the situation, rather sat in
silence, my shoulders arched and head slumped
forward.
    “ Would you like to come this
way, Mr and Mrs Ashford? ” said the nurse. B clenched her hand
around mine.
    “ Sure, ” she said, clearing her
throat. “ Call us Aus and B ,
though. ”
    An antiseptic linger filled the
hallway, the cream walls the same as we rounded each corner. Each
door identical, we passed closed ones and open ones; couples in
chairs as they awaited for this and that; doctors scurrying past in
white coats; nurses consumed by clipboards and papers. The