take you back to the path you’ve left; I can only show it to you. It’s there, right in front of you. All you have to do is go and talk to him and everything will work out fine.”
Tears rolled down Norman’s cheeks, but he was frozen to the spot and unable to respond to his father’s incomprehensible words. It felt as if he were living a nightmare, incapable of understanding the fears that held him in thrall, trapped by the desire to know what was happening around him. Jonathan gazed at him, his expression full of pride as he spoke. It sounded as if he wanted to help, but without explaining which sickness and wrongs Norman was guilty of. His past and all that had happened to him that morning flashed through his mind. He recalled leaving Julia asleep in bed and hurrying out to go to work as usual. He remembered not speaking to her the evening before. They had gone to the cinema and then to a restaurant, but his attention had been riveted on her friend whose ice-blue eyes had stared at him knowingly. On the way home, they had listened to the voice of a perfect stranger on the car radio, exhorting listeners to forget the sorrows in their lives and enjoy the music, although it was too deafening to listen to. When they got home, she had gone into the bathroom and he had dropped off to sleep in front of the television as it broadcast pictures of a distant place, where life was one long rave-up. He remembered nothing else. The previous night, Julia had come home after he had gone to bed. And the night before that.
Suddenly, Norman’s mind was flooded with all the misery that awareness brings. In truth, he had not spoken to Julia for a long time, perhaps too long. They had touched on nothing but the weather and work for months; he had avoided even looking at her for months. His sole means of communication with her had been through the poems he stole from time and wrote every morning, leaving a piece of his life on the kitchen table without giving it to her in person. And now he realized how much he missed her. More than the earth misses the sun; more than life misses water. He missed her embraces, how they eased the doubts and uncertainties that illusions fuel. He missed the look in her eyes, where he took refuge to make time stop, begging it to come and lose itself too in her amazing beauty. He missed the times he gave himself up to her gentleness and let himself be pampered in a sea of love deep enough to drown in, heedless of whether or not he would ever come up for air again, content with life, asking nothing more.
“How old is he?”
“Ten. He’s a lovely lad, intelligent and inquisitive. Just like his father at that age. Go over to him, go on.”
Norman hesitated. He found it difficult enough to converse with a stranger of his own age, let alone a ten-year-old child. And it was the son he had never met to boot. He looked at his father for help, like a drowning man clutches a straw.
“Go on, son. He won’t bite you. I’ve told him all about you. He can’t wait to meet you.”
He nudged Norman forward, hoping to inspire a little serenity and trust. Norman’s legs trembled as if he were again the boy at school being tested in front of the whole class. His fear of looking a fool had lasted until university. He thought he had overcome it, but fear never dies unless it is tackled head on; his solution had always been to turn tail. And now it had found him, it was demanding revenge. It took him endless minutes to approach Will. When he was close enough to touch him, he came to a halt and searched his vocabulary for a suitable greeting.
“Hello, my name’s Norman.”
The circumstances mocked him, and so did the child.
“I’m Will. Are you my Daddy?”
Shame erupted like a soldier eager to put an end to war. He felt so awkward he wanted the ground to swallow him. Then he understood that Will was ill at ease too, and acted the way any normal person his age would with children, trying to instill peace of mind
Tears rolled down Norman’s cheeks, but he was frozen to the spot and unable to respond to his father’s incomprehensible words. It felt as if he were living a nightmare, incapable of understanding the fears that held him in thrall, trapped by the desire to know what was happening around him. Jonathan gazed at him, his expression full of pride as he spoke. It sounded as if he wanted to help, but without explaining which sickness and wrongs Norman was guilty of. His past and all that had happened to him that morning flashed through his mind. He recalled leaving Julia asleep in bed and hurrying out to go to work as usual. He remembered not speaking to her the evening before. They had gone to the cinema and then to a restaurant, but his attention had been riveted on her friend whose ice-blue eyes had stared at him knowingly. On the way home, they had listened to the voice of a perfect stranger on the car radio, exhorting listeners to forget the sorrows in their lives and enjoy the music, although it was too deafening to listen to. When they got home, she had gone into the bathroom and he had dropped off to sleep in front of the television as it broadcast pictures of a distant place, where life was one long rave-up. He remembered nothing else. The previous night, Julia had come home after he had gone to bed. And the night before that.
Suddenly, Norman’s mind was flooded with all the misery that awareness brings. In truth, he had not spoken to Julia for a long time, perhaps too long. They had touched on nothing but the weather and work for months; he had avoided even looking at her for months. His sole means of communication with her had been through the poems he stole from time and wrote every morning, leaving a piece of his life on the kitchen table without giving it to her in person. And now he realized how much he missed her. More than the earth misses the sun; more than life misses water. He missed her embraces, how they eased the doubts and uncertainties that illusions fuel. He missed the look in her eyes, where he took refuge to make time stop, begging it to come and lose itself too in her amazing beauty. He missed the times he gave himself up to her gentleness and let himself be pampered in a sea of love deep enough to drown in, heedless of whether or not he would ever come up for air again, content with life, asking nothing more.
“How old is he?”
“Ten. He’s a lovely lad, intelligent and inquisitive. Just like his father at that age. Go over to him, go on.”
Norman hesitated. He found it difficult enough to converse with a stranger of his own age, let alone a ten-year-old child. And it was the son he had never met to boot. He looked at his father for help, like a drowning man clutches a straw.
“Go on, son. He won’t bite you. I’ve told him all about you. He can’t wait to meet you.”
He nudged Norman forward, hoping to inspire a little serenity and trust. Norman’s legs trembled as if he were again the boy at school being tested in front of the whole class. His fear of looking a fool had lasted until university. He thought he had overcome it, but fear never dies unless it is tackled head on; his solution had always been to turn tail. And now it had found him, it was demanding revenge. It took him endless minutes to approach Will. When he was close enough to touch him, he came to a halt and searched his vocabulary for a suitable greeting.
“Hello, my name’s Norman.”
The circumstances mocked him, and so did the child.
“I’m Will. Are you my Daddy?”
Shame erupted like a soldier eager to put an end to war. He felt so awkward he wanted the ground to swallow him. Then he understood that Will was ill at ease too, and acted the way any normal person his age would with children, trying to instill peace of mind
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