The Key of Life

Pieces of Poppy

Gareth swiped his Oyster card and took a seat by the window. As the bus started moving, the city streets passed in and out of his vision, and he felt his mood darken with each and every one.

He hated London; busy, loud, dirty London. He had never even wanted to move to the city, he had wanted to settle by the ocean. It had always been his dream to open a little quirky cafe or a niche campsite, to spend his free time surfing and sailing. But Sarah worked in the media, and apparently there was no chance of getting a decent job outside of London, and so he had followed her blindly to the city, miles from the coastline he loved so dearly.

He should have known then that it was folly, that they were destined to separate. He should have stayed in Cornwall, and let Sarah go on without him. But then, if he had, he wouldn't have Poppy, and Poppy was everything to him. She was the only reason that he hadn't gone back to Cornwall with his tail between his legs. Instead he stayed here in this city that he hated, living for those precious alternate weekends when she was his, and his alone.

But, of course, Sunday always came around far too quickly, just as it had this weekend. And then, just as he was this weekend, he would be back where he was now: on the bus, returning to zone four, with only strangers for company.

Gareth had tried to get a better custody deal, he really had. But Sarah was Poppy's mother, she had carried her for nine months, had given birth to her and fed her. She had the better paid job, one that she had held for years, and was the one who had put down the deposit on their flat. She had also hired a better lawyer, who had argued that the above points made her a far more suitable caregiver than a recovering alcoholic who should have gotten over his farfetched dreams of beachside cafés and evenings in the sea a long time ago. How could he possibly be Sarah's equal when it came to parenting?

And so, just like that, Sarah got everything. No, no everything, but she got Poppy. She got Gareth's everything.

He had known that she would. And deep down, he knew that her lawyer had been right. He was a drifter, he was unrealistic, he was irresponsible, at least in comparison to Sarah. Deep down, he had probably always known that she was his superior, and that one day she would see that she had long outgrown him and move on to someone who actually deserved her. That had been part of his attraction to her, once upon a time; she was too good for him, and yet it was him that she had wanted, for some reason unknown to him. The very idea of it was dizzying and elating, almost like being drunk. He had thought himself the luckiest man in the world, loving Sarah and being loved by her in return. How could anyone else ever compare?

The answer to that question came the second Poppy entered the world, pink and wrinkled and screaming at the top of her lungs. She had been created out of his and Sarah's love, she was living proof that their love existed, and from the first moment he laid eyes on her, he knew that he loved her even more than he had ever loved Sarah. Not only that, Sarah loved her more than she had ever loved him.

From that point onwards, it was only going to be a matter of time until the pieces fell out of Sarah's eyes and she saw him as everyone else did. And once she did, she would leave, and she would take Poppy with her. Gareth was the luckiest man in the world, but he could see that his luck was going to run out, and so he could no longer get drunk on his luck. So instead, he just got drunk, and in doing so, he made sure that Sarah left him, just as he had known she would. It was inevitable, he had thought at the time, so why fight it?

Of course, he should have fought it. He should have fought as hard as he could, not for his sake, not for the sake of his marriage, but for Poppy. He should have fought off his demons the way he did the monsters under her bed, he knew that now, but now it was too late. The only thing he could  fight now was the urge to pick up the bottle. At least he had so far been successful at that much.

He realised that his hand had instinctively made its way to his head where Poppy's pink scrunchie still held his hair in a ponytail. He had forgotten that she had put it there. A smile played on his lips. No wonder the lady in the seat across the aisle was frowning at him. Perhaps he should have taken it out, but instead he left it where it was, a last souvenir from the weekend with his daughter.

When the bus reached his stop, he disembarked and walked the suburban streets until he reached the tiny bedsit where he now lived on alternate weekends and simply existed the rest of the time. He took the sleeping bag off the sofa and rolled it back up just as he did every time Poppy left, and put it under his bed - the one she thought was hers - ready for the next time she would be coming to stay. The one good thing about her not being there was that his back hurt less when he didn't sleep on the sofa. At least she was still young enough to enjoy this sleeping arrangement. He didn't know what he'd do in a few years time, when she was old enough that she needed a room of her own, but he would cross that bridge when he came to it. Perhaps he really would move closer to the beach, and open up that café, and teach Poppy to surf. She would like that. Sarah wouldn't, but by then he might have regained the strength to fight again. He hoped he would.

Next to the rolled up sleeping bag was a small box, which he took out from under the bed and opened up. It was filled with a collection of items that meant something only to him: tickets to the zoo, a scruffily drawn picture of a man and little girl holding hands, a tiny white tooth, little  hand prints, a yellow friendship bracelet, and several photos. Gareth took his hair out of the messy ponytail and put Poppy's pink scrunchie in the box with everything else that reminded him to keep fighting, so that one day he might be able to build a new life out of the pieces he had left of his old one.