The Jump That Left Me Stranded

Chapter 2

It's late when dad gets in. I hear the door click from the living room: it rings out in the silence of the house. Sleepily, I tug myself up from the arm rest to smile at him over the sofa. 

"Hey dad." 

He unwinds his scarf - the woolly Tottenham one Grace bought for Christmas - and shrugs out of his coat. Only then does he turn to look at me, running a palm down his face. 

"Hey kiddo." He says. I scoot across the sofa to leave him a space, onto which he flops down in a crumple of limp limbs. His eyes flicker shut for a moment, and he breathes out a ragged sigh. 

I don't remember if, a month ago, his face looked this creased and weathered. It's shameful to realise now that I never really paid much attention, especially to mum and dad. If I had, maybe I'd have a better idea of the impact all this has had on them. Did mum always clean until her skin was rubbed raw? Did dad always sigh like he was bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders? 

The corners of his mouth quirk upwards. 

"What are you looking at?" He asks, opening one of his eyes fractionally. I let out a breathy laugh, half-way pleased that he's in a good mood; half-way sad that his voice sounds quite so harrowed. Shaking my head, almost imperceptibly, I reach towards the coffee table and snag the TV remote.

I wave it in front of his face, 

"The game starts in ten minutes?" 

"Nah, I don't think I'll be able to keep my eyes open." As if to prove his point, he yawns mightily and reclines into the sofa, his eyes closing once again. I regard him for a moment, my eyes dipping into the frown lines on his forehead, the shadows underneath his lash line, the nicks on his jaw and chin. It's like an anchor sinking deep into my stomach when I realise there's no way he looked like this before: Grace wouldn't have let it happen. 

But I have.

With shaky hands, I tug the sofa throw up to his chin. He's snoring, his head flops onto his shoulder, and then he's dead to the world. That's what I want too, I realise. I want to follow him into that blissful ether, where guilt and regret and sadness can't follow and aren't sloshing around like bitter medicine, burning in my throat like bile. 

Gently, I rest my head against his shoulder, and I feel the muscle deflate under my weight. My dad used to be a superhero: his body used to be strong and secure and I used to race into his arms like a hug could cure most anything. I don't remember - again, I don't remember - at what point his grasp felt inadequate: too slack and too spent. 

Soon, I managed to drift off. It's a fitful slumber: like flickering strobe lights, I dip in and out of deep sleep. There are no dreams, as has been standard for a while now; I just stay staring at an infinity of black. 

"Natty?" The words, uttered softly, permeate the fog of drowsiness. I stir slightly, opening my mouth to say something; before I can another voice cuts in. 

"She's out like a light." 

"Shall we take her upstairs?"

"No. No, let's leave her here."  The hushed whispers pause briefly. "I don't think she's slept that soundly for a while." 

I feel the sofa sag next to me, and after that I hear a heavy sigh fill the silence. 

"They kept me at the job centre for three hours before I could talk with anyone. Three hours Joyce, I could have been out there-"

"You're doing your best." My mum's voice is firm. It's the tone she uses when she's telling me to clean my room. Or rather, when she used to tell me to clean my room.