Six Impossible Things by Fiona Wood Page B

while all she does is send customers away. I understand about post-traumatic stress disorder in theory, but all I can think is that I want my easy life and my happy mother back. And dinner.
    So like a prize brat I say, ‘That’d be right.’
    It’s like I’ve slapped her.
    ‘What did you say?
What
did you just say?’
    At least I recognise that it’s time to shut up. A sudden, white-hot fury replaces her tears. She is shouting through the sobs and hiccups.
    ‘Do you realise what utter complete
shit
my life is at the moment? Do you know we could be living on the
streets
if we didn’t have the use of this house? Because we have no
savings
, if I get sick we’re . . . and this place is a
pigsty
. I keep the kitchen clean, but you haven’t lifted a
finger
to help.’
    ‘You haven’t asked.’
    ‘Because I expect someone who is
nearly fifteen
to have half a clue about things and to be able to put dirty clothes in the laundry and not leave a trail of his belongings around the house, and just
be here
occasionally to help out.’
    ‘I’m only out because I’m trying to make some
money
. Because I have to save up to go to my own social and even buy some clothes that actually
fit
me.’
    Shit. Why did I mention the social? I’m not even going to the stupid thing. But she’s in a frenzy, and nothing I’m saying is sinking in anyway.
    ‘Don’t you dare shout at me. I’m trying to make some money, too. And it’s bloody hard.’
    ‘It wouldn’t be so “bloody hard” if you stopped sending customers away.’
    ‘I don’t! They just change their mind about getting married.’
    ‘Or maybe they recognise a crazy psycho when they meet one, and go somewhere else for their stupid cake!’
    I walk out. I can’t handle it. I stamp through the house, longing to smash something up, but contain myself to banging my door, opening it again and banging it again. A patch of plaster from above the door falls, settling on the large pile of recycled socks and boxers I’ve been dressing from lately. I lie down and pick up the weights. I’m doing them twice a day and can lift them easily now. Adrenalin pumps through my system; I’ve never managed so many repetitions before.

    My mother knocks on my door.
    ‘Dan?’ She tries the handle. It’s locked.
    ‘Go away.’
    ‘I’ve made you a sandwich.’
    ‘I don’t want it.’ What am I, five? She must know it’s a lie, anyway.
    I hear her putting a plate down outside the door, with a huge sigh. I’m still burning with self-righteous rage and a petty impulse tells me not to eat it. My mother doesn’t seem to realise that things are every bit as bad for me as they are for her. Does she even know or ask how I’m going? Is it fun for me being pulled out of my life and dumped in this cold, dreary museum?
    I’d always assumed that me being around means my mother has to cope, and she has to think her life’s okay. That is clearly not the case. It makes me feel hollow and hopeless.
    ‘Thom Yorke and I obviously aren’t enough, Howard.’
    He gives me the inscrutable psychotherapist look: you figure it out.
    ‘Well, I can’t. That’s why I’m talking to a dog. And imagining a dog is talking to me.’
    He turns away, huffy. Now the whole world is against me.
    ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disparage your species.’
    He comes back over and settles himself next to me. You could interpret that as him wanting some physical warmth, but it feels more like being forgiven. I don’t know exactly when it happened, but he’s my dog and I’m his human.
    There’s a bump from above. The unattainable one. So close, but never further away . . .

16
    R EVISITING THE LIST :
    1 Kiss Estelle.
Okay, at least I’ve met her. She thinks I’m a creep. And that’s without her knowing I’ve read her diaries. Unless we somehow fall over, exactly aligned, lip to lip, and gravity causes the pressure, or we find ourselves in a darkened room and through a series of Shakespearean ID muddles she