Forty

‘Forty.’ Carrie whispered, as the clock hit 12:01. Her utterance echoing in the empty, black living room.

Sinking into the cushioning of her weathered leather couch, Carrie cradled her new born against her chest. Willing its little eyes to close, little lungs to quiet and begged for sleep to render it still. As she looked upon the red face of her shrieking baby it was that word, Forty, pounding in her ears like the thundering beats of a heavy metal song.

Awoken abruptly by the morning brightness piercing through the blinds like a jarring surgical light, Carrie heard the excited murmurings of Mick and the kids below. She winced, contemplating the nauseating arrangement of syrup and flour that awaited her downstairs. A culinary crime scene, to be solved by Carrie’s spray and wipe.

Anxiously turning to Gracie’s crib, she awaited the assuring rise and fall of her baby’s chest. Smiling, at the delicate features of its perfect face.

It was a different, nervous smile that found Carrie’s face the day she saw that black, dense shadow on the ultrasound screen.

‘Unplanned, huh?’ The doctor had chuckled, knowing he already knew the answer.

Not that it was a difficult presumption to make. A woman in her late 30s with two kids she had over a decade ago. Mick’s nervous laughter at the doctor’s snide remark had gone on just that little bit too long, she remembered.

Taking a deep breath, Carrie braced herself for impact.

‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY!’ they exclaimed.

Lyla and Sean’s smiles shone through smears of flour and jam that coated their round cheeks, as they embraced her.

‘Happy Birthday love,’ Mick said kissing her cheek, ’You don’t look a day over 39.’

‘Thanks Mick, that joke never gets old,’ laughing off her irritation.

‘No, but you do.” He laughed his wheezy laugh. Years of smoking finally caught up with him. She used to awe at the way he held his cigarette between his teeth like a wanna-be Kurt Cobain. An accessory to his rebel ensemble. Now, smoking was a quick escape route for Mick. Every escalating argument, children’s tantrum or call from Carrie’s mother was prevented by ‘I’m going out for a smoke.’

As they ate, Carrie examined her children’s faces. Every day she could see more pieces of Mick and herself. Anxiously, she transferred her concerns to Lyla’s uneaten breakfast.

‘Lyla, you’ve barely touched your food’

‘I’m not hungry,’ she retorted, mushing her syrup-soaked pancakes aimlessly with her fork.

6-year-old Lyla spent her afternoons investigating the fantastical world of the backyard. Each insect or flower an enthralling new discovery. While 12-year-old Lyla desperately attempted to pierce her new realm of maturity with a similar air of resistance that had stirred in Carrie long ago. Including an onset of rolled eyes, slammed doors and apparently now a loss of appetite.

‘C’mon Lyla, you’ve got to EAT!’ Sean yelled this, while flinging a handful of scrambled eggs her way. Despite being only two years younger, Sean seemed to cling to his youth. He embraced the mess.

‘Sean, you asshole!’ Lyla retaliated, launching the berry dish at his face.

As the sibling battle persisted, Carrie turned to Mick. Her eyes, pleading for assistance. Eliciting no response, she began to peer at the inconspicuous hole in his earlobe where a small silver hoop once dangled. She remembered how it would shake fearlessly as he sang along to the fierce melodies of his garage-born punk band. His eyes always used to be wild with exhilaration, locking with her’s as she slammed into the bodies of other resistant youths in the thumping crowd. Now, his tired gaze flickered to hers and then fixed back on his newspaper sheepishly, like a dog looking up at its owner after shitting in their favourite pair of shoes. Carrie knew once again; it was her job to clean up the mess.

But she no longer wanted to head this obligation. Silently, she got up and left the table. Leaving the noise behind.

In all the frustration and disappointment, all Carrie had longed for was the warmth of Gracie’s skin against hers. In the comfortable security of her bed, Carrie held her baby tight for hours. The world around her blurred.

But soon she would have to face the condescending disappointment of Mick about her petty withdrawal and apologise to the kids. She would have to make herself happy, her home presentable for the endless parade of patronising faces, wishing her a happy fortieth. She’d have to be the hospitable hostess. She’d have to make everything perfect. Just right, to appease their expecting adult faces. Carrie had to wonder, if her life was a movie, when did she get cast as the 1950s housewife?

As she tentatively descended downstairs, Carrie expected a scene of chaos. However, the house had been cleaned… partially. Syrup stains still resonated from breakfast and Sean’s toys were still poking out in-between the furniture. But the partial mess was barely noticeable amongst the abundantly colourful decorations that haphazardly yet somehow beautifully, littered the house. And as she walked outside, she saw it. Mick, Lyla and Sean, together. Dancing wildly, barefooted on the grass to The Buzzcocks. They smiled at her, genuinely, as she joined them, all singing along fiercely, to the pounding music.

"I can't see much of a future . Unless we find out what's to blame, what a shame . And we won't be together much longer . Unless we realise that we are the same."