The Enumerations Page 16

  ‘Sunday is visiting day.’ Her brother’s tapping the timetable now. ‘Here, or downstairs, in the lounge. Not outside on the lawn. And not today. Not Saturday.’

  Their mom’s blinking, still dealing with the hurt of being lumped into the ‘visitor’ category. ‘We can help you, darling,’ she says. She peers at the list. ‘Look. It’s not that much. We’ll help you save time on your chores so you can come out into the garden for a little while. We’ll choose a bench and then, tomorrow, you can wait for us there.’

  Maddie groans. Mom knows better than that. They’ll never be able to do each chore according to Noah’s specifications. He won’t trust them, he’ll do it all over and it will take even longer because they might have inadvertently moved something or disturbed the air molecules, or fractured the sound waves – whatever it is that sends her brother off on his twitchy circling, walking the floor, mumbling under his breath, pausing to draw a frantic breath and then continuing.

  No, that won’t work, and as Mom is suggesting that Noah show her where to find the broom, Maddie interrupts. ‘Mom, leave it. Noah has to do his chores by himself. Right, Noe?’

  Her brother looks at her with a flash of gratitude, and for a second Maddie remembers when Mom treated them both as ordinary kids, when Maddie and Noah took it in turns to incur her wrath, or her blessings. Now she’s dithering around him, scared to talk to him, scared to touch him, worried that the slightest wrong move will set him off and he’ll become even stranger, more foreign, even less of the son she has consigned to the care of NoH-where.

  ‘Treat him normally,’ Ms Turner said in the family meeting. ‘He’s not an invalid. He’s your son, your brother. Talk to him, don’t tiptoe around him.’

  Maddie glances at her father, standing alone at the end of the long room. If her mom is helpless as far as dealing with Noah is concerned, her dad is worse. He doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing. He doesn’t know what to do, so he does nothing. He doesn’t want to be there. And it shows. So that when they get to Noah’s room, Dad mutters something and turns to walk back to the end of the room and look out of the window. ‘Trimmed the hedges, I see,’ he says to no one in particular, ‘and weeded those flowerbeds.’ Meaningless lifelines the garden throws out to contribute something to the conversation. He doesn’t see how Noah listens when he speaks, doesn’t notice his son taking out his small notebook, flipping to the back of it and jotting something down.

  Anyway, on this day, almost four weeks after Noah moves into Greenhills, Maddie isn’t bothered about notebooks, or the state of the garden, or even how, from the back, her father looks as if he wants to flatten himself to the glass of the window and melt through it, bound across the lawns and over the tall wrought-iron gates, and down the road, as far away from NoH-where as possible.

  Today is all about following Ms Turner’s suggestions and seeing how far they can persuade Noah to go. At least her mom is standing still now. She’s staring at the grey rug, at his bed with its hospital corners, the pages and pages of fine web-like diagrams of his Family Tree.

  Maddie follows her eyes. So much about his room in Greenhills is familiar and yet everything looks so uncomfortably out of place.

  She still can’t believe that every Sunday afternoon for the next eight weeks they’ll be pointing the car in the direction of NoH-where. She can’t think about that now. She has to put herself inside her brother’s head, figure out how to get him out of his room and onto the lawn. She remembers Ms Turner’s request. ‘At least as far as the doors.’

  Think differently, she tells herself. Think Noah.

  She’s able to do that at home. Deflect him, divert him. Steer him onto a different path, one he doesn’t mind walking.

  That’s at home, though, where everything is familiar and she can work with his code so that it’s not an absolute train smash if they’re having spinach for supper, not carrots, even though Mom specifically said it would be carrots and Noah wrote that into his ‘Menus’ chart.

  ‘Take your time.’ That’s Ms Turner’s solution to everything connected to Noah. ‘Don’t expect it all to happen overnight. It could take a good few weeks, months even, before Noah changes his patterns. He’s already put a great deal of effort into working out new routines for life at Greenhills. He’s going to cling to them like a limpet. They’ll be his new lifelines.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we leave them in place, then?’ Maddie’s mom had said, so worried by it all. She’d been almost as agitated as Noah, but Ms Turner had an answer for everything.

  ‘It would be easier, but not necessarily better. Noah’s created a new set of constants. We need to introduce changes within those constants – some small, some more challenging. For instance, from Monday to Wednesday, Noah can stick rigidly to his timetable, but we might ring a few changes on Thursday and Friday and then on Sunday something slightly different will happen. Or,’ – she looks at all of them when she says this – ‘in this case, Saturday, when you persuade him to go out into the garden.’

  Slightly different? Maddie wants to laugh out loud, but there’s no time for that either. She has to get Noah to take one step towards the door. Away from his chores. Ms Turner’s working on all of them, not just Noah. They also have to change their patterns, their habit of accommodating Noah, making space for the demands of his ‘quirks’.

  Quirks. Maddie hates that word.

  She joins Noah, looks at the careful categorisation of things to do and when to do them.

  ‘Nice work, Noe,’ she says.

  Noah nods. ‘Thanks, Mads. It’s all more or less approximate for now.’

  Maddie’s gazing at the timetable. ‘What’s this?’ she asks eventually. Her finger’s on the block of activities, resting on the words ‘Quiet Time’.

  ‘That’s for everyone,’ he says. ‘After supper.’

  ‘In your room?’

  ‘Yes. “Time to think”,’ Ms Turner says. We can write in our journals if we want to.’

  ‘You know, Noah,’ Maddie says, ‘it’s such a waste of time not to be doing something and thinking at the same time.’ She wonders if Ms Turner would approve of this strategy, multitasking so that each minute is used to the full. But she doesn’t care. Ms Turner has given the family this impossible task; she’ll have to live with the methods they use. Especially when – Maddie glances to the window again – her dad’s standing immobile and detached and her mom’s getting more jittery by the minute.

  ‘I suppose …’ Noah’s mulling this over and Maddie cuts in.

  ‘Sweeping, Noah. Sweeping and thinking. So maybe … maybe some of your chores?’

  Noah checks his chart. ‘That could work.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Maddie. She glances at the list. ‘And windows. Dusting, cleaning windows, thinking, sweeping and thinking. Before you know it, Quiet Time will be over, Noah. And then, on a day like today you can use the time that’s left over to do other things.’

  His eyes dart around the room.

  ‘Just for getting to the garden and back. Because here’s the thing, bro. Tomorrow Ms Turner wants us to meet you out there, on the lawn, with the other kids and their parents. And it’s going to be really hard if you don’t walk it out now. Count the steps, time them. You know. And, if we do it now, it’ll save you time in the long run. Otherwise you’re going to spend forever wondering about how many steps to take between here and’ – she looks beyond her father’s stiff shoulders to a white bench – ‘that big oak tree. The one with the bench under it. That’s where we could sit.’

  92.

  Day 20 / 15:07

  Noah’s been forced into yet another corner at Greenhills. One where he has to do what he’s told, follow the rules so they’ll let him out and let him go home.

  He and Maddie are perched on a bench, his mother off to the side, exclaiming at ‘all the freshness, Noah,’ and ‘Isn’t it so much cooler out here?’ and ‘Isn’t this lovely?’

  But it’s not. It’s not cooler at all. The air is muggy, and
it isn’t lovely, it’s awful.

  His father’s standing with his back to them, looking like he’s going to bolt at any second, make his getaway as soon as he can. He shoots his sleeve back as if it’s the one action he’s been wanting to make all day. ‘It’s after three,’ he says, his voice false and cheery. ‘Time to be on our way and let this young fellow get on with his …’ He pauses. ‘His chores.’

  Young fellow. He’s never called Noah that before.

  ‘Come along, Kate, come along, Maddie.’ His father can’t wait to get them out of there.

  ‘Goodbye, darling.’

  ‘Bye, Mom.’

  ‘Bye, Noe.’

  ‘Bye, Maddie.’

  Maddie leans in and gives Noah a kiss, one that leaves him rubbing his cheek as they walk away.

  This young fellow. Is that who you are now?

  93.

  ‘But what about Noah?’ Kate is shocked. ‘I thought we were all going to see him together?’

  ‘I can’t.’ Dominic’s at the fridge, filling his water bottle. He’s in his running shorts and vest, trainers laced tight, short socks just showing.

  ‘I need this exercise, Kate. It’s important, if I don’t get these hours in—’

  ‘Then what, Dom? What will happen?’

  She’s turned away from him, talking to the garden outside the window. ‘You’ll lose a second off your time, gain a millimetre round your waist?’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s my routine, you know that.’

  Of course she knows it. There are times in her husband’s week that he holds sacred, and his Sunday-afternoon run is one of them. But surely—?

  ‘Can’t you make an exception, Dom, juggle a few things? Just for now, while Noah’s there? I promised him, two thirty.’

  ‘I can’t,’ he says again.

  His week is busy, she’s aware of that. His job’s important, and his health, and his need for space. But surely not at the expense of seeing his son?

  ‘Besides,’ he’s saying now, ‘I’ll see him at the meeting with Ms Turner.’ He touches Kate lightly on the arm. ‘I’ve rearranged my diary to fit it in. Isn’t that more important? You and Maddie can do this afternoon together.’

  Do, like their son is a chore who has to be done.

  ‘Tell Noah I said hello.’

  ‘Fine,’ says Kate quietly, ‘and should I send him your love while I’m about it?’

  94.

  Dominic watches Kate’s car disappear down the drive. Sweat is trickling down his chest but there’s no point showering.

  Inside, he goes into the dressing room and opens his wardrobe. He pulls out a pair of chinos and slips them on over his shorts. Then he takes a golf shirt from the top of a neatly stacked pile. He’s told Kate he’s going to run the Newlands Forest path, and he will. After.

  Dominic grabs the car keys from the hallstand. Twenty minutes’ drive, another thirty when he gets there, and then he’ll get back in his car and drive to the forest.

  His phone rings just as he gets to the car.

  ‘Hi.’

  —

  ‘Yes, of course I will.’

  —

  ‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t make it last week.’

  —

  ‘Yes, yes. I know. Don’t worry. I’m on my way.’

  95.

  Dominic’s in the garden, shears in hand as Kate and Maddie pull into the driveway.

  Snipping, thinks Kate. He’s always snipping.

  ‘Kate, Maddie,’ he calls as she slams the car door. ‘How was Noah?’

  Kate doesn’t reply, but Maddie does. ‘He was fine, Dad. I thought he was fine, didn’t you, Mom?’

  Kate doesn’t answer. She smiles at Maddie and then asks her to go and put the kettle on.

  Maddie runs inside, into the house, and Kate looks at Dominic, fresh after his shower, his shorts loose and casual, his golf shirt crisp. Her perfect husband.

  Her hands are sticky from the heat of the steering wheel and all she wants is to get inside and run them under the tap. The day may be cooling down, but Kate is burning with anger.

  She walks up the path and opens the front door, leaving her husband to his garden and his incessant pruning.

  96.

  People tell Kate she is beautiful, but she’s not really. She’s too tall, her nose is too big, her feet are boats. She’s a great clothes horse, but way too scrawny for a bikini. She’s nothing like the girls boys used to go for at school: cute, bouncy, just the right height to snuggle under an armpit. When boys kissed Kate – and there weren’t too many of those as she grew up, and up – she was the one who had to bend a little at the knees.

  She grew into her height, learnt not to slouch, how to enter a room floating, cool, soignée.

  She no longer corrects people who tell her she’s beautiful, doesn’t say to them, ‘Unusual, perhaps,’ the way she used to. She’s learnt to accept compliments with a smile and a thank you. She’s even learnt to appreciate the sight of her and Dom reflected in a mirror. A striking couple, a perfect foil for each other.

  ‘You’re beautiful,’ Dominic said, shortly after they met. ‘Inside and out.’

  When he said things like this, she wanted to hush him, tell him he didn’t know her, not really, and if he did he wouldn’t say that. Especially now. Not that she has committed any terrible crime or is hiding some deep, dark secret, but because, truth be told, not only does Kate feel she’s not that beautiful on the outside, she thinks her inside is mean-spirited and small. She looks at her friends with their perfect children and she envies them. ‘Happy Child, Happy Parent Syndrome’, she calls it, and when she allows this rancour to happen she feels stunted and twisted and thinks she doesn’t deserve children, any children. Surely she should be happy? There are women out there whose barren wombs are crying out for children, and here she is with two, unhappy because one of them—

  It’s not that she doesn’t love Noah, she reassures herself, and it’s not that she doesn’t want to do everything she can for him. It’s more that she doesn’t feel like she’s a mother to him. Surely, even if a child pulls away, the mother should still reach out, and if the child steps back, the mother should step forward so that there’s never a space between them? If, for every step away, there’s a step to, the gap will never grow.

  Kate has taken false steps, not true ones. Why else is there this forever-growing space between her and her son?

  She’s good on the surface, to look at, to talk to. Funny even, at times. But that’s all she has to offer. Skin-deep, that’s as far as her beauty goes.

  Not that anyone has caught on. Even when she tells them she’s a fraud, they demur.

  Now she stands in her kitchen and she feels it again, knows it again. They’ve just come back from seeing Noah. That’s who she should be thinking of. Poor boy, how hard this all is for him.

  Instead, she’s consumed by rage. At her husband for starters. How dare he leave this all to her? The thought fills her head so completely that there isn’t room, even at the corners, for compassion, care, concern – all she should be feeling for her son. She leans against the sink and grips tight to the edge because, if she lets go, she might grab something and hurl it at the wall. Something small and breakable, and once she starts, she won’t be able to stop and the kitchen will lie in smithereens.

  How dare he? The thought is there again, and the rage. She deals with their son on a daily basis. She had to organise a place for him to stay. Everything, everything. She has done everything.

  And Dominic? Anything he’s done has been mean and reluctant.

  Take today. Ask him to visit Noah, a small request, and he shrivels into himself. He cannot bear to see his son, let alone stand and talk to him.

  97.

  Week 4: Day 22 / 13:32

  ‘So, Noah.’ Juliet’s looking at him seriously. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, okay?’

  The wrong way? What does she mean? Why can’t people say what they mean exactly as they mean it? If
they did that, there’d be no chance of taking anything the ‘wrong way’.

  Noah sighs but she doesn’t hear him. She’s too busy rushing to finish her thought. Her cheeks are flushed and, if it’s possible, she’s talking even faster than usual – all about Noah and girls.

  ‘Aren’t you even interested, Noah? I mean it’s cool if you’re not. Plenty of guys aren’t. Or maybe you’re interested in boys?’

  He wishes she could see the lists he’s made, about how he does notice girls, but that would be giving away too much. More than he’s shown Ms Turner, more than he’ll ever speak about in group. Anywhere in fact.

  ‘Noah?’

  She’s off again.

  ‘Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to offend you.’

  ‘You didn’t.’

  It’s worth using two words to take the worry off her face, but that’s all. There aren’t enough minutes in his day to think about the ‘Noah Groome and Girls’ thing, let alone explain it all.

  20:15

  Just because Noah doesn’t have time for girls – or friends, really – doesn’t mean he doesn’t like them. Girls, that is. It’s not like he doesn’t see them, or notice the way they walk and the way they talk.

  Maddie tells him he’s one of the best-looking boys in his class, and maybe that’s what girls see first. Tall, dark hair, green eyes, clean shaven (very). The boy-next-door, someone to take home to meet their parents. They’d approve, trust him with their daughters.

  But then, the girls notice how he’s always wearing the same make of shirt, jeans, trainers … If they look closely they’ll even see the same make of socks. And there’s always a notebook in his top pocket.

  Odd.

  And that’s before they see him with his 5s.

  Not exactly the catch of the century, Noah.

  98.

  Day 23 / 09:12

  ‘So, Noah,’ says Ms Turner, ‘maybe it’s time to talk about your family.’

  Talk? Doesn’t she know by now that talking isn’t what he does? She wants him to use his words to tell her about his mother, about Maddie – and his father.