The Enumerations Page 17
She wants you to describe your feelings for your father?
Super-Dad. The disappointing son discusses disappointed Dad.
‘SuperDad?’ she’ll say, one-wording it.
Super-rich, super-successful, super-good-looking, super-loved by his super-beautiful wife …
All he needs is the cape and he can fly around the city – no, forget that – the country, the globe, solving everyone’s problems. Nothing’s too much for Super-Dad.
Except, maybe, being able to talk to his super-disappointing son.
99.
Day 24 / 02:43
Sometimes, when he’s had a good day and everything’s balanced and boxed as it should be, Noah’s dreams escape the counting and measuring. Instead, he might dream about Spit and Spot and racing with them, round and round the lawn, his mother watching, Maddie laughing at the top of her voice. Even his father looks up from his pruning and watches as they tear up and down. Noah ends with a mighty leap into the pool. Spit the fearless sails in after him, while Spot stands and barks at the edge.
So some nights it’s Spit and Spot, and other nights, like this one, it’s about sitting down to eat an ordinary meal with his family, not worrying about what’s on the menu and what’s landed up on his plate and whether anything’s touching and what order he should eat in and how many mouthfuls (approx.) it should take to eat the meal and how many it actually takes. Conversation’s flowing freely and he’s joining in and the jokes he cracks are quick and funny and his father’s grinning and saying, ‘Good one, Noah.’ He’s asking Noah about his studies and will he have enough time for sports, because he’s such a good sportsman and so lucky to have such natural talent.
His mother wants to know if he wants another helping but he’s wiping his mouth hurriedly and saying, ‘No thanks, Mom. That was great.’
His sister starts giggling. ‘Don’t you see, Mom? Noah’s got to hurry. Noah’s got a date!’
He flicks her cheek gently, and smiles at his parents and rushes to shower and change because yes, he does have a date and it’s with a special girl.
His mother yells at him not to waste the hot water, and then he’s standing in front of the mirror, combing his hair and his clothes look just right. He’s cool and easy-going and he likes to joke, but he’d never be mean about girls, especially this one. She’s special. Then he’s at the front door, lifting Mom’s keys from the rack at the door, calling, ‘You sure I can take the car?’
‘Of course. Drive carefully, Noah.’
He’s driving into the dark. There’s no moon, but that’s not a problem. The headlights cut the darkness and he travels the quiet road, happy to be out there on his own. Happy to know she’s waiting for him.
It doesn’t matter that he never gets to her, never stands waiting for her door to open and show who’s behind it.
It’s enough that he’s on his way and the road is wide and the night is quiet. He knows where he’s going and his heart is happy.
But awake, Noah knows that, however much he’d like it, there’ll never be a girl like that waiting, a special girl, a girl just for him, Noah Groome. Awake, the wide road disappears and takes his happiness with it.
100.
2002
‘Soon you’ll be six,’ Mom told him one day. ‘Nearly time for Big School. Won’t that be exciting?’
Noah didn’t want to be 6. He wanted to stay 5, and come home from play school and go to his room and take out red car, blue car, black car, yellow car, green. He wanted to go through his dinosaur book, picture by picture, and tell himself all about Achelousaurus, Tyrannosaurus Rex and Triceratops, Noah’s favourite with its bird beak, three horns and frill around its neck.
That’s what he wanted but when his mom said, ‘Soon you’ll be 6,’ his room faded away and with it, all his 5 lined-up cars.
Noah had to hold on to 5. He could count to 5. There were 5 steps to his door if he stretched his legs wide, to the handle for down-up-down-up-open on 5, then into the passage for 5 steps and 5 more and 5 more and he was at the bathroom door, 5 small steps to the sink, 5 spokes on the tap that he could twist open, closed, open, closed, open 5 times when his mom wasn’t there to tell him off for wasting water.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5,
once I caught a fish alive.
6, 7, 8, 9, 10,
then I let it go again.
Noah caught 5. And he never wanted to let it go.
His mom couldn’t understand why he didn’t play with his ark any more, the one they bought him when Maddie was born. ‘Noah’s Ark, isn’t that just perfect?’
No. ‘Perfect’ to Noah was having 5 fingers on each hand, 5 toes on each foot. Noah was happy finding 5s. They kept him safe and sound.
He loved Mom, though, loved to lean against her and listen to her reading to him. He watched her hands with their polished tips. 5 nails on each pretty hand, 5 polished toes on each pretty foot. He saw them one summer’s day when she wore sandals and said, ‘Isn’t this weather glorious, Noah?’
That’s what she said, but her voice sounded like she was trying to make it cheerful.
He didn’t answer. His head was down and he was watching his feet step 1 2 3 4 5, and seeing his mom’s 5 pretty toes, flashing their way to the door of the Grade R classroom and all the way inside to the teacher’s table where Mom said, ‘This is Noah. Say hello to Miss Jonas.’
Miss Jonas was cuddly and soft, like the baby animals who used to march 2×2×2 into Noah’s ark.
He wanted to hold on to his mom’s hand, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t grab for her and he couldn’t run after her because his feet with their 5 toes were frozen in place and Mom was saying, ‘Bye-bye, Noah. You’ll have a fine time, sweetie-pie.’
He watched her reach the doorway. She turned and waved, and he lifted his 5-fingered hand in a starfish salute, and watched her leave.
‘Here’s your peg, Noah, see here,’ said Miss Jonas.
He felt a bit better when he saw his wooden peg was 5th in line on the wall.
He hung up his bag and then walked, 1 2 3 4 5 and 1 2 3 4 5 again, and sat on a cushion in the corner where he could see the whole classroom. He looked from object to object to object, fixing them in his mind like a sailor on the ocean, an explorer with a compass charting a brand-new world. Over and over he looked for his bag, hanging bright blue and new on the hook with its number 5 made of red stars. Each star had 5 points and that made him feel a little better.
His breath came out in a whoosh.
He sat quietly on his cushion, 5 and 5 steps from Miss Jonas’s table, 5, 5 and 5 steps from the classroom door, with all the steps in-between-and-outside waiting to be counted.
‘I have my work cut out for me.’ That’s what Dad said when he had a difficult job. This new place wasn’t going to be easy. Noah had his work cut out for him. Lots to explore and count. No wonder people said school was hard.
101.
Gabriel’s mother is on the lawn, clutching a bundle close to her chest, rocking slowly, crooning to the child wrapped in blankets. Shushashushashusha shhhhh.
Ma’am? A young man approaches her, shows himself to be a police officer. Ma’am?
Where’s my boy? Gabriel hears her call out. Where is my Little Man?
Another child? The policeman’s voice is loud, panicked. There’s another child! Behind him the house is burning to the ground and the neighbours are gathering. A motley assortment of nightgowns and dressing gowns and sleeping shorts and, in one case, a man with a large towel wrapped around his large middle and his wife snapping for God’s sake, George, will you get back inside and put on some clothes! But he doesn’t answer her. His eyes are pinned on the flames munching their way steadily from room to room, on the firemen controlling the snaking hoses.
They’re too late, George says, and several people near him nod their heads. All around them is bustling action and men and women asking frantically, is there another child? The question snaps George back to attention. God, yes, of course. Gabriel.<
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Gabriel? Is that his name? Can you describe him, sir?
And George, eager to help, says, of course. He’s about this tall. He raises his hands and his towel falls to his feet, revealing him in all his glory.
Sorry, sorry, he mumbles. His wife shoots him a murderous glance. Sorry, sorry. Her husband scuttles off, towel bunched in front of him, his backside wobbling behind.
He’s about ten. Tall for his age, and skinny, his wife tells the young policewoman whose face shines in the firelight. Quiet child. Strange, I’d say, but I never really got to know him that well. Keep themselves to themselves, that lot do.
102.
Day 25 / 09:08
What Noah likes about Ms Turner is how she takes who he is and works with it.
So far … Remember, she is not to be trusted.
Ms Turner’s talking about his 5s.
‘I’ve been thinking about how important five is to you, Noah. Perhaps there’s a way we can work with that.’
She pauses, looks at him carefully, but he keeps his face neutral, doesn’t let her see how hard it is to hear her use his number so casually. Be careful, he wants to say to her. It’s powerful.
She’s tossing it around like it means nothing.
She’s still talking and Noah forces himself to listen.
‘So, Noah. You know we have five senses?’
This is dangerous. Stop her, right now.
Noah can’t, because he has to listen to her. He has to breathe, and he has to tap. He’s gathering strength. He’s going to have to push back at her, but—
‘What I’d like you to do is try a really easy meditation technique. I’m going to hold on to your hands at the beginning. Will that be all right?’
Noah’s not sure, but he nods.
‘Pull your hands away from me at any time, Noah. I won’t hold them unless you want me to.’
She’s holding them now, and Noah’s becoming more agitated. He wants to tap, to feel his fingers moving, but he can’t. Instead he calls on his feet and asks them to beat faster and faster. If he could just get to his stones, but her hands are firm on his and he doesn’t want to let them go. If he can get through this—
Then what? Are you hoping for some kind of miracle cure?
Noah shakes his head. No miracles, he knows that, but if he does The Work … It doesn’t mean he’s going to let down all his defences. It will show he’s willing to try.
‘Trust me, Noah.’
He looks at her and her face is the same as always, kind, open.
‘I’m not trying to trick you. I won’t ask you to do something unless I think you can. It’s all part of a process. If you trust it, it could work really well.’
Her voice is quiet. Commanding, almost, but not strong enough or firm enough to fight the Dark.
Trust her? Think of the consequences.
Its voice is blacker than a scowl. More frightening than it’s ever been.
Listen! Look at me.
A glint in the deep shadow, burning orange, bright and fearful. Ms Turner’s holding his hands, holding him still and talking about 5s.
‘Stop, Noah. Let everything slow down.’
Her voice is soft. He listens, takes in her words. The swirling in his head slows, quietens.
‘Once you’re calm, Noah, I want you to do five things. Breathe now. Tell me when you’re ready.’
He breathes. He breathes. He breathes. He breathes. He breathes.
The world stops spinning.
‘Ready,’ he says.
‘Close your eyes, Noah.’
He closes them.
‘Now, listen. Find one sound to concentrate on.’
So many sounds. Running feet outside in the corridor. A telephone ringing from another room. Wandile and Simon talking outside on the lawn. And above them all, the rough gwaa-gwaa-gwaa of a hadedah.
‘The hadedah,’ he says.
‘Good. Listen to him, Noah.’
She’s still holding his hands, keeping them – him – in place.
‘All good?’
He nods.
‘Next, Noah, I want you to taste. Concentrate on the taste in your mouth.’
That’s easy. Minty toothpaste still fresh after breakfast.
‘Run your tongue around your mouth, Noah. Can you taste it?’
Another nod.
‘Great.’
You are too obedient. This is not the time—
She’s talking again. ‘Breathe in, Noah. Only this time, what do you smell?’
She’s close to him and he picks up the scent of her shampoo. Something lemony. Beyond that, the sprig of jasmine on her desk, its faint perfume reaching across the carpet to where they’re sitting. Does heat have a smell? He breathes into the warm air and inhales the sharpness of the soap he used to wash his hands after breakfast.
In the end, he settles on the sharp tang of Ms Turner’s hair. It’s the strongest, the easiest to identify; it’s fresh, not blurred by heat or muggy air.
‘You’re doing so well, Noah. Are you okay?’
A nod.
‘Right. I’m going to let go of your hands now. But keep your eyes closed.’
Her hands let go of his.
‘Find something to touch, Noah.’
He moves his hands to his hair, to the fabric of his white shirt, to his jeans, to the skin on the back of his hand. Back to his hair, washed that morning. He rubs a lock between his fingers, stops to wonder for a moment how many individual hairs he’s holding, remembers his mom telling him how she loves him, more than all the hairs on his head, thinks how much he loves her too, and Maddie … and his father.
What is this nonsense, Noah?
His hair is soft, slippery, and if he concentrates, he can block out every noise.
He’s still thinking about his family, feeling his hair under his fingers when Ms Turner says, ‘Now open your eyes. Slowly. Look around. Let your eyes rest on one object.’
His eyelids feel as though they have weights attached to them and it’s a strain to open them. The room is filled with sunlight. It shines on Ms Turner’s lemony hair and makes the indigenous flowers glow brightly in their frames. He settles on the graceful beauty of the wild iris.
‘Good, Noah. Now, one last thing. I want you to tap.’
He swivels to face her. ‘What?’
‘I know.’ She smiles. ‘Who’d have thought? But this is why. One tap for what you hear. One tap for what you taste. One tap for what you smell, one for what you see. One final tap for the fingers doing the touching. Do it lightly and quickly.’
He looks at her and she’s not joking. With unexpected permission, he taps lightly and quickly, ears, mouth, nose and eyes and a final tap of his fingers together.
‘Now choose one sense, Noah.’
His hand moves up to his hair.
‘You’re doing so well. So, then, Noah, can you tell yourself exactly where you are? Tell me too, if you can.’
‘I’m here. In your office.’ The words are out in a flash.
‘That’s right. You’re here. And the time is now. Right this very moment. Agreed?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, when you get worried, Noah, or anxious, take the time to pause. Ask your five senses to help you. Hear one thing. Taste one thing. Smell one thing, feel one thing, see one thing. Then, choose just one of your senses. It doesn’t have to be the same one every time. Concentrate on the very one you have chosen. Let the others fall away. Go from five, to four, to three, to two, to one.’
Her voice is soothing, hypnotic and as she speaks his eyes close. Gently, he rubs a few strands between his fingers. The sound of the hadedah fades, he can’t taste toothpaste or smell Ms Turner’s hair. He doesn’t look at the botanical prints that remind him of his father’s garden.
‘Tell yourself where you are, Noah.’
‘I’m here.’
‘Tell yourself what time it is.’
‘It’s now.’
‘That’s good Noah. Reall
y good. We’re almost finished.’
Her hand is back again, covering his free one.
‘Where are you Noah?’
‘I’m Here and Now,’ he says, and he likes the way capitals form for the words.
‘Can you do anything about what happened in the past?’
‘No,’ he says. The Dark blooms.
His hand pulls back, but relaxes slightly as she holds on. ‘Feel your hair, Noah. Where are you?’
‘I’m Here,’ he says. ‘And Now.’
‘That’s right. You’re in here, and it’s now. So tell, me, Noah, if you can, can you do anything about the future?’
It’s too much.
He pulls his hand away and uses both to tap the arm of the chair.
‘Don’t worry,’ Ms Turner says.
He looks at her and noise surrounds him, at full volume.
Do not say anything else. Not a single thing. It’s a cruel trick.
He’s shaking, but Ms Turner looks exactly the same. Same kind smile, same calm face. She’s talking, as if nothing has happened.
‘We’ll do this again, Noah. Practise it together. And once you get the hang of it, you can do it on your own.’
He gets to his feet. Three minutes left of their session, but he must get out, away from the place where she’s used his 5s.
Used them against you. Underneath all that sweetness, she is twisted and crooked.
His getaway isn’t quick and easy. It never is when he leaves her office. He’s shaking, fear-filled.
She stops him at the door and asks him a question. ‘May I ask one thing?’
He manages a small nod.
‘How did it feel, Noah?’
‘What?’ His voice is an angry croak. ‘How did what feel?’ His hand is on the handle and all he wants is to down-up-down-up-down, but she’s asking again. More specifically.
‘How did it feel to rest a while? Right here, right now, without letting the past back in. Without’ – Don’t say it, he’s begging in his head, but her voice continues – ‘worrying about what might be waiting in the future. Think about it, Noah. Give it a few moments’ thought until our next meeting.’