Flash 7
Prompt: You’re the last thing I wanna to see underneath the tree
Characters: Jason and Marcella
Timeline: 24 December 2008
Author’s comments: This is the follow-on from last week’s Don’t Come Home For Christmas. The one shot that mutated into a “two-shot” has now mutated into a “three-shot”. Yup… it’s completely run away from me. So there will be a third part. Probably next week, unless I find some time over the weekend to finish it up. Stay tuned campers…
Seeing Marcella and the sudden overwhelming feeling of being a tourist in the country I grew up in, stopped me dead in my tracks. And I stood there with all my luggage looking confused as people rushed passed me towards their loved ones… or billboards with their names on them. It did not stop Marcella though and she broke ranks pushing past my bewildered looking mother to launch herself into my arms. At first I resisted the urge to wrap my arms around her… but she smelled just the same and I forgot everything. I forgot the endless rejection. I forgot the night she rode away from me on the back of that bike. I forgot that my family was standing there slighted in favour of my adolescent crush. And I held her close to me amazed that her embrace still felt so familiar after so much time.
“Jason,” she whispered so her lips almost touched the shell of my ear. “I missed you.”
“When Marcella found out you were coming home she insisted on coming to the airport,” said my mother.
Marcella finally partially released me and let me half-greet my family. My father and brothers were typically South African in their handshakes and unsure of how to treat the sisters-in-law I had never met, I pecked each of them on the cheek. My mother instigated a brief tug of war with Marcella but lost. She had a death grip on me.
There were clearly too many of us for one car, particularly along with my luggage. Marcella insisted that I ride with her. I had forgotten what a force she was when it came to getting her own way. My mother put up a good fight but Marcella just stared her down and said, “Rosemary, please. I haven’t even spoken to him in seven years. You’ll have him for a whole two weeks.”
I have no excuse. I said nothing. I let them decide for me. And so I got into Marcella’s battered Renault Clio, noticing, but not commenting on the child-seat in the back. I felt like I was in some kind of bizarre dream.
“Your mum’s told me everything about your amazing career in London,” said Marcella starting the car. “You know, you were always taking photos of us and our gardens and random objects when we were kids. I never thought it would become a career.”
“I got a job as a runner at a newspaper,” I said, finally finding my voice. “Ended up filling in for one of the photographers who was sick one day and one thing lead to another.”
“You’ve really filled out,” she said.
“Um, thanks,” I said. “So… what about you?”
“I married Clifford. You remember, Clifford, right?”
Motorcycle man. Like I could have ever forgotten.
I wondered what the correct response was. I settled on, “Congratulations.”
“What for?” she asked. “He drank continuously. He never had a job and when he found out I was pregnant he left me for a pole dancer at Teasers.”
“Oh,” I said. “So you’re um, a mom.”
“Ja,” said Marcella. “A little girl. Her name is Jana. She’s 22 months, you’ll love her. She’s over at my mom’s now with your nephews.”
I didn’t know anyone in London with kids. The idea of even being old enough to have kids seemed bizarre. Especially since my brother, Mark, was a year younger than me.
“Where are you working now? You always wanted to be a pharmacist. Remember all those experiments we did with household chemicals.”
She laughed. “I did a nail technician course. I’ve got a table at the hairdressers down the round from my mom’s. I moved back in when Clifford left.”
We pulled up to the house I had grown up in. It had been painted a different colour and there was a new fence around it. The afternoon passed in a blur. My mother shepherded me through the house showing me the alterations that had been done. My bedroom was now a guest room that looked like no human being had ever used it. All of my things packed into storage. My brothers filled me in on their exploits over beers around the braai. Mostly I just stared at Marcella who walked around with a tiny duplicate of herself on her hip charming everyone. I was introduced to my three nephews. Patrick’s four year old twins, Benjamin and something and Mark’s baby son, Trevor? Travis? I was handed Travisor to hold. He sat on my lap Buddha-like and watched me with a mildly disparaging look on his face as I watched Marcella… awash with memories. We ate Christmas dinner. I interacted robotically handing out and opening presents, nodding when I was supposed to smiling when it was needed, wondering if I had ever known these people.
I suddenly felt overwhelmingly tired. I made my excuses. Fortunately I had eleven hours of flight to blame for my exhaustion. As I snuck into the pristine guest room Marcella whispered to me, “We need to talk.”
Sleep came instantly. My dreams were filled with her. Naked. Acquiescent. Mine. Dreams I had not had in years.
I woke up while it was still dusk outside. Marcella was in my bed next to me.
“Wharraya doing here?” I muttered at her in my half sleep.
“I climbed through your window like when we were kids.”
She curled up against me and I let her. I tried to ignore how pointedly my body responded to her.
TO BE CONTINUED…
