Michele Forbes - Ghost Moth

Katherine stands at the bedroom door watching them, but she is preoccupied. The question that Maureen had asked her earlier inside the fortune-telling tent keeps repeating in her mind like the words of a song she cannot loose. Over and over. An incantation to the fantasy of his return: What does love feel like? What does love feel like? Floating and burning: just like when he holds her with that polite formality yet his forehead presses a little too heavily against her temple as they move. Just like when the hazy coppery light is splintered by intense, triumphant bursts of gold and crimson. Like when she can feel his weight against her, his breath a pulse upon her neck and the faint scent of almonds from his mouth. Surely she will hear what he says to her no matter how quietly he speaks. What if they do not look at each other? What if, in fact, their eyes are closed and their mouths have fallen slightly open, as though they are astonished at each other? Her green chiffon dress has fallen low at the back, so that her shoulder blades are illuminated in the soft gleam. The yellow light behind them is like an evening sky that defines their silhouette. The broad slab of his palm has moved across the hollow of her back and guides her to the floating rhythms of the music. The sleeve of his gray suit has ruffled back a little, revealing a length of wrist. They sway easily. But the pressure of his forehead on her temple is increasing, as though it is giving him away, for he cannot hide his lust for her. It feels like he is back with her again . .

Suddenly, the three girls spill past Katherine into their bedroom, laughing and collapsing like whirling skittles on the floor. Katherine rouses herself (what’s gotten into her?). She speaks quietly but firmly. “Easy now, girls. You’ll wake Stephen. C’mon, into bed.”

The girls’ bedroom is, for the most part, a hand-me-down from the previous occupants, the turnip planters. The delicately floral wallpaper print has faded gradually with each season passing, but the cornflower blue of the carpet has remained resolutely cornflower blue despite the fact that, in parts, it is now threadbare and worn and shows the straw-colored weave of its underside. On the wall opposite to the door stands a tall wardrobe with a light, grainy veneer; its door closes with a slight wobble and a quick click. Its key has been removed so as to avoid accidental incarceration. George and Katherine have added to the room as and when they can afford to. Tangerine curtains have recently been hung to brighten the room, the new paper roller blind they put up has since been punctured here and there by fingers idle or curious, and, on the floor in the center of the room, there is a rug the color of gentle lime. The rug’s edges now curl up like a fortune fish.

Alongside the tall wardrobe, there is a built-in cupboard whose white sheeny doors conceal a modest collection of toys, dolls, books, Lego blocks, skipping ropes, balls, board games, and a whole model village of Applewood Green and its inhabitants, apart from Dr. Broom, who has slipped down through a tiny hole where the plaster skims the skirting board (when Elsa shines a flashlight down into the tiny cavern, she can just make out the top of his black hat), and so whenever they play with the model village, Dr. Broom always has to be away on an emergency call.

The three single beds have been arranged at one end of their bedroom around its neat chimney breast. The bed that lies across the breast is Elsa’s, the other two, Maureen’s on the right and Elizabeth’s on the left, fit snugly into the recesses on either side.

The girls, in their excitement, are now crawling on their hands and knees from one bed to another like escapees through a maze of tunnels, continually turning this way and that, as if no one can find the way out. Katherine, tired after their busy day organizing the fair, is hopeful that they will settle down.

“Socks off, pajamas on,” she orders, noticing the first notch of impatience in her voice.

“No, Mummy. Play chicken shadows,” pipes Elsa.

“It’s too late, love, and it’s been a long day.”

Maureen and Elizabeth now join in. “Please, Mummy.”

“Just one game.” Elsa’s tone of voice is all leverage to win her mother around. Elsa’s palms are pressed together and her eyes are wide in mock prayer.

“Ple-e-e-ase.”

Katherine is feeling tiredness like a soft white pain. She looks at her three daughters, expectant, imploring, and needy. They are shuffling awkwardly into their nightclothes, hurriedly stuffing two legs into one pajama leg, like giddy mermaids. Katherine feels the weight of Elsa’s manipulation as though a drowning man is pulling her under the surface of the sea. If she yields, is easy in herself, her own lightness will save them. If she resists, the children will become saturated with her irritation, slipping away from her into a dismal and unnecessary fretful sleep, while she will return to the kitchen, her lungs full to their saltwater brim with a nagging and futile remorse. But after a day doing every little and last thing for them, she now longs to close the door on motherhood, just for a brief while, and be whoever she is without them. If that possibility exists. Through her haze of fatigue she hears herself say, “Okay, then, just one game,” and immediately she comes afloat with the drowning man.

The girls excitedly turn out the central light in the bedroom, leaving only one bedside light on. They squiggle in beside one another on Elsa’s bed, leaving room for Katherine. Katherine lifts Elsa’s socks, which have been left on the floor, and, easing off her slippers, pulls one of the socks over her toes. The sock flops like a gnome’s soft hat.

Katherine now surrenders gladly to the gentle massage of her own laughter and the closeness of her daughters. Their limbs are like the limbs of foals, playful and gauche. Katherine is squawking and clucking and creating voices to go with the shapes her floppy-socked toes are making, becoming farmer and fowl. Her yielding to her children has brought bounties once again, as it always does. The girls are laughing hysterically.

“That looks like Maureen and Richard Marr,” says Elsa.

“What do you mean?” Maureen asks.

“When that sock”—Elsa points—“flops over that one, it’s like you and Richard Marr in the tent — kissing in the tent — look!”

“We were not kissing!” Maureen thumps Elsa.

Katherine jumps in. “That’s unkind, Elsa. Say sorry to Maureen. Easy, Maureen. Don’t hit Elsa.”

“What were you doing, then?” asks Elizabeth.

“Not you as well!” says Maureen.

“What’s wrong with kissing somebody?” asks Katherine, trying her best to defend Maureen.

The three girls stop and stare at their mother.

“It’s yuck!” says Elsa. “And the nuns said that if you ever kiss someone, then that means you have to marry them, because nobody else will want you if you’ve already kissed somebody else.”

Maureen and Elizabeth are nodding in agreement.

“Oh really — is that what they told you?” Katherine frowns.

“Yes, Mummy. That’s what the nuns said. Didn’t you know that?” says Elizabeth with a serious expression on her face.

Katherine looks at the three girls. For a moment, she is lost for words. Then she pipes up, “Okay, I think the game is over, girls — time to sleep!”

Still chatting and arguing, the girls, nevertheless, climb obediently into their respective beds. Eventually, their babble calms and a sudden, still atmosphere descends on the room as they fall asleep.

When Katherine now checks on them, she quietly moves to each of their beds in turn. Elsa’s mouth is open slightly, and if Katherine looks closely enough, she can determine Elsa’s lower lip twitching with a tiny pulse. One of Elsa’s arms is stretched out underneath her head, her hand firmly grasping the wooden bars of the bedstead as though she is trying to save herself from falling off the world or floating away from it. Katherine knows only too well Elsa’s anxieties in falling asleep and thinks to herself now what a trusting child she is to ride this fear of nighttime again and again.