|
Perfect Day by Ray Hoskins
|
|
For every mile we drove, Micky had to put a sticker in his scrapbook. I was sceptical, but it worked; he sat in the booster seat, kicking his legs, watching the mileage clock. After about the twentieth sticker he fell asleep and dropped the book. I settled into the drone of the motorway. The phone had stopped ringing by then too. What more was there to say? She's gone into labour early; number two is on its way. I know, I know, I'm coming. Micky was awake again, blinking, figuring out where he was. He caught sight of me in the rear view. "Dad! How many miles?" "Fifty, son, fifty." "I don't have fifty stickers. Where's my book?" I didn't know he could count that high. "Son, sit down!" Now the tears, now the straining against his seat and kicking and screaming. This was why I was at work so much these days; this was the cause of the arguments. They said it was mild autism, a touch of attention deficit whatever. If you asked me he just needed some discipline; nobody listened. By the time I'd pulled into a service station, parked up and walked ten yards away, he was still at it. From this distance, with the noise of the motorway, I couldn't hear him, but I could see the angry face, the wide open mouth. This was what I'd spawned. Some do-gooder came up and tapped at the window. Micky stopped, looked at her, and began a different kind of crying, a scared kind. I had him out of there and into my arms in seconds. "I thought there was something wrong," she said. "Yeah," I said. "We're fine." Within five minutes we were back on the road. Micky had a dozen books of stickers, a bag of sweets and a fizzy drink. Maybe I’d regret the sweets and fizzy drink later, but it felt right at the time. As we pulled into the hospital car park, I tried to spot her mini. I knew my wife — she wouldn't call a cab or the friends she was visiting while they were at work, she'd make her own way in. But I couldn't see the car. The woman in maternity shook her head. Nobody here of that name, you should go to A&E. "Is mummy here?" said Micky, running alongside me, still clutching his sticker books. "Yes, son. Somewhere." In A&E they separated us, led me to a cubicle and sat me down, took Micky away. I found him later in a waiting room with a young nurse. She had stickers all over her face. "He's a lovely boy," she said. "Yes," I said. "He is." Back in the car, Micky sat quietly for once, as if he knew. I took my phone out of the glove compartment; three missed calls, one voicemail. I’d told her not to use the phone when driving. She didn't listen. I'd pick up the voicemail later, when Micky was asleep. |
|
First Place: Her Third Place: The Last Train Home |
