Living, Still?

‘Still’ is a remarkably charged word in the English language.   

“Are you still enjoying your job?” is a question asked by your grandparents, desperate for the status quo of life to remain unchanged.  

“How are you still single?” is usually accompanied by a smirk and a tone of mockery, sometimes sarcasm, as your ‘friend’ secretly hopes that’s how you’ll remain forever, so that you can cry on their shoulder while they progress through the stages of their own life unrivalled.  

“He’s still breathing,” or “She still has a pulse,” is closer to the nub of what I’m getting at. These can be expressed either positively, by a medical worker or first responder for instance; or negatively, if the person saying those words meant to murder the body still clinging to life. I used that word again there, did you see?  

What no one ever asks is “Are you still enjoying life?” Or even better, “Are you still alive?”  

So when I sit down in my mother’s recently renovated kitchen - oatmeal paint, terracotta tiles, granite worktops, same uncomfortable chairs – and she says, “Are you sure you still want to go through with this divorce?” I hear the judgement and the disappointment and the answer she really wants all rolled up into one.   

“I suppose she decided for both of us when she had a threesome and didn’t even invite me,” I fire back.  

“Oh,” my mother replies in that posh way old people use when they’re told the bins are collected on Tuesday this week, not Monday. “Well, no one’s perfect, are they dear.”  

“Do you know,” she continues with great vigour, now smiling as though reminiscing about the time she and my father walked up a hill, or forgot a sweater so had to go and buy one, or something equally mundane. “Do you know, we discussed homosexuality up at church on Sunday.”  

Oh, Lord. With electric clarity, I realise that if anything makes me want to reconcile with my ex-wife, it is the desire never to have these conversations alone again.  

I sit with my head bowed, elbow on the table, and one hand smoothing the back of my hair, trying to picture a scenario in which I don’t have to do this. She looks at me expectantly, with that lavender smile parents have before dropping a bombshell. “And I wondered if you were gay now.”  

“For heavens...” her eyebrows lift. “For goodness' sake mother. Why on earth would you think that?”  

“There’s nothing wrong with it you know. Nowadays, anyway. Stewart Dudman said so. He did a sermon on it.”  

“I know there’s nothing wrong with it, Mother. I just wonder what reason you would have to accuse me of it.”  

“Well, it’s becoming even clearer now. You say that your wife had a... throupling with two other women, and she didn’t invite you. I wonder if she knows something I don’t!”  

“Sadie had a threesome with two other men, Mother.”  

“Oh,” she says again. “I see. I didn’t realise that’s how those sorts of things worked.”  

Am I awake? I ask myself. Am I even alive? Can someone arrange it so either of those answers is ‘no’?  

We clear away the dinner things and I pour myself a second glass of wine. “Whatever the problem, drinking is never the solution, dear.” She says this just as the fridge door laps shut, otherwise I would have taken out the entire bottle and drained it down my throat. She boils a mug of herbal tea and sits back at the table, examining that little gold watch my father bought her for her sixtieth birthday. She slips me a sideways glance with her tongue poking ominously through her lips which makes my stomach sink. Then my guts shred themselves altogether as an all-too-familiar silhouette waltzes past the frosted glass window to the door.  

“It’s open, dear,” my mother calls cheerily.  

“You didn’t,” I say, half-pleading.  

“Didn’t what, dear?” she replies, but her face says she knows all too well.  

The door opens and in strolls Mrs. Satan herself, complete with hair straightened to the small of her back, a face full of make-up, and Daisy Duke shorts that just about cover the business. She flicks her hair and bends down to hug my mother. “Hey, Noreen. It’s lovely to see you. I’ve got some flowers. I’ll leave them in the sink.”  

“And you, dear. Ahh, aren’t you a sweetie? Isn’t she a sweetie, Michael?”  

Sadie walks demurely over to the sink, looking at me with those baby blue eyes. She waves and silently mouths a ‘hey’, like butter wouldn’t melt until her knickers came off.  

“Why is she here, Mother? Do you enjoy belittling me at every opportunity?”  

“Nothing of the sort. This is actually for your benefit.”  

“How do you work that out?”  

She pauses. The two share a glance. The Wicked Witch says, “I’ve thought about it, and, I want to give things another chance, Michael.”  

She flutters her eyelashes; my mother nods approvingly.  

“I’m sorry, what was that? I don’t think I heard you for all that cock in your mouth.”  

The sharp intake of air that floods my mother’s lungs would have put the Big Bad Wolf to shame. “How dare you use that language in a Christian household. I’m ashamed, Michael. No son of mine would use that kind of language, in front of his mother and his wife at that.”   

“I’m not particularly keen on either of you right now. And God certainly isn’t here, Mother. That witch has scared Him off.”  

That is the final straw. With a response time rarely witnessed outside of the special forces, Mother leaps from her chair and slaps me across the cheek. I have time to look into her screwed up face, those beady eyes spewing hatred, leathery lips pursed in fierce rage. In doing so, she knocks her tea flying over my lap.  

The kitchen stands stunned. Sadie raises a hand to her mouth, an energy akin to joy flashing through her eyes. Mother’s face remains granite, her stance set firm. She is the supplicant supreme; his Lord’s justice in chief.  

Trudging to the bus stop, I consider throwing myself under the 391 to Chelsea but go off the idea. It is the easy way out; it would give them too much satisfaction. Plus, it is only a single-decker and given the 20mph speed limit might make a mess of things. I picture myself in a vegetative state for the remainder of my life and how I'd still have to sit there and listen to my mother, without the ability to walk away. I decide to wait for the 65, a good solid double-decker. Even if I decide not to throw myself in front of it, I should still be able to get a seat upstairs.  

As I sit at an uncovered bus stop, and the rain begins to hammer down, I’m reminded of a song from a popular children’s musical.   

“This is living;  

This is style;  

This is elegance by the mile.”  

I can’t help but smile at the irony of it and wonder whether any of this can still be described as living.