Holding On

I’m up the hill a bit, behind that big gum with the peeling bark, in front of the swings. It’s my spot, where I wait for her while the other mothers, gathering on the basketball court directly outside the classroom, laugh, throwing their heads back, salon hair bouncing around perfectly made faces. Up here I am left alone, avoiding the looks from the clique below. If I was thirty years younger, I would launch fistfuls of tan bark at them and then duck behind the trunk, sniggering.

At 3:18 on school days, I replace the blue microfibre cloth on its hook in the laundry, wash my hands and drag on my sneakers. I grab the keys from the shell-speckled coconut bowl we chose in Thailand when she was four, pat my back pocket to check for my phone and turn the deadlock. My 3:20 reflection in the shabby-chic mirror to my left remains unseen.

I check my phone, Ellie’s gappy smile beaming at me, her dad and I on either side, squeezing her tight. We had just been on an elephant ride in the south, meeting up with a work colleague of mine who was also holidaying there. Ellie gets on well with her two children – one boy a bit younger and a girl about her own age. She gets along with everyone, really.

3:27

The anticipation of seeing Ellie come bursting through the classroom door, school bag swinging wildly on her narrow shoulders, squealing as she races her friends to reach the monkey bars first, is almost too much for me. I grapple with the urge to cut across her path and sweep her up in my arms, twirling her around and around before setting her down to stumble away theatrically. One time she actually fell over. I felt terrible.

3:28

I pick at my cuticles and at those tags of skin to the side of the nails that you shouldn’t tug at, but you do, and then pay for it for days. I haven’t always done that. I used to have a weekly appointment with a kind Asian woman in a tiny salon just off the main street. I’d pay up front in cash, she would smile, head bowed and shuffle across to a folding table, gesturing me to follow. I would spend sixty minutes in another world altogether.

3:29

I haven’t been receiving the class newsletters this term. I’ll have to pop into the Office. Thankfully I remembered that the fundraising cake stall was last Friday. Ellie and I made peppermint slice – and a real mess in the kitchen! The best bit is licking each other’s chocolatey, green stained fingers when we’re done. She giggles hysterically when we do that.

3:30

I jolt, my breath snatching in my throat as the school bell begins its sudden, tinny ringing out across the school grounds, setting hundreds of black leather shoes pounding across the asphalt and skinny legs weaving in and out of slower moving adults. I used to wave to Ellie from beside my tree, a broad, sweeping action, even though she knew I’d be there. But lately, it’s like she doesn’t see me. I watch on as she completes multiple lengths of the bars, hangs upside down, climbs up the tunnel slide, lands heavily on the tan bark on her descent and completes some complicated hand tapping ritual with her best friend, Ava. I suppose she’s getting a bit older, and having your mum hang around is not so cool. Still, it makes my chest ache a little.

Actually, a lot.

3:43

When we reach the crossing just outside the front gates Ellie stops and chats to Mary, the lollypop lady who has been there every morning at 8:30 and every afternoon from 3:15 since Ellie started here (except for a couple of days in Winter when she had a heavy cold). They have a well-practiced dialogue –

‘How was your day, love?’

‘Really great, thanks Mary. What about you?’

‘Oh, much the same today.’

Mary smiles warmly at Ellie and the other children. Her husband is not well.

‘Oh,’ adds Mary this time, ‘the mother blackbird was darting all over the backyard today – down onto the lawn, into a bush, up to her tree and zipping back down again…it was really something.’

Ellie is less confident in her response when Mary veers from the script.

‘Oh. That’s nice.’

Mary will pat Ellie on the back, check right, left and right again and then step onto the road with the sign sticking out in front of her. As she sets the pole down beside her, she will blow the whistle, her head moving back and forth as she watches the children cross to safety. Today, Mary pats me on the arm. I don’t mind.

4:00

The chorus of mothers’ requests to vacate the playground, so that they can make their way home to a glass of wine or a fabulous book, crescendos predictably. These mums have pre-prepared a healthy evening meal after Pilates class this morning and have a cleaner to wipe the rim of the toilet bowl. The first mum to make the call is the bravest, the least popular with her child and the most popular with the other parents – she’s broken the ice into which the other six-year olds and seven-year olds plummet, knowing that their time is up too. It’s only the young mum with two bare-footed children, quietly curious about their environment, who stays behind. In her world, hurrying is a foreign concept. As is shaving armpits. An erratic fly draws my attention down to the pale forests of my calves. Maybe that mum has other things on her mind.

‘Penelope! Time to go home now!’

I’m never the first mum to call out, choosing to wait a little. Ellie is a good girl. She will come skipping back in a few minutes after one more shared secret with Ava. I wish I had an earpiece into their conversations.

‘Penelope, come on!’

I follow the woman’s eyeline and see Ellie turning towards her voice. Ellie then waves at her and darts into the concrete tunnel, dragging Ava with her. The two girls emerge from the other side, hand in hand, and navigate over the swinging bridge and up through the hole that will take them to the very top of the wooden structure.

The woman swings a bulging school bag onto her shoulder and stomps towards the girls, car keys jangling from the keyring she’s placed around her index finger. ‘Penelope!’

4:02

I watch on, my limbs, muscle by muscle turning leaden. My breathing becomes erratic and the playground spins, sending my guts lurching violently.

‘Ellie?’ My voice is strangled, barely audible.

I swallow what feels like desert sand. I need to get there.

Why won’t my feet move? My legs?

‘Ellie?’

My chest is collapsing, caving in. I gasp, a fish out of water.  

Seasons pass before one knee bends, bringing me onto the ball of my foot. I lift, the balance shifting precariously onto the other leg, causing me to wobble. The Tinman flashes through my mind. I repeat this action. And again, until I have gathered some momentum and my lungs begin to inflate. I am now stumbling into sandpits and dodging stray toys, eyes unblinking despite the sun’s blinding reflection off the brightly coloured plastic surfaces around me.

She is hopping from foot to foot, Ava jumping up and down beside her, her hand clasped over her mouth, stifling the squealing. The platform looks too small from down here.

My voice cracks through. ‘Ellie!’

I am running now, only vaguely aware of the halting activity around me, the looks, the whispers.

My phone begins to vibrate in my pocket. A call. No time. I have to get there. It rings out, then starts up again.

‘I’m coming honey, hang on!’

Faster and faster, nearly there. Come on, I urge myself.

A few more paces and I’m craning my neck to see them.

I stop, taking in the scene just out of my reach.

The girls are merely an arm’s length from a thick knotted rope that dangles to the ground, its metal rings clinking as it sways enticingly, offering a safe route to the tan bark below. To their right is an inadequate, rotting railing below which the concrete tunnel lies.

‘The rope! Grab the rope, Ellie!’

But it’s too late. I’m too late. Her hands are on the railing. She’s leaning, leaning, bringing one leg up while the soft wood beneath her hands shifts and folds.  

A deep, guttural sound reverberates around me.

My body crumples, the bark closing in - knees, elbows, hips, head.

***

When my eyes open, only the playground, Mary and I remain. She is sitting beside me, cheeks flushed, fluorescent vest falling off one shoulder. I search for her eyes, quivering.

‘Ellie?’

Mary closes her eyes, and shakes her head, pulling my limp frame into hers. ‘I’m sorry, dear.’

We stay like that until the Autumn chill makes us shift. She moves the damp fringe off my forehead.

‘You alright?’ she says, helping me to my feet.

I nod, bits of bark shedding from my tangled hair.

We walk through that playground towards the road where Mary’s car is parked and the path leads back up to our house, my house.

I glance back over my shoulder and am interrupted by a ping. A stiff arm reaches into my back pocket and pulls out my phone. I brush it down before opening the case. A voicemail message blinks back at me. I stab the icon.

Hello, you have reached voicemail 101. You have one new message. Message received at 4:03 pm.

Hi, it’s Sam from Positive Psychology. You missed our 3:30 appointment, so just checking you’re ok? Call if need, otherwise I’ll see you next week.”