Sam’s place

Bright, warm sunlight, peeked in to the sleeping bedroom, illuminating a half empty wine glass on the bedside table. Lucy, delicately stretched out an arm and pawed around an empty bed. Opening one eye, she squinted at the alarm clock, the previous night’s argument, a dreamy, thumping muddle in her head. She lay still trying to piece together the fragments of her memory, as they slowly returned.

Marcus, hugged his coffee cup. Lost in his thoughts, he watched a small, white butterfly beating desperately at the shed window. He closed his eyes and let the warm sunshine melt away the memories of last night’s argument. The garden seemed quieter than it should. Even the birds were hungover. He drained the last of his coffee and crossed the small patio to the shed. The butterfly was tangled in a web. Marcus watched it struggle for a while, he waited for it to stop moving, then very carefully lifted it out on his little finger. Holding it up to the sun he watched as it came back to life, as if solar powered. The butterfly didn’t rush to fly away. It opened and closed its wings showing off its beauty before taking flight. Marcus watched it climb higher and higher until it was gone. He rummaged around in the shed gathering sandpaper, paint tins, brushes and an old battery powered radio covered in flecks of paint.

The bedroom spun, Lucy tried to open her other eye but it just made it worse. The blurred, over bright display on the bedside clock, made sick rise in her throat. She could taste red wine. She tried to focus on a picture frame on the dressing table. It was laid flat. Her brain was struggling to work out what it was. She rolled slowly onto her back and scrutinised the ceiling through bloodshot eyes. Crying. She remembered crying and screaming. She remembered hitting Marcus with her clenched fists in his chest. Yelling at him. His strong grip on her wrists, holding her, calming her….patronising her? 

Marcus tentatively climbed the ladder. Gently pushing on the hatch until it opened. He gazed into the treehouse. Dust hung in the air as yellow fingers of afternoon sunlight felt their way in. Marcus pulled himself up and sat with his legs dangling. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, the smell of the treehouse overloaded his senses. Memories flooded his mind. He stood up and opened the shutters allowing his eyes to adjust to the bright welcome light that poured into every corner. The remains of his argument with Lucy evaporated into the woody atmosphere. 

Lucy threw back the sheets. Her pale body, clammy. Every movement made followed by a nervous few minutes of swallowing back the nausea in her throat. Slowly, she swung her legs off the bed, steadying herself on the bed frame, she stood. As the room began to put itself back together she continued focusing on the picture frame, flat on the dressing table. Her memory, blinded by alcohol, refusing to fill in the gaps. Fumbling her way across the bedroom, head pounding, she leaned on the dressing table and steadied herself once more. 

Lucy had always said he’d built it too big. Marcus didn’t care. Nothing was too much for their little boy. “Why does a three year old need a penthouse tree house?” she’d say. But Sam loved it. From the moment he was old enough to climb the ladder, he would spend hours hiding out in his tree house. Sometimes all night too if he could persuade Marcus to stay out there with him. During a long hot summer, shortly after Sam’s eighth birthday, they spent a whole week in it. Lucy would bring them out snacks and fizzy drinks, and as the sun reluctantly set, they would sit up listening to the frogs in the pond singing a duet with the grasshoppers. They would slide open the skylight, and gaze in awe, at an infinite bowl of stars, waiting to see who could spot satellites shooting past overhead until Sam fell asleep, then Marcus would carefully zip up Sam’s sleeping bag and blow out the candle. 

Lucy stood the photo frame back up. Her memory still refused her. She smiled at the three of them grinning back at her. The photo was taken during a hot spell shortly after Sam’s eighth birthday. Sam had insisted it was perfect weather for sleeping in the tree house. He and Marcus spent a whole week out there. Lucy would put together picnics for them. Sausage rolls and fizzy drinks. She would watch from the bedroom window until way after dark. She wouldn’t go to sleep until she’d seen the gentle flickering of the candle had gone. Why can’t we all stay eight years old forever? A tear wondered down Lucy’s cheek. The faint sound of classical music nudged its way through the open bedroom window. Lucy grasped the bed frame and shuffled herself across the room. She drew back the curtains and tried to focus at the garden. Following the sound with her eyes. She could see Marcus enthusiastically rubbing at the tree house with a sheet of sand paper.

Marcus hummed along to the radio. He wouldn’t normally listen to classical music but today it just seemed right. He could be left alone with his thoughts, his memories. He rubbed at the old neglected tree house. How long had it been since he last came up here? Two years? Three Years? Marcus had no idea, time had passed so quickly. Life had been so perfect, though recently all he and Lucy seemed to do was drink and argue, life had become so hollow. Marcus remembered when Sam was born. Time seemed to slow down for him. He felt like Sam would be that age forever. He pictured a four year old Sam running around the garden, in tiny wellies, laughing, always laughing. He closed his eyes and could hear Sam’s laughter once again. Why can’t we be Four years old forever?

Lucy banged on the window. Her memory finally overcoming the alcohol, she remembered the argument. She remembered what Marcus had said. “No. No. NO. NO!” She thumped against the glass. Momentarily her anger overcame her hangover. Lucy stumbled across the bedroom and down the stairs. “NO. NO. NO. NO!” She was screaming by the time she flung open the back door and burst out on to the patio.

Marcus heard the back door bang open against the wall, he didn’t look up. He hummed more loudly to himself and urgently rubbed against the side of the treehouse. “Got to get the treehouse nice again for when Sam gets back.” He said to himself. “He’ll be back home soon, He’ll want to come and see the treehouse.”

Lucy ran across the lawn, she tripped over her pyjamas hitting the ground hard. Her head spun again as the hangover fought back. She swallowed back the vomit in her throat. And clawed herself back up again.

“NO!....Marcus, what are you doing?….you mustn’t!....Please stop Marcus, please stop. You said you would leave it……STOP!”

Marcus stopped rubbing and hung his head. His hair stuck to his face. “I need to get it ready…..” He paused breathing heavily. “For when Sam gets back.”

His words hit Lucy and she fell to her knees. She clasped her greasy hair to one side and vomited, over and over. The sound seemed to echo around the silenced garden.

Wiping hanging spit on her sleeve she stared at Marcus. Her pale face, a ghost of the woman he used to know. Used to love. She breathed heavily.

“Marcus…….” she said quietly, tears streaming down her face. Managing to clamber to her feet again.

“Sam’s not coming home…….” She fought with the words as they refused to leave her mouth....... “He’s been missing for three years…..You know that Marcus ….why are you doing this to me…..to us?”

Marcus choked.

“No!…I need to get the treehouse ready for when he comes home. He’s coming home. He might still come home.” His voice trailed off.

Lucy couldn’t contain her rage any longer and screamed.

“HE’S DEAD MARCUS!......SAM’S DEAD!!!”