dust bunnies

When I was little, Mum said I had itchy bones. In packed restaurants or sweaty roller-coaster lines, I shifted my weight until my heels throbbed. I picked at my nails on my way to the dentist -- tore up my bottom lip waiting to graduate. She would smooth my hair down and hum until the itch made way for static. Nestled in a corner of the Royal Infirmary, waiting room four, I clench my eyes shut until paint-like blotches splat against my eyelids. I can’t emulate her hands. She’s in a backless gown, tubes sprouting from her like weeds from soil.

The clock above the door has been stuck for six days – not that I’m counting. A room for waiting; that’s Hell. I expect Satan to crash through the carpet to welcome me. Without shitty tabloids, I forgot my glasses, the box of toffees is my only poison. Someone probably sat on them, but I’m chomping my third. The wrappers crinkle in my pocket when I move. Thankfully, Dad isn’t here yet. Despite the endless rows of glistening tarmac, and the torrential downpour, he parks fifteen-minutes away.

Throwbacks had struggled through the speakers of my Peugeot, causing Shania Twain to wriggle among my thoughts like a parasite. I would have belted my version of “That Don’t Impress Me Much”, in my best country twang, but a family with matching purple eye-bags and blotchy cheeks spoiled that. Still, it reminded me of fat raindrops sliding down glass on Sunday afternoons, while the scratch of Mum’s record player became my lullaby. Eye-bag family sit with their knees touching, buzzing with agitated whispers. I pull my legs to my chest, painfully aware of the emptiness around me. Who comforts the only child? Having someone to brush knees with would be like pressing a hot-water-bottle to an aching stomach and savouring the way the pain dissolves. Once, I asked Dad if he wished he had more children: he had shaken his head without looking up from The Guardian. I tilt and picture the thoughts escaping through my ears. 

***

Most of eye-bag family leave. I sink deep into the leather, my legs spasming: itchy bones. It’s an itch that needs a sharp edge; maybe a knife would do it. My waiting room partner isn’t much of a distraction; she jerks her head further with each glance I risk. I feign scratching my nose to check for leftover ketchup; bacon rolls are the canteen’s speciality. It’s a shame, I like bacon, but I’ll never eat it again. My stomach would spin like a washing machine, contents churning and bubbling until I had rinsed them from the sides of the sink. 

I hope my future stomach can handle better toffees; the sugary clump on my tongue is like balled paper. There’s an aftertaste, too. Dust bunnies, the ones brushed from the back of a wardrobe -- I don’t make a habit of chewing those. The stranger clears her throat, and it hits me how rude I’ve been. The toffees are wedged between the arm of the couch and my thigh; she doesn’t even have questionable sugar-paper-pieces to soothe her. I push the cardboard over, shamelessly trying to catch her eye. Only when the box brushes her jeans does she stir, jolting like I’ve woken her. Her hands remain folded in her lap – my cheeks warm. Maybe she’s vegan. Anti-sugar? God, my brain is doing cartwheels, maybe toffees bring back a plethora of disturbing memories? I resist the urge to snatch them back.

The box sits between us as I wipe clammy hands on my skirt.

“Sorry,” I say, my voice scratchy and unfamiliar, “they’re not great, but it’s something.”

Without looking, she untwists the paper and pops one between her lips. I exhale deeply; the first in a long line of shallow half-breaths.

“Wow,” she says, “you weren’t kidding.” Her face contorts with each chew.

“Sorry.” I repeat. My skin is sticky; I wish I’d worn a t-shirt under my jumper.

She cocks her head and swallows. “Did you bring the toffees?”

“Uh, no…”

“Are you paid to fill this coffee table with refreshments that aren’t stale?”

“…No.”

“Then, please, don’t apologise for someone else’s shit toffees.” She throws her arms when she shrugs, as if she’s discovered something remarkable.

“Did you get the aftertaste?” I ask, my mouth curling. 

She smacks her lips. “Oh, yup, there it is,” she says, “quite dusty?”

“Dust bunnies, I thought.”

“Of course, dust bunnies!” She grins, and I fixate on her front tooth, where the light twinkles. She repeats dust bunnies under her breath until it sounds like a made-up language. I twist my wrists, a bad habit, until they crack. The silence is lighter, somehow.

***

I feel the toffee drop into my lap before I see it.

“Thanks.” I offer.

I chew slowly; it clings to my teeth.

“You know,” I say, “I think the more you eat, the better they taste.”

It starts as empty air, her laughter, before expanding like a bubble. I wait for the pop; it doesn’t come. It’s so airy that we could be at the beach, licking melting ice-cream from our fingers and letting the tide tickle our toes. Eyes closed, inhaling deeply, I almost expect the air to turn salty. Too soon, I’m back, staring at an Alcoholics Anonymous poster. I splutter, and my hilarity melts into hers. Each time it mellows, one of us breaks like a wave, and it starts all over. I don’t know her name.

I clutch my stomach; it aches like it did after the Pilates class I took in January. If I’d known that laughing at the hospital had the same effect, I’d have gorged on chocolate cake instead. My eyelids push down, tiny gold circles dancing across my vision.

“This is strange.” I say, before I can trap my tongue with my front teeth.

“What?” She replies, “today, or life?”

“Life… definitely life.”

“My Dad calls it the gooey stuff – birth and death are the only solid parts.” She sounds far away, like she’s floating above her body in a hot-air-balloon.

The gooey stuff. It reminds me of a box of leftover Christmas chocolate. Eight flavours; one dribbling with strawberry entrails. My chest buzzes: I flatten my palm against it. 

Dad arrives with a nurse. I’ve never seen her before; it’s hard to tell them apart with the uniforms. I can’t tell how much time has passed, but his coat is soaking. The nurse says we can go in, and I wonder how long he’s been lingering in the hallway. The florescent glow from the door drapes the room in a yellow filter. It’s like I’ve been trapped underground, hacking at walls of dirt with a plastic spoon. When I stand, my legs creak like Mum’s rickety garden swing.

***

The pavements had been damp, but the sky is blinding blue. In the corridors, strips of sunlight creep through the blinds and onto the linoleum in zigzags, disappearing when my shadow passes through them. I smile at the nurse who lets me through – despite her scrunched features. The waiting room is silent. No imprints on the couch, no rearranged cushions. I perch on the edge, rubbing my hands together. If they had a suggestion box, I’d highlight the absence of windows. The room has become surprisingly comforting; I scan it like I’m taking pictures. At the coffee table, I pause. No crumpled cardboard box. Instead, a purple one, dressed in gold ribbon. My forehead creases as I stare, like I’m waiting for it to burst into flames. It seems to stare back, and I scoff into the silence at my nerves. Tentatively, I reach for it. Rich, indulgent chocolates, according to the manufacturer. I check the gift tag out of habit, not expecting to see blue ink. Here’s to terrible toffees and the gooey stuff. There isn’t a name.