Page 33 of Maybe (Mis-shapes #1)

EZRA

Two days later and Jonty was much better.

Isaac said that was often the way with kids.

One minute, Jonty was pushing away his favourite red M the next he was seeking Isaac’s learned medical opinion as to why we had two eyes but could only see one thing at a time.

And why we had two arms instead of three, which would have been so useful.

You know, the important stuff that never got covered at med school.

Despite Carly’s mum giving me a breather, I felt like a construction crew were jackhammering away at my skull, determined to split my brain open.

After two nights slumped in a chair on a busy ward, snapping alert if my boy so much as turned over, every part of me was taut and ready to bite.

I couldn’t bear to recount the last forty-eight hours; dwelling on how close I’d come to losing Jonty hurt almost as fully as if I had.

“I’m driving you and Jonty home,” Isaac announced, with a hell of a lot more confidence than he should have.

He’d been back home too. I think he felt awkward thrown into family stuff without a proper introduction. Nonetheless, I didn’t look kindly on anyone coming along and deciding what was right for Jonty. Even Isaac. My facial expression must have conveyed that message, though Isaac persisted.

“Jonty’s still tired,” he added. “And his peak flows are down. He shouldn’t be on a packed Tube surrounded by strangers and their germs.”

“Obviously.” I didn’t need a medical degree to know that. “I was going to call an Uber.”

“You don’t need to. Save your money. Take advantage of a free ride in a mid-range electric car, instead.”

“You should be paying me to sit in that thing.” Even tired and stressed and in love, I was still a dick sometimes.

“Let me do it anyhow. For Jonty. You know it makes sense.”

As Isaac patiently navigated the stop-start London traffic, Jonty dozed off, and I sulked.

“You said the flat had some mould,” Isaac commented as he followed my short cut through the Bexleyheath back streets. “Is Jonty going to be all right staying there, with his chest?”

“He doesn’t stay there,” I snipped. “He lives there. It’s his home.”

Home. A sweeping, loose adjective. Ours was constructed of flammable cladded breeze blocks, which shook whenever the number 401 bus trundled past, holding up ceilings boasting more cracks than plaster.

We walked on cheap nylon carpets patterned with the indelible residue of a hundred spilled drinks.

The white goods in the kitchen predated decimalisation.

“You can drop us off here,” I suggested, as he swung the Golf into our road. I pointed to a narrow gap between two parked cars. We were a maximum of ten yards from the flat. I could carry Jonty that far if he was too tired to walk. I prayed the lift was working. “Thanks for the ride.”

“I’m going to help carry stuff up.” Switching off the electric whine, Isaac unclicked his seatbelt. “It’s no bother.”

“Nah, we’re all right from here.”

I was being a dick again but couldn’t help myself.

I didn’t want Isaac to see our place. Not because I was ashamed—Jonty and me were tickety-boo most of the time, thank you very much.

Jonty loved his home; he knew no different, and it was no better or worse than his friends'.

But Isaac would judge and find it lacking, like he was doing now, squinting up at the dilapidated row of buildings with a little frown.

“Don’t be silly,” Isaac protested. “Jonty’s exhausted. And you are, too. Give me one of the bags to carry while you manage him.”

“I said no!”

“Why are you being so difficult?”

Because for so many years the only person who looked out for me was me? “Because… because… I dunno. I’m not very good at accepting help. Comes of not being offered it when I needed it the most. You should have realised that by now.”

“I have, but I wish it didn’t pertain to me as well.”

Carly once told me accepting help was a sign of maturity.

Which makes it sound like we were sat across the kitchen table at the time, having an adult discussion.

In reality, it was a three-a.m. slanging match, triggered by a nosy neighbour telling Carly she’d spotted me having a crafty joint on the front steps. Thanks a bunch, Barbara .

Anyhow, Carly had moved in with Dave, and Jonty and I had moved into this place.

Her dad offered to buy us a second-hand washing machine, so I didn’t have to traipse toddler Jonty to the laundrette.

I’d refused, which added to the mother of all middle-of-the-night rows.

In the end, she told me I was an immature twat who’d mentally never left the school playground.

Which was tame for Carly, for all it was astute.

Anyhow, I mostly kicked the weed after that, but saying no to everything else became a habit, too. Before I knew, it had become who I was.

“You’ve got to let me in, Ez,” Isaac said softly. “If this thing between us is going to work, you’ve got to let me help you sometimes.”

“I’m working on it.” The abridged version and as close as I’d ever come to admitting it was a fault.

To hide my discomfort, and because it was cute and chubby and belonged to Isaac, I leaned across and gave his cheek a quick peck.

And then another, because it was also soft and warm and smelled like him.

If I could try to become a better person for anyone, then it was Isaac.

“I promise. But… Jonty… he’s mine, and I find it hard to… to let anyone in.”

“Think about it, yeah? I’m not a little boy anymore, Ez. I can help you. We can help each other. Promise?”

“Promise.” His cheek received one last kiss.

Grumpily, Isaac let me go, to struggle stupidly with a sleepy child, overnight bags, and a whole pharmacy aisle worth of medications. We were both ready to collapse by the time we reached the flat.

“Why does it smell funny, Daddy?” he asked, screwing up his nose.

“Because Grandad’s been around with a paint brush. To see if he can cover up the Dalmatian spots.” Jonty was right; the flat stunk to high heaven. I opened a few windows. “Come on—let’s get you into bed.”

“I liked the spots,” Jonty protested feebly, as I steered him towards the bathroom.

“I know, buddy, but they don’t do your lungs any good.”

Whilst we’d been in the hospital, Carly’s dad had been over and painted some damp-proof paint on the walls to cover the worst bits of mould. He reckoned it should keep it at bay until the landlord got his act together. See, more amenable to offers of help already.

“Will you sleep with me tonight, Daddy? I don’t feel well.”

Jonty didn’t look well either, pale and cold and so very, very small.

Jeez, when you have kids, no one warns you about the constant internal dialogue telling you you’re not good enough for them and you’ve screwed up.

He didn’t ask to be born to a feckless pair of teens, no more than he asked to have his asthma exacerbated by this bloody crummy flat. My throat felt clogged with sand.

“Of course, bud. As long as you promise to not make bottom burps under the duvet.”

He giggled, the joyous noise spilling from him like a stream of bubbles. For a second, he wasn’t a sick kid, and we weren’t in this stinky rotten flat.

“I’ll race you, Daddy.”

We had a mixed couple of nights. By the end of them, I could make up a neb in my sleep.

Thankfully, the hospital team stayed in close contact, which was reassuring, Jonty obediently blew into his flow meter every couple of hours, and we diligently wrote down the readings.

I even texted them to Isaac. But with Jonty not well enough for school and the flat still reeking like the Dulux dog shook his booty in it, added to the endless drizzle putting paid to me taking Jonty busking, we were at a loose end.

We really needed to hang out in a nice warm, fragrant house for the day.

Carly’s place was a no; Dave was home for a few days after a stretch of night shifts, and Isaac was working long days.

Which was how I came up with the brilliant idea to pay Janice another visit.

Most intelligent adults generally behave nicely around children. Especially sick children. Thankfully, Janice was no exception. She even managed to pretend my visit wasn’t unwanted.

“I didn’t know it was half term this week,” she said, after Jonty shyly introduced himself.

On the way over, I’d explained we were visiting Isaac’s mother, and he’d just nodded happily.

That was the thing about kids. They didn’t have this whole layer of history tarnishing tea and biscuits with a bored housewife who, like us, had nothing much else to do on a chilly Wednesday afternoon.

“In two weeks,” he informed her, licking around the edges of a custard cream. Where the fuck she’d produced that from I had no idea; certainly not the flowery tin. “I’m too poorly to go to school.”

Janice put a couple more custard creams on a little plate. “Best thing for poorly boys is to be tucked up on the sofa in front of the telly, isn’t it?”

“That’s what I’ve been telling Daddy!” Jonty exclaimed, delighted with his new pal. They shared a conspiratorial grin. “Except he’s emailed my teacher and asked her to send me the work I’m missing.”

Janice nodded approvingly and I ruffled Jonty’s hair.

This was going far better than I’d anticipated.

I’d wondered how to persuade this woman I’d grown up and become a welcome and responsible addition to Isaac’s adult life.

Here was my son, effortlessly doing the lord’s work for me.

As well as spending the afternoon somewhere warm and comfy.

“A clever little boy like you can no doubt manage both,” she offered. “Come on. We’ll see if we can find a nice film, and I’ll get a cosy blanket from the guest bedroom.”