Hot water washes over the paint, turning my bath into a swirling battleground of fighting colours. I lie back and watch the patterns challenge each other.
It was a daft thing to do; providing children with oil based paints and encouraging them to make handprints. Certainly not one of the wisest decisions I have ever made in my life.
However, this is ‘me time’ and I won’t be disturbed by this minor oil slick, floating around my body. I certainly need a bath and I certainly need some time to myself. Throwing a party for a one year old is very tiring and extremely messy. In fact, this event was more of a chaotic play hour than a birthday celebration for our Arthur: That was mainly my fault.
I had this wonderful idea to get all the little guests to make a handprint, which they could take home at the end of the party; a nice addition to their ‘goody bags’. That was a big mistake and it was also very foolish of me not to research the appropriate type of paint to use in such a situation. Let’s just say that they should not have had any oil in them.
As a consequence of my error, there are several colourful handprints randomly placed around the kitchen and in our hallway. Many others are probably just waiting to be discovered. One or two of Arthur’s friends did actually manage to place their painted hands onto the sheets of art paper I’d provided. I’ll take that as some form of success. Our Arthur’s red hand didn’t get anywhere near the intended target. Many of the new artistic decorations on the front of the dishwasher are created by him. I’ll try to wash them off later, when it’s his ‘bed time’. Maybe we will redo it another day, using the correct paints, and on the paper, not the appliances. Although, on second thoughts, maybe not.
Karl and Arthur are downstairs recovering in the front room. It’s their ‘quality time’. This is a period in the day where Karl or I get some time alone with Arthur. An experienced lady at the maternity meetings had suggested it as an important part of the family bonding process. Truthfully, I often enjoy Karl’s quality time with Arthur more than my own. Today is definitely one of those occasions. ‘Peace and quiet time’. And I always enjoy ‘Granny time’, when Karl’s mum pops over for a couple of hours in the evening, allowing Karl and I to have time together. So many aspects of our lives are now attached to the label ‘time’, unlike the ‘pre-Arthur time’. The daily agenda includes ‘pre-school time’, ‘snack time’, ‘story time’ and the ever popular ‘snooze time’.
My eyes drift to a solid, red handprint plastered on my left arm. It looks like it is clinging on to my limb, reluctant to let go. The clarity is amazing, just like a new tattoo, comfortably winning the fight with the fragile, soapy bubbles.
I’ve often considered having a tattoo, but I’m never sure what sort of picture or phrase to go for, or where to locate it. Karl has a dark brown one of an eagle, on his left shoulder. He says he regrets having it done, when he was so young. I don’t have too many thoughts about it, as it predates me; ‘pre-Emma time’.
The shape of the tiny, red hand looks really quite lovely, I have to admit, but it’s definitely not the tattoo I would opt for. Lifting my arm out of the water, I take a closer look. It is Arthur’s perfectly formed handprint, that’s for sure. It’s a shame he didn’t place it on the art paper. That way it would have lasted for a few weeks on the fridge door, rather than, hopefully being washed away down the sink. I reach across, grab the towel, dip a corner into the water and energetically start to rub at the paint, although I know that it will require some of the baby oil to get rid of it. A small line, which runs across the middle of the print, attracts my attention. Actually, it’s a gap in the paint. Pushing away a few streams of water, I notice just how short this line is. Worryingly short. I am pretty certain that this is Arthur’s lifeline.
I stop rubbing, stretch out and try to stay calm. If you were to ask me whether I am superstitious, believe in horoscopes, star readings and that sort of thing, I would certainly answer, ‘No’. However, a more honest answer would be, ‘Not really. But…’
For my eighteenth birthday, I went on a week long holiday with a couple of school friends, to Skegness. Holiday time. We did all the things three teenage girls would do on their first vacation, without parents watching over them. Although it wasn’t the highlight of our time away, we did visit a fortune teller one afternoon. She had a makeshift tent set up on the promenade, near our guest house. I seem to remember her name was Rosy Lee, or maybe Lee Rose. The three of us squeezed into a rather small corridor, paid our money and then sat on a low bench, breathing in the heavily perfumed air, waiting to be called in. A wrinkled hand pushed through a slit in the material and a long, curled finger summoned us through. I was first to wriggle my way between the dangling strings of glass beads. The room was cramped, filled with brightly coloured cushions and wall-to-wall drapes. I sat down opposite the augur and she reached across the round table, which was covered with intricate white lace. There was a large, plastic gold star sitting in the centre of the cloth. I had expected to see a crystal ball and I am sure that I felt a little disappointed by its absence. She signalled me to give her my hands, turned my palms upwards and stared at them. Eventually she began to nod her head in a slow, reassuring way, yet remained silent. Her facial expressions flicked from delight to confusion and from happiness to satisfaction. I can’t remember how long she sat there, pondering and pulling faces, before she started to talk. She placed my hands down on the table, either side of the golden star, rested her fingertips delicately onto my cheeks and told me she had seen my future.
Her words became a joke to the three of us for the rest of our vacation: We were all told exactly the same thing! Now we only had to find three tall, dark, handsome strangers to make her predictions come true. Of course, we never found them – although we certainly looked.
A couple of days later, on the train home, we continued to laugh about our experience, but were really happy to still be all single.
Karl did walk into my life a few months later, when he asked if the seat next to me, at the university students’ meeting, was free.
We have been together ever since.
Again I start rubbing at the handprint clutching on to my arm, to no avail. Then it dawns on me that I am not trying to obliterate it, but that I’m actually pushing the tip of the towel up and down the little gap, where the paint is missing. What I am really trying to do is lengthen the life line; trying to extend Arthur’s life; to increase the time we will have with him; our family time.
I feel shocked by the urgency that has come over me without any warning. Clambering swiftly out of the bath, I create an extensive rainbow smudge on the white slip mat. It matches the one flowing down the side of the bath. Only half dry, I throw on the same clothes I’d worn for the party. If Arthur’s time is short, I am not going to waste it on me. I rush down the stairs and run in to the front room.
Arthur is fast asleep on Karl’s lap. Karl’s eyes are also closed, enjoying a well deserved nap. Normally, if I were to find them both asleep, I would make some witty remark about their superb ‘quality time’, being shared through dreams and snoring. But today, there is no time for humour.
“I need to check something,” I tell him. I hear the anxiety in my own voice.
He opens his eyes, touches his phone on the armrest and says that it must have been the fastest bath ever.
Kneeling down in front of him, ignoring the comment, I take hold of Arthur’s curled hands and carefully ease my fingers into his clenched fists. He still smells of the baby oil we had used earlier to get him back to his natural colour. The sudden touch immediately wakes him. Two wide-open eyes look at me, full of hope.
Food time, his little face is saying.
I turn his hands over and study his palms, just like the clairvoyant had done with mine, in Skegness. Even though I am aware Karl is watching me, wondering what I am doing, I say nothing, as I don’t quite know what to say. Despite there being more than a remnant of red paint on them, I can clearly see the lines. Yes, his crinkled creases, not unlike the old lady’s in the tent, are definitely short. Too short. Far too short.
Tears are beginning to roll down his pink, hungry face. Karl holds him by the waist and starts to jiggle him up and down. I doesn’t help, as he’s really crying now. And so am I. My tears fall silently onto his light brown hair. I lift him up and gently massage his head, attempting to calm us both down.
It starts to works for him. His body relaxes and his breathing settles down.
My fingers circle his head, going round and round. It is as if I am searching for a vision, a reassurance that all is well. Arthur’s soft, delicate skull is the crystal ball that was missing all those years ago; the vehicle for me to travel into his future. I’m playing the role of Rosy Lee, or was it Lee Rose. But, the problem is that I don’t know how to read the future. At the moment, I am even struggling with the present.
Arthur’s eyes refocus on me and his little mouth breaks into one of his heart-stopping smiles. A smile, brighter than any child’s smudged oil painting could ever be. One that doesn’t need to be mounted on paper and taped to the fridge, to show just how beautiful it is. I am left with no option but to return his smile; one that is lit up by my very own, golden star.
His short time lined hand wraps itself around my wedding ring finger, as if he is trying to reassure me. As if he is sending me a message from his infant world. Arthur is reading my mind, telling me to get a grip; all is well. He squeezes even harder, looks at his red handprint on my arm and reaches out to touch it.
I sigh loudly and release a deep long breath, knowing we have plenty of time on our hands. I remind myself that I don’t really believe in all this palm reading palaver. In my experience, they are not too accurate. Just look at Karl, he is neither tall nor dark and certainly not a stranger; but he is handsome.
I hug Arthur tightly, swing him from left to right, stamping my feet in the rhythm of our movement. Karl clicks his fingers to the pulse, as I flamenco around the room. He stands up and pulls us both close, his arms securely holding my back. I relax and lean into him, swaying to the silent music.
This definitely is dance time.
Published: People’s Friend
