A Nest of Nightmares

‘That will be up to your father,’ Sara said blithely. ‘Did you forget he’s picking you up this morning? I’m going to stay home and paint.’

Michael’s face was comical as he absorbed this: the conflict between the pleasure of going out with his father and disappointment that he couldn’t make use of his mother’s good mood was clearly written there. Sara laughed and hugged him.

After breakfast had been eaten and the dishes washed, Sara began to feel impatient. Where was Bruce? He always liked to get an early start, and the children were ready to go.

The telephone rang.

‘Sara, I’m not going to be able to make it today. Something’s come up.’

‘What do you mean you’re not going to be able to make it? Sunday’s your day – you know that. We agreed.’

‘Well, I can’t make it today.’ Already, annoyance had sharpened his tone.

Sara clenched one hand into a fist, wishing she had him in front of her. ‘And why not? One day a week isn’t so much. The kids have been counting on seeing you.’

‘I haven’t missed a week yet and you know it. Be reasonable, Sara. I just can’t make it.’

‘Why? Why can’t you make it? What’s so important on a Sunday? You’ve got a date? Fine, bring her along. I don’t care. Just come and take the kids like you’re supposed to.’

‘Look, put the kids on and I’ll explain it to them.’

‘Explain it to me, damn it!’

A silence. Then he said, ‘I’m in Dallas.’

Sara was too angry to speak.

‘Tell the kids I’m sorry and I’ll try to make it up to them next week.’

‘Sorry! You knew – why’d you wait until now to call?’

‘I don’t have to explain myself to you. I’ll be by to pick up the kids next Sunday, nine a.m.’ He hung up.

Sara held on to the phone, still facing the wall. There were tears of frustration in her eyes, and her back and shoulders ached as if she’d been beaten. When she had regained some control she went to look for her children.

They were outside on the driveway, eager to catch the first glimpse of their father’s car.

‘Sweethearts,’ Sara said. Her throat hurt. ‘Your father just called. He’s . . . he’s not going to be able to come today after all.’

They stared at her. Melanie began to whine.

‘Why?’ Michael asked. ‘Why?’

‘He’s in Dallas. He couldn’t get back in time. He said you’d all do something extra-special next weekend to make up for missing this one.’

‘Oh,’ said Michael. He was silent for a moment, and Sara wondered if he would cry. But then the moment passed and he said, ‘Can we go sailing, then?’

Sara sighed. ‘Not today. But why don’t you two put on your bathing suits and we’ll go for a swim?’

To Sara’s relief they accepted the change of plans without fuss. For the next hour Michael showed off his skills in the water while Sara gave Melanie another swimming lesson. Afterward, she got them started playing a board game and went off to her room to be by herself.

She felt exhausted, the euphoria of the early morning faded into the distant past. She sat on the bed and paged through her sketchbook, wondering why she had been so excited and just what she had intended to make of these rather mediocre sketches of a woman’s face and details of tree branches. With a part of her mind she was still arguing with her ex-husband, this time scoring points with withering remarks which left him speechless.

Finally she stood up and took out her paints and the fresh canvas. As she set up the work in the bedroom, she could hear the children running in and out of the house, laughing, talking, and occasionally slamming the screen door. They seemed occupied and might not bother her until they grew hungry for lunch. After that, with luck, she might still have the afternoon to paint while Melanie napped and Michael played quietly by himself. She’d had such days before.

But it didn’t matter: Sara didn’t know what to paint. She was afraid to make a start, so sure was she that she would ruin another canvas. Her earlier certainty was gone. She stared at the blank white surface and tried without success to visualize something there.

Then, from the other room, Melanie screamed.

It wasn’t a play scream, and it didn’t end. Melanie was screaming in terror.

Sara went cold with dread and ran into the family room. She saw Melanie cowering against a wall while Michael shouted and leaped around. At first Sara could not make out what was happening. Then she heard the mad fluttering of wings and saw a pale blur in the air: a bird had somehow blundered inside and was now flying madly around the room.

Poor thing, thought Sara. It can’t find the way out again.

Her relief that the crisis was nothing more dangerous than a confused bird turned her fear into irritation with the children. Why were they being so stupid, carrying on so and making matters worse?

‘Calm down,’ she shouted. ‘Just shut up and keep out of the way. You’re scaring it.’

She gave Michael a firm push and then opened the door, keeping it open by lodging the iron, dachshund-shaped foot-scraper against it.