SHORT STORIES: ‘Pack Your Things, Patrick’

Amanda’s latest trick was to lie curled up in his arms, twirling her fingers through the skinny red hair on his chest. Softly, carefully, she would shape his name into a question (“Patrick?”). His blue eyes would blink receptively, and that faint golden hope would rise within him; maybe she wouldn’t try what she would. The exact wording of her next question varied considerably, though the loving undertone was crucial (“Do you know how much you mean to me?”). Sometimes Patrick made fun of her (“No, how much?”), but usually he said nothing. At this point, her intentions were clear. And she knew they were, which was why her eyes had to be made gooey with love. Wide, Amanda would think, keep them open wide.

“I’d do anything for you,” her small voice would say. “Anything.”

Patrick’s hands might contract into fists, or his testicles might crawl into the pit of his stomach. He might glance at those big, trembling eyes.
Amanda would slowly remove her hand from his chest, taking a deep breath. Her finely-combed hair would shimmer, the light from the bedroom window igniting those long, flowing locks. She would bite her lip, and in that light, the tears would dribble down her freckled, cosmetic-free face. It would be soft, backstage crying, but he would hear it. He would always hear it. They both knew what would come next. She would play her most valuable card (“You don’t love me as much as I love you.”). Patrick would deny it, but only because he knew it was true.

“That’s a load of bull,” he would say, his thick Irish accent making him sound drunk. “I love you just as much.”

That was right where she wanted him.

“Then show me,” she would say, wiping her eyes, and crawling on top of him. “Show me.”

As always, Patrick would reach for the glass bowl on the bedside table, filled with blue squares, and as always, she would stop him (“You don’t need one, Patrick.”). It was important to kiss him quickly on the mouth, so that he might hesitate. Often it was not enough. Often Patrick’s hand dropped into the bowl no matter what she did. There was one exception. One disgusting exception. Cursing herself, Amanda would kiss him down to his belly, and duck under the sheets.

The very sight of it repulsed her. Bulging with veins and topped with a purple mushroom head, the crooked shaft would look like something out of a science-fiction movie, a biological experiment gone wrong. And the smell, Amanda would think, wrapping her hand around it, the smell! Whether he washed or not, the stink of putrid old cheese surrounded it, pungent and nauseating. How could this … thing actually create something as wonderful as a child? It wouldn’t make sense. Working her mouth around it, it wouldn’t make sense. His grateful moans would fill the room, and she would close her eyes, swallowing her vomit. It only took three or four minutes, ten on a bad day. Even if it took longer, even if it took an hour, a week, she would do it. She would guide her lips up and down the ugly little thing until it killed her.

After however long, it would be finished. Amanda would rise from the sheets like a drowning woman rising from the water. His face was always weak with pleasure. He might sigh and cross his arms behind his head. For a brief moment, he might even think it was over, her crusade, her tricks.

Then he would look at her, and everything inside of him would die.

“Swallow it.” He would say, through stiff lips.

Amanda would stare at him, cheeks blown out like a pufferfish.

Before he lunged at her, she would be off the bed, her slender frame running across the room. His stubby legs, briefly ensnared in the bed sheet, would jump in pursuit, but they were only stubby legs, after all. She would slam and lock the bathroom door, and a blast of air would sweep over him.

“What’re you doing?” He would shout, pounding on the door. “Amy! What’re you doing?”

She would be leaning over the bathroom sink, watching her reflection.

“WHAT THE FUCK’RE YOU DOING?” He would scream, slamming the door with his shoulder.

She might flinch, but her eyes wouldn’t leave the mirror.

He would slam into the door again, and again, but it wouldn’t budge; his flabby body was weak, something he had known since high school. It would take a bigger, stronger man than him to break down the door, or was that true? The bigger, stronger man wouldn’t be trying to break down the door. He wouldn’t waste the energy. He would be calm, level-headed, in control… Control. Patrick would press his head to the door, and think about that word. How could he control her? Get her to stop this? He lacked physical strength, but he had words, threats. He had threats. He could scare her. She was being childish, locking herself in the bathroom, and there was fear in that, in behaving like a child.

“Look at you,” he would say, mouth against the door. “Little Miss Lawyer, hiding in a bathroom. Your friends’d piss themselves if they saw this.”

She would turn to the bathroom door, eyes burning.

“What’s Amanda gonna do, I wonder. How’s that sick little head of hers ticking? Is she – is she-” He would quake with laughter. “Is she gonna shove it up her cunt? Is that it! Is that your big plan? You’re an idiot if you think that’ll work. A fucking,” he would grind his teeth into the door, “idiot.” Patrick would visualize her on the other side of the door, listening to every word. He would inhale through his nostrils, the adrenaline rushing through him, the power. “You have no right to call yourself a woman,” he would say, driving in the final stake. “You’re just a girl. A desperate, needy little girl. And you would make a terrible mother. God, you’d probably suffocate the kid to death. They should have your ovaries cut out, honestly.”

Tears would pour down her cheeks, real this time. He would gather up his clothes, listening to them with satisfaction. It would be spat into the sink, and she would be gasping for breath. The floor, once solid, would vanish along with her self-esteem. The sink would collect her tears, saliva, and snot. She would know nothing but the sink. Soon it would feel like she was choking, and multiple dry-heaves would be forced out of her. She would spit, spit, dry-heave again, strings of saliva falling from her mouth. She would stick a finger down her throat, wanting to vomit, to cleanse herself. But there would be no vomit, only tears. Then her stomach would cramp, and she would be shaking too much to stand. Dropping to her knees, she would look up into the mirror, her finely-combed hair in a mess, her face wet.

He would be listening at the door, waiting for this silence.

“If you ever get pregnant, I’ll kill it. I’ll find a doctor, and I’ll kill it,” Patrick would buckle his belt, and make for the bedroom door, his mission complete. “I’m going for a drive. Don’t know when I’ll be back.”

She would crawl into the bathtub, naked, sniffling. His car would rocket down the street, and she would be alone, mercilessly alone. She would look at her body, fat in her mind, worthless, and she would know he was right. If her friends could see her, they would laugh. She was desperate, needy, and she would … she would – would she really be a terrible mother? The very thought would be too much, would send a chill through her bones. She would reach for the bathtub faucet, turning it on hot, and she would scream, scream again, again, again. She would be a good mother. She would be a good mother. She would be a good mother.

But what if she wasn’t? The water would burn through her legs, and the doubt would swim through her mind. What if he was right?

Was she really fit to be a mother? Look at her, screaming, squealing like a girl. And she called herself a woman?

Another scream, and another, her vocal chords shredding to pieces. She was caring, she was loving. Wasn’t she loving? Her parents had always said so, had always said she would be a good mother. Could they have been wrong? Could … could they…

She would grit her teeth, squirming against the boiling water, practically skinning her alive. She would grip the sides of the bathtub, and she would grit those teeth, grinding them together. She would be a good mother. For God’s sake, that was the one thing she knew she would be. She was desperate, needy, pathetic, but she would not be that, she would not be a bad mother.

She would remember his last few words. He wanted to kill it. The most natural, beautiful thing in the world. He wanted to kill it. What kind of sick fuck would say something like that? A small, cowardly fuck, she would think. This was the man she loved; these were the words that came out of his mouth. And that would burn, more than the water ever could. Despite all he had said, despite all he would continue to say, she would love him. Everything she had ever given, the money, the holidays, the car, she would give again, and more, just like a fool. She would laugh as the water approached her chin, a great hollow cackle. None of it would ever show how much she loved him, and that was the biggest, cruellest joke of all, that she would do so much for a man who would do so little.

The wide road, overshadowed by a sparkling canvas of trees, would be deserted except for his shiny red sports car. The mansions on either side of the street would blur together as he crushed the pedal, going well over the speed limit. The car would swerve and skid around street corners, blowing away piles of leaves that had been swept by tired old council workers. The wind flowing in his hair, Patrick would reach into the glove compartment for his aviator sunglasses. He might switch on the radio, might even play some of his old rock CDs from the nineties. For a while, he would pretend that he had bought this car, not her. He would pretend the mansion he lived in was his, not hers. He would imagine himself single, rich: a bachelor never having to hold down a job, women throwing themselves at him. In reality, he was lucky enough to have Amanda, but that thought would not touch his mind at this moment. He would indulge his idle playboy fantasies for a little while. For a little while, the world could take a hike.

“Watch where ya goin’, buddy!” A driver would scream, as she was recklessly overtaken.

Patrick would stick his middle finger over his head, and turn up the radio. He would pull onto the freeway before long, and the sky would be filled with magical radiant clouds. “It’s a beautiful day to drive,” Patrick would mumble. “Beautiful day.” He would pretend to stop for the toll, and then drive on like a scoundrel. He would do this partly because he wanted to, and partly because he had to; his wallet would be empty, his weekly allowance not in there. It wouldn’t really matter. She would give it to him later, when she had calmed down. There were other ways to spend a day, ways that didn’t require money.

Money would always help, though. Finding a free park in the city would forever be mind-numbing, but Patrick would try, circling the busy streets, waiting for someone to give up a space. Cabs would honk at him, pedestrians staring as he lurked over the roads like a parking-space predator. It would be a futile struggle, one that would eventually force him into a parking lot, where he would park in a sixteen-dollar spot. He would walk down a street congested with people, trying to smile at the faces. They would pass so quickly, all scurrying off to their next destination. He would look at them steadily, making sure his shoulders were back, his posture confident. They were no better than him. He would browse in the fancy shops, the boutiques, but he wasn’t looking to buy anything, he would assure the shopkeepers, who would look at him with disdain.

Hunger would set in before long, and the high-end restaurants, even the low-end restaurants, would slam shut as he passed them. He might think of eating somewhere and then skipping out on the bill, but he would decide against it. He would not want to get arrested. That would be humiliating, having to call her up, asking for help. He would tell himself that he didn’t need to eat, wasn’t that hungry, but he would drift into a mall bloated with fast food outlets, salivating at the greasy, heart-stopping smells. Patrick would walk on through the mall, out into the bustle. Hands would be in pockets, stomach would be growling. The sun would just now begin to set, streetlights prematurely flickering on. It would soon occur to him that he was lost. He would be walking without meaning, going around the same block now, around and around, wary of going farther into the bowels of the city. He would look at street signs as if they were written in a foreign language, having no idea where they led. He had always just followed Amanda. He would stare at the people passing him by, money in their pockets, walking to some place, any place. His shoulders would begin to slouch, the confidence draining out of his step. He would not smile at the people anymore. He would want to go home, would want to make a pizza and eat it with her. But suppose she wouldn’t take him back? Suppose she told him to get out? It was here that Patrick would feel it, sharp in his chest – regret. He had been too harsh this time, and she was not going to take him back. He would be forced to get up at six in the morning again, waiting tables, cleaning windows.

But he couldn’t – wouldn’t – go back to that. The constant tugging back and forth, child, no child, child, no child – it was a small price to pay, for freedom. It was worth it. He would fight that fight day and night if he had to, if it meant keeping the car, if it meant going to Barbados this summer, if it meant… Now the panic would set in, all the things he had to lose, slipping away. Patrick would turn on his heel, sprinting. Waves of people would part for him, like the Red Sea parting for Moses. A gang of teenage girls would try to trip him, but he would jump over their feet, and then he would stop, screeching to a halt. Flowers, Patrick would think, every girl loves flowers. He would zip across the street, braving a honking army of cars. Hanging on the promenade roof would be a neon rose, and he would run to it. It would be a shop selling body oils and soaps called The Red Rose.

“Hey,” Patrick would say to the lady at the counter, “d’you know where a florist is?”

She would be older, maybe in her forties, and she would reek of peppermint soap. “You gotta keep walking that way. Not far.” She would say, pointing in the direction Patrick had been running.

He would find it, not even catching the name as he stormed in.

“I need a bunch of … uh, what’re those purple ones? Lilies? Are they lilies?” Patrick would shout at the stocky man watering a rack of potted flowers.

The man would take a while – a long while – to finish his watering. He would look down at Patrick, this funny little Irish man, and smile knowingly. “Did something wrong, did you?”

“Yeah, I did!” Patrick would shout, gesturing wildly with his hand. “Can you get me some purple ones, or what?”

“I’m sure we can get you some purple ones, little fella,” the man would say, moseying on over to the other side of the room, where seven bouquets of flowers would stand on a long bench. “Now, we don’t got purple lilies, but we got violets. What size you after?”

“I don’t care.”

The man would purse his lips like he had been insulted. He would lean towards a medium bouquet of violets, withdrawing them from the vase. The stems would be wet, would drip onto the rubber-matted floor.

“These okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” Patrick would say, trying to take them.

The man would pull the flowers away, stepping behind the vine-covered counter. “I gotta tell you how to water ‘em first, don’t I? And you want them wrapped?”

“No,” Patrick would say, walking to the counter, hands fidgeting. “Look, I know how to water them. I’m kind of in a rush.”

“Oh, that’s alright,” the man would say, nodding. “Would that be cash, or credit?”

“Cash.”

The man would wait for Patrick to extract his wallet, holding the flowers well out of his reach. Patrick would pretend to look in his wallet, would look up at the man, and would then spin around, snatching another bouquet of violets while running out of the store.

“You little fuck! Hey! Someone! He just stole those flowers!” The man would shout, lumbering to his shop door. “Those are fifty-dollar flowers! Hey!”

A few pedestrians would film Patrick on their phones, eager to capture this most unnatural urban occurrence – a man running. Where was he running? To a wedding? To a funeral? To a mad girlfriend? Were there any other scenarios that required running with flowers? The florist would not be wondering any of these questions; he would be looking on from his shop door, shouting at the fading flower thief.

Patrick would crash into his car, out of breath, wheezing. He would jump inside, throwing the flowers onto the passenger seat. The engine would roar to life, and Patrick would turn down level after level to the ground-floor, lining up with several other cars. He would inch closer as each driver paid at the booth and went over the ramp, the metal bar rising for them to exit.

“Hello. Ticket?” The lady in the booth would say as he rolled up.

Patrick would give her the ticket without looking at her, instead watching the stream of pedestrians walking past the lot. Could he drive out without running them over? Would they jump out of the way?

“That’ll be sixteen dollars.”

Was the metal bar strong enough to cut through the windshield and decapitate him? Or would the car be able to…

“Sir? That’ll be sixteen dollars.”

He would hit the gas now, at the slight break in people. The lady in the booth would shout something as Patrick’s car jumped over the ramp, crashing into the metal bar and knocking it off its hinges. People would scream for their lives and jump out of the way, just as he had hoped, and he would peel out into the street, almost colliding with a shipping truck that would honk furiously. He would speed through the city, through red lights, green lights, whatever coloured lights. He would hear people screaming for the police, but it wouldn’t concern him at all, because he would be screeching onto the freeway, overtaking cars when necessary, flooring it, hoping his wheels didn’t pop off.

Then he would be back in the garage, head spinning. Clutching the wheel, he wouldn’t know what he was going to say. He had the flowers, but would that be enough? He would still need an excuse for what he had said. He was … he was sorry? No, not enough. He would need an actual excuse, something to justify… He was scared. That was it! He was scared of intimacy, of having a child. He was just so terribly scared. It wasn’t foolproof, but it could work.

Patrick would step into the kitchen, bouquet in hand. The kitchen island would still be covered in flour from earlier on, when he had been baking. His free hand would trail over the island, his fingers cutting lines into the flour. He would enter the main living room, staring at the polished oak staircase. He would feel like dropping the flowers and running, saving himself the trouble, but he would remind himself that he had nowhere to run. It was this, or nothing. Do, or die.

He would move up the stairs hesitantly, his expression grim, remorseful. She would be lying on the bed in her silk bathrobe, braiding her hair and staring out of the window. She would turn to him long after she knew he was there.

“Hi.” He would say.

She would stare at him, still braiding her hair.

“I brought you these.” He would say, placing them on the bed.

She would squint at them, as if trying to remember something. “I didn’t give you-”

“I know. I stole them.”

Was she supposed to be impressed by that? Amanda would shake her head, and turn back to the window. “I spoke with my mother.”

“Oh,” he would say, hating every fibre of that woman, “okay.”

“I think we need some time apart.”

“What?”

Amanda would finish braiding one strand of hair, and move on to another. “I’ll put you up in a hotel, don’t worry.”

He would look at her, the helplessness absorbing him. “For how long?”

“I don’t know.”

“But I got you flowers.”

She would smirk, almost laugh.

“I love you, Amy.”

“If you really loved me, you wouldn’t have said any of those things.”

“I didn’t mean them,” he would say, easing onto the bed. “I didn’t mean any of it.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I was just scared. That’s why I said those things.” He would say, taking her hand.

“You said I should have my ovaries cut out.” She would say, cringing.

“I didn’t mean it, Amy,” he would say, stressing each word. “I didn’t mean it. I only said that because I’m scared. I know you want a child, but it … it scares me. I didn’t mean any of it, honestly.”

“Why does it scare you?” She would say, even though it wouldn’t matter now. “Is it me? Am I not attractive enough? Do I not-”

“No! No!” He would say, squeezing her hand. “It’s me! It’s all me! I’m short and I’m fat and I’m ugly, and I’m fucked! It’s all me. Not you. I love you. I love you.”

She would look at him, really look at him, and she would wriggle her hand out of his. “I think you’re saying all this now to try and get out of it.”

She was the one in control, he knew that. As long as he remained in this house, his fate would always be in her hands. What did she want him to do? Beg? He would beg. He would get on his knees, clasping his hands in prayer over the bed, and he would beg.

“I’ll do anything you want. Anything. Please, just forgive me. Amy. Amy. I-I’m sorry. I’m so-” Genuine tears would overcome him at the thought of moving into a tiny hotel room. “I love you!” He would cry. “I love you!”

This isn’t love, she would think. It’s grovelling. If he really loved her, he would give her what she wanted; he would sacrifice, bleed for her. He would give and give, expecting nothing in return, just as she had. But he was never going to do that. He was going to take, and take, and take. And though the sight of him crying would threaten to break her, she would not be broken, not this time. She would get him into a hotel, even if it was temporary. It would be the first step, her mother had said. It would be progress.

“Pack your things, Patrick,” she would say, watching him carry on, crying, punching his fists into the bed, rambling. “I love you, too. You know that. But this’s for the best.”

He would eventually finish up his tantrum, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “Please don’t do this to me,” he would say, pulling the sheet underneath her, trying to drag her closer. “I can’t live without you.”

She would pick up the violets on the bed, crumpled from his thrashing. Tears in his eyes, he would watch her sniff those droopy little flowers. They would smell like honey. She would place them into Patrick’s hands, smiling. She would be smiling because she believed him: he couldn’t live without her. She had given him too much, spoilt him.

“I love you, Amy,” he would say, crushing the flowers in his hands, and planting his face into the bed. “I really love you.”

She would feel his love, strong in this last moment, though too late.

“I know you do, Patrick,” she would say, patting the back of his head, “but I love you more. I love you so much that I’m not gonna keep you trapped here.”

He would feel his stomach sink, like he had just been stabbed. It would sink because of what he wanted to say, what he would say, and would hate himself for saying.

“But I want to be trapped. Trap me.”