Centre Of Inertia

For a few blissful seconds Annie forgot where she was. Her alarm had gone off, interrupting a dream about her old school. She'd been laughing with her oldest pal, Eleanor. They used to laugh all the time. She could feel the smile on her face as she stretched out to stop the alarm and she wondered what time Eleanor would appear so they could walk to school together.

No, that wasn't right. Her smile dropped away and she opened her eyes. She'd thought, for those precious seconds, that she was still young, waking up to go to school, laugh all day long then come home again, curling up in front of the TV whilst Gran pottered in the kitchen and her mum came back from work and it was sunny outside and there were simply no complications.

'No,' she mumbled, and closed her eyes again, willing the dream to take her back.

Of course it didn't work. She opened her eyes again into her beige adult room they'd never got around to repainting and the brownish curtains left by the previous owners.

She groaned and pulled the duvet over her head.

If she just stayed here, maybe everyone would leave her alone.

Maybe she could just sleep the day away.

Maybe all the jobs that piled and piled on top of each other would be gone, if she just went back to sleep and ignored them. But now she'd allowed the word 'job' into her head here they were, lining up like soldiers in a firing squad, ready to shoot her down if she stood up.

Get the kids out of bed (all three slept through their alarms. Every. Single. Morning.)
Feed the kids (attempt to get grumpy teenagers to eat.)
Remind them of whatever million things needed reminders.
Shoosh them out of the door. Don't expect a kiss or hug.
Turn and look at the kitchen.
Groan.

Graham's mess would have been buried by the teenagers' mess. His excuse was he didn't want to wake anyone unnecessarily early by clanking crockery about. Annie knew it was an excuse to avoid emptying the dishwasher. There would be dirty stuff everywhere; milk sloshed on worktops, a trail of crumbs leading from the toaster to the table, as if the teenagers couldn't find their way back without them.

Annie would work through the mess then sit and eat some toast whilst the dog whined for a pee. She'd have let him out (nobody else would have thought to do it) then fed him, fed the cats, taken washing from the machine to hang out, hoovered, wiped, tidied, then locked up the house and taken the dog for a walk, bought something for tea, come home, shoved the something into the oven on a timer, stroked the dog's soft head and then, finally, gone to work herself for her shift at the care home.

At least she got paid for being there, but it was non-stop. She'd not sit down until she got in the car to go home, when she'd jump on another roundabout, one which involved navigating arguments and homework and food. Then Graham would come home and ask her nothing about her day but complain endlessly about his.

'No,' she said again and buried herself deeper in the bed.

She thought about how easy life used to be.

Lately it seemed harder every day. Harder to get up. Harder to smile. Harder to give, anything.

The teenagers used to be three bright and loving children. Whilst Annie knew they'd come back to her one day, that day was taking a bloody long time to come.

INERTIA. She'd looked the word up when she suspected it was what she was feeling. 'A tendency to do nothing or remain unchanged'. Yep, that about covered it. Except she had to keep doing the things, all of the thousand things that needed doing every, single, day.

She yawned and sat up.

Walked down the stairs.

Made herself a coffee.

Opened her mouth and...

...closed it again.

If she didn't wake them up, there would be no demands. No bickering. No questions: 'Mum! Where's my...?'
'Mum! Can you drive us to school today?'
'Mum! He hit me!'
'Mum! Where's the bread?'
'Mum!....'

The tendency to do nothing. Yes, she thought. I'm not going to do it today.

The dog whined and she stroked his head and he wagged his tail and she let him out. It was easy, and he was polite. Annie stood by the door watching him stroll to the lawn and pee. He stretched, yawned, kicked his back legs and did a funny little dance as if to say, I'm alive! He returned to the door, licked her hand and sat next to her. She sat down on the back doorstep. She closed her eyes and felt the sun trying to come though the clouds. Listened.

Birdsong.
Far off barking.
Cars.
Distant siren.
Wind in leaves.
Herself, sipping coffee.
The dog breathing.

She didn't move. Nobody woke up, angry that they were late.

The dog lay his head on her thigh and she stroked his soft ears. She'd promised him a longer walk today. Unlike the teenagers, who remembered every promise she'd ever made, the dog didn't care. He'd love her anyway. Unlike Graham, with his utter lack of curiosity about her (when did that go, she wondered. When did he last ask her anything? ), the dog seemed to care about what her life contained: he watched what she did, patient, waiting for the magic lead to be taken off a hook, a talisman that took him to other worlds.

Annie frowned slightly, cocked her head like a child, drew a sharp breath then smiled and shook her head. No, that was a stupid thought. They'd never forgive her. (But they might not notice, whispered her subconscious.)

She looked at the dog. Looked at her watch. Thought about the fact that the house anchored her into this huge circle of shoulds and had tos and musts.

What if she left the circle? Walked out of its centre, just for a day? Or... for more than a day. A LOT more than a day. What was the worst that could happen? The best that could happen was the sense of inertia (quite a beautiful word really) might leave her. She might find a desire to do... something.

The memory of the laughter in the dream hadn't quite left her. There didn't seem to be a lot of laughter in her house any more. Loads of snappiness and shouting and long drawn-out sighing, but no joyful laughs. In the past all she'd had to do was tickle the nearest child - instant joy.

Annie stood up. The dog looked at her.

'Go on,' he seemed to be saying. 'I'll come with you.'

Annie crept back to her room. Pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt. Grabbed her trainers and a backpack from the bottom of her wardrobe. Whilst the dog watched her from the doorway she threw a few things in - clothes, underwear, toiletries. Her passport. The dog's canine passport they'd got for a trip they didn't end up taking.

She was back in the kitchen in minutes and the house was still asleep. The dog wagged his tail, seeming to catch the sudden quickening of her heart.

Annie looked around the kitchen, at the mess. Felt the weight of it all. Picked up a pen and a shopping list, turned it over and scribbled a note on it. Not that anyone would see it, but still.

She made her way down the hall like a burglar, the dog following. As she took his lead from the hook, shrugged on her favourite jacket, the dog's tail wagged harder as if to urge her on.

She paused for a second with her hand on the snib.

Thought about the vortex she'd fallen into when she woke up.

Annie opened the door and stepped out. She closed it ever so quietly behind her and wondered what time the teenagers would wake and who would see her note, if any of them. Perhaps it would be Graham when he got home from work, ready to regale her with his dull tales of office lore. He'd pick up the piece of paper, perhaps to add something to the shopping list and he'd read her words:

GONE FOR A WALK. TAKEN THE DOG.

and he'd frown.

Annie laughed, and it sounded just like it did in her dream.