All the Other Days. Jack Hartley

the dream and this forces me to wake up. I’m covered in sweat and I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. It takes me a while to get back to sleep after that.

      Judd

      Day 1

      It’s a Sunday morning and my father is working overtime so it’s just me and Mom. These days are my favourite because the house is ours and for a few hours everything just seems right. Most Sundays we make pancakes together before we go to church so I get out the ingredients before Mom comes downstairs from having a shower. Together, we make them and sing as loud as we can to music. I put a Kings of Leon CD into the stereo and change the track to The Bucket. As the chorus comes on, I hit the mixing bowl with the whisk pretending to drum and Mom plays guitar on the fry pan, and we probably look like the Learning Disabilities Association of America should be paying us a visit.

      As we leave the house for church, leaves blow in through the front door. I love fall, the way all the trees change colour into their orange and yellow hues – and, how everything comes falling down and leaves the branches bare. We get into the car and start driving into town towards the church. We’re not really religious or anything. I just like going to be part of something and sitting in the beautiful old church. I like to think there’s a heaven or something after this life. Maybe it’s not at all like we’re told in the books or here at church. Sometimes I wonder if we’ll even know when we’re dead. Like we somehow live on after death and we are never told by a man waiting at the gates that it’s our time, or the light won’t turn into brightness and we won’t hover in the clouds watching all of those in our lives. We’ll just live on like before, like nothing has happened.

      As we’re driving down a straight road, a car pulls out turning left onto the road. My Mom slams on the breaks to stop the collision and we just miss getting hit by a few seconds.

      ‘Fuck you! Watch out you stupid asshole!’ my Mom screams with all the anger in the world inside her.

      My heart beats heavily in my chest and my Mom’s face is starting to burn red as the veins on her forehead swell with anger. The car was so close to hitting to us and driving straight into my door. If she hadn’t see him so quick, I’d be dead for sure. Mom lights a cigarette to calm down and opens the window to air out the fumes.

      As we drive up the road, I see the girl from the beach in the distance. She’s wearing the same white dress that was trailing behind her, just like it did in my dream. I lean my face against the window as we drive past her, and my mind becomes filled with images of her. I don’t know how I dreamt of her wearing that dress even though I’d never seen it before. I want to get out of the car and run after her, stop and hear her voice for the first time. Listen as the words roll off her tongue and bring life to this beautiful girl I’m obsessing over. I said I get hung up on moments and now I know this was a significant moment. It must mean something for me to see her again. It has to. Or at least, I want it to because I want to see her again.

      We pull up next to the sidewalk and I check my phone for the time, its 9:58 am.

      ‘Mom! We’re running late! Let’s go!’ I say.

      We run to the church and make it through the big wooden doors just as the bell dings for 10 am. We hurry to the seats at the back of the church where we usually sit. The altar boys start singing Allegri's Miserere Mei, and we just sit there in awe of the harmonies. I don’t have a clue what the Latin words are, but I just love the way the words flow and become sounds rather than words. Every time I come here, I see a new part of the stained glass windows that surround the church. It really is an amazing place, and I don’t really think of it as being a religious place, more like a room created to see and feel beauty in this life with lots of people that are searching for something missing. At the end of the service, we take Holy Communion and then leave through the big wooden doors that tower over us.

      After the service, we always go and get a coffee at the shop across the road from the church. My mother orders a long black and I get a cappuccino. I sit at the table fidgeting with the sugar sachets, ripping apart the paper. I’ve always been a fidgety person and am constantly finding myself ripping apart whatever comes into contact with my fingers. After the waiter gives us our coffees, Mom looks serious, like she’s about to say something important. Or at least there’s something serious on her mind that she wants out.

      ‘I don’t know how much longer I can do this for … with your father, Judd.’

      I quickly reply, ‘Then, why do you? It’s not good for you to be like this all the time.’

      ‘I know. It’s just … it’s just so hard.’ She looks down at her coffee and moves her eyes away from me.

      ‘I hate seeing you like this. It’s not right.’

      ‘I’m sorry, sweetie. I hate always dumping this onto you. You’re my son. You shouldn’t have to hear this stuff. You’re just the only one I can really talk to who listens.’

      I smile over at her. ‘You know I don’t mind. I’m always here.’

      She grabs my hand and smiles back at me.

      I can’t imagine the weight she must walk around with every day, how upset she must be all the time, and Dad has no idea at all. I wish he knew; maybe he’d do something different. Most likely not though. He’s so trapped in his own world that we seem to be second thoughts to him. We finish our coffees and reluctantly drive back home.

      My father yells out to me from across the room, ‘Come and watch the game with me, boy!’

      He never does this, so I sit on the sofa next to him. I don’t know if this is a part of one of his manic episodes where he’s nice, or if he does want to watch the game with me. I don’t even really like watching sports or understand them, but either way, it’s nice for a change. He hands me a Budweiser and we watch the basketball match together. I can feel my Mom’s eyes from behind the sofa watching us and I know she will be smiling. Finally, some peace and quiet for her at home. My father doesn’t say much while we watch the game, but it’s a big step for him, and to be honest I’m just so happy he’s acknowledged me today that the silence doesn’t bother me. The whistles and the cheering fill the air anyway. After the game finishes, I go upstairs to get ready for bed. My head feels odd, like I’m not quite with everything today. I guess it’s probably us nearly crashing and Dad’s attempt to spend time with me, but little things like that play up in my head.

      I can’t just turn everything off for a moment. I analyse everything that happens and try to search for a reason why it does, but I mostly get nowhere with my thoughts other than feeling like I’m sinking even more than before I started thinking. I go through my usual routine of picking out an album to play. I put on Tess Parks’ album Blood hot and play the first track “Somedays”. I love her husky voice, the way the words roll off her tongue like she doesn’t care about trying to sound pretty or anything. I’ve played this album I don’t know how many times, and this song especially, but I’ve never really listened to the lyrics before today.

      I guess I like them because I can relate a lot to them. She sings that she prays to a God but doesn’t know who he is. I don’t know who I am praying to at church, but hoping there’s something out there who is listening to me gives me comfort. Some days I hate everything and some days I don’t. Today is one of those days when I don’t, and it’s because of her. I want to know her. I need to. Why do I keep seeing her in my dreams and in places if it doesn’t mean anything? And if this wasn’t confusing enough, my father making an effort with me throws me off too. This would be the first time in years that he has made a slight effort with me, and I can only imagine what it would be like for everyone else with a Dad who is actually involved. I want to document that memory, so I get out my sketch pad and draw my father and I sitting on the sofa watching the basketball game. Normally I draw my pictures with dark heavy tones and lots of shadows. But that’s normally because they are sad moments, and this is a happy one. I draw my father looking over at me while I watch the game, so I can remember him acknowledging me — something I haven’t felt for a long time. I finish the drawing and place it on the happy side of my room. I hope this memory might not have to be a picture always.

      Judd