Sunday, July 08, 2007

Shocks and surprises

What is life but a serious of surprises and shocks! You’d be minding your own business and happily strolling down the street when you decide to stick your hands in your pockets and are surprised to find a collection of coins or notes that you didn’t know you had. Or you’d lazily lay on your sofa and press the buttons on your remote control when you suddenly come across a classic movie that you didn’t know would be broadcast today! Some surprises are pleasant and some are shockingly painful.


My family never stop surprising me. There I was the other day, returning from work, with my shoulders hunched, my tie loose and my spirits (as often are after my tube journey) down. I did what I normally do when I reach my house, I lightly tapped on the outside of my living room window so that someone would open the front door. I have my own keys but I refuse to use them. I’ve been working all day and the least I expect my family to do for me is open the front door.


My four year old daughter came running to the door and started talking to me through the letter box. She was very excited and kept on saying ‘dad, dad, I have something to tell you’! I patiently asked her to let me in first then tell me whatever it is she wanted to share with me. She said (with a touch of irritation I felt), ‘but it’s very important’. I, again, and with fatherly love oozing from every part of my being, asked her to open the door.
‘Don’t you want to hear what I have to tell you?’ she asked.
‘Of course I do, daddy’ I tenderly replied.
‘ It’s very important’ she said.
‘I know, daddy. But first you have to let me in’
‘How do you know?’ she asked.
‘Know what?’ I absent-mindedly replied.
‘I really have to tell you’ she said.
‘Open the door’ I said.
‘Don’t shout at me’ she said.
‘I’m not shouting, daddy. Come on darling, please let daddy in’ I said.
‘You never listen to me’ she said.
‘I’m sorry’ I said, ‘let me in’.
‘Last week you promised to buy me chewing gum but you never did’ she said.
‘Stop talking to me through this letterbox and open the door’ I said.

She moved away from the door and started crying. I knew she was not going to let me in unless I heard her story first. I apologised and asked her to tell me.

‘Granddad is dead’ she said!
‘Which Granddad?’ I quickly asked.
‘Mummy’s dad’ she said.
‘REALLY’ I said (half shocked at his supposed death and half relieved it was not my father she was talking about).

‘Yes’ she confidently replied.
‘Mummy must be really sad’ I said, ‘open the door and let me go speak to her’.
‘Mummy is on the phone’ she said.

I started thinking about the endless phone calls we’re going to get and the non-stop visitors, and I almost died myself.

‘Open the door’ I said.

She finally opened the door and ran in to announce me. I followed her to the bathroom where my wife was helping my three year old wash his face whilst holding the phone to her ear. She was having a sort of serious conversation. In fact, it looked so serious that she only acknowledged my arrival with an empty nod and carried on repeating the words ‘I know’ and ‘that’s life’. I panicked! I stood facing her with a solemn look on my face. I hoped that my already hunched shoulders and dejected spirits would convey my feelings. There was no need to fake sympathy.

She kept looking at me as if I was doing something wrong or was not supposed to be standing in front of her at such a difficult time! Could it be that I would have to fake my feelings after all?

I put a hand on my waist and looked at the floor as I despondently shook my head from side to side. My four year old aped my moves and my three year old laughed at us. The wife hastily ended her phone call and asked me what the matter was.

‘I’m sorry to hear about your dad’ I said.
‘My dad?’ she asked.
‘I’m sorry’ I repeated.
‘Why?’ she philosophically asked!
‘We’re all going to die one day’ I comfortingly said.
‘My dad is dead?’ she excitedly shouted.
‘Sorry sorry’ I whispered as I attempted to give her a caring hug. She pushed me away and repeated the words ‘my dad is dead!’.

Her eyes were open wide and they were looking straight at me. She didn’t know that her dad was dead. This was genuine shock. I felt sorry for her and tried to hug her again. She pushed me away and repeated those four words ‘my dad is dead!’. I so wanted to make things better and tell her that he was not dead and that this was just a joke I made up. But it was not a joke. It was true, my four year old told me. MY FOUR YEAR OLD!

I looked at my four year old, I looked at my wife, I looked at my four year old again. It suddenly dawned on me that I’ve been had! My wife looked at both of us and seemed to understand. She looked a bit hesitant as she asked ‘did SHE tell you that my dad was dead?’

‘Is he not?’ I said.
‘I don’t know. I don’t think he is’ she dismissively replied.
‘Well who told her that your dad was dead then?’ I defensively asked.
‘Why don’t you ask her’ she accusingly replied.

I looked at my four year old. She started crying and blamed her six year old sister. We all ran to the living room and clustered round the six year old who was busy watching a cartoon on TV.

‘Did you tell your young sister that her granddad was dead’ I shouted.
‘Which one?’ she innocently asked.
‘How many sisters do you have’ I said, ‘this sister’ I pointed at the four year old.
‘Which granddad is dead’ the six year old coolly asked.
‘Your mother’s dad’ I said.
‘Oh! I never liked him’ she said ‘I like your dad better. He always buys us sweets’.
I softened up and had an idiotic smile on my face as my wife barged in and shouted ‘You don’t like my dad?’

‘I don’t like him as much as daddy’s dad’ answered my favourite six year old.

‘Even if you don’t like him, that doesn’t mean you can spread rumours about him being dead’ shouted my wife.

‘What’s a rumour, dad?’ asked my wily six year old.

I was about to explain the meaning of the word rumour but my wife overrode me and shouted ‘Why did you say your granddad is dead?’

‘I didn’t, you did’ said my six year old.

‘You didn’t tell your sister that her granddad was dead?’ I gently asked her.

‘NO’ she replied.

We all looked at the four year old. She started crying. As we both tried to tell her off for telling lies we heard the three year old scream. He flooded the bathroom.

1 comments:

Aya said...

Hilarious! A fantastic account. I love how you've captured every beat and every person's reactions. You have tremendous patience; I'd have the neighbours call the police from how loudly I shriek through the door.

 


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