Donnelle's World

Four and a half years ago, I went to work.

I had five-month-old twins.

And a five-year-old.

And no car. Every morning, I would somehow manage to get everybody out of the house at 6:15am. We'd walk to before-school care. On a good day, it would take 20 minutes. On a bad day... ever seen someone endeavouring to push a tank-like double pushchair while piggybacking a tantruming five-year-old?

Most days, I cried on the walk from before-school care to the train station. The train was never the same way around; some days the carriage with a pushchair area would be at the front, sometimes at the back. The best I could do was wait in the middle of the platform, and try to get there before all the seats were taken.

On a good day, people would deign to move over so that I could put the pushchair in the designated area. On a bad day, I got sworn at.

The express train took 50 minutes. On a good day, the babies would sleep, or at least babble to themselves. On a bad day, I would do my best to soothe two fractious babies, usually by feeding them. If I fed them, I got glared at. If they cried, I got glared at.

I'd take them to daycare, hurriedly feed them, and rush to work, getting there around 8:30am. I juggled my schedule so I could feed them, but that meant my only breaks were spent with babies' mouths on my boobs. I tried not to drop crumbs in their eyes.

Come 5:30pm, we'd join the crowds rushing to the train station. The trains ran on time, sometimes. The commuters relaxed, slouched in their seats, and I anxiously worked to make sure that my children didn't disturb them. Then I'd walk home, barely in time for dinner and a goodnight kiss from my eldest, before frantically trying to keep up with housework and laundry.

I'd fall into bed, so exhausted that I couldn't shut my brain up enough to sleep properly.

Did the twins sleep through? Did they hell. They were up three times a night...

...each.

After paying for daycare, before- and after-school care and train tickets, I was going through this hell for $140 a week. I couldn't do it. After two months, I came home one night, having contemplated how much easier it would be to be under the train, and wrote my resignation letter.

While working out my notice, I was assaulted by one of the "passenger operators" for daring to breastfeed while I sat on the floor of the train because nobody offered a seat. I'd been abused too many times to dare to ask for one. And then his supervisor came and told me that I had no right to bring my children on the train and that I needed to stay in town until the rush cleared at 7:30pm.

He told me not to cry.

It was cry, or punch him in the nose. I think he was lucky that I cried.

It took some adjusting to being a stay-at-home mum. My career, my brain, was essential to my self-image. I struggled through feelings of despair and uselessness. Hubby paid off his student loan, and while I congratulated him, I secretly mourned my untouched debt.

Four and a half years later, my children are all at school. Suddenly the financial balance of childcare and wages has started to tip in the other direction. There's still lots to organise if we're both working; what about sickness, after-school activities, and school holidays?

But we'll make it work, somehow.

We'll have to.

I went to work today.

Hesychia jolted upright before she was really awake, the sound of a fretful baby twanging an instinctive, maternal place inside her. She eased to the edge of the bed, careful not to jolt her sleeping husband, and reached for Aeolus before his disquiet could turn into full-blown crying.

She scooped him up from the crib beside the bed, sshhh-ing him gently, and cradled him against her shoulder. The vertical motion startled him. Aeolus fell silent, and she felt his body stiffen against her hands. He broke wind with a volume surprising from one so small. She leaned him back to look at his face, and his murky eyes gazed back with an expression of comical astonishment. Hesychia laughed quietly to herself, and put him back against her shoulder, patting his back. He'd never settle if he was full of wind.

Her patting settled into a rhythm that reminded her of an old song, and she found herself humming it under her breath. Her husband, Hypnos, twitched and rolled over. Hesychia froze. He'd be dreadful in the morning if he didn't get enough sleep.

Aeolus filled the silence with a resounding burp. Hypnos grumbled incoherently and pulled the blankets up around his ears, as the baby began the head-bobbing searching that indicated he was looking for milk. Hesychia sighed and settled into bed, arranging the bedding and pillows so that Aeolus could safely feed while she was lying down. At least it might be quiet enough for her to doze, that way. She'd need her energy for the morning.

#

Mornings were always a disaster, and this one more than most. Homados thundered down the stairs, his dark hair tousled from the tumult of the night. He never slept well, his dreams full of glory and the roar of battle. "Mom!" he shrieked. It didn't matter how often Hesychia told him to call her "Mētēr", he wanted to do what his classmates did. He didn't like the old language.

He devoured his cereal as if he didn't know when he'd get to eat again, his cutlery clashing against the bowl. Hesychia flinched at every clank, with one ear attuned for sounds of Aeolus waking. She was tired, and her muscles ached from dozing on her side, curled around Aeolus with her arm for a pillow. Her body yearned for a coffee. She didn't have time for it, though, as she bustled around making lunches and assembling the paperwork that this society seemed to find so essential for schooling.

It was so much easier in the old days. Hesychia smiled as she remembered her lessons, around the table in the big house on Olympus. Her mother, Dike, had been big on morals and ethics lessons. There was this one time—

Oh! The time! Normally Eris would be at the table by now, hiding the spoons and salting the sugar. Hesychia padded up the stairs and called quietly for her. No response. She checked Eris' bed, expecting her tousled blonde head on the pillow, sneaking a few more moments of sleep. Not there. Hesychia called for her again, raising her voice more than she liked to.

"Eris! Where are you? It's time to get ready for kindergarten!"

No response. Hesychia checked all the usual places— under the bed, in the closet, behind the door— without luck. Her pulse accelerated with each place she looked. It was probably just Eris being Eris... but what if it wasn't?

Hesychia poked her head into the master bedroom. Hypnos snuffled and snored to himself, but at least he wasn't obnoxious about it. Hesychia peered into Aeolus' crib. After feeding him, she'd weathered three more burps and a borborygmic serenade from his nether regions before getting him back to sleep. He was still sleeping, tranquil and still, and Hesychia suppressed a surge of jealousy.

It was just about time to try to get Hypnos up for work, anyway, so Hesychia "accidentally" jolted the bed as she checked under it. When he didn't noticeably rouse, she steeled herself and coughed loudly. "Honey, have you seen Eris?"

He snorted and rolled over. She wondered if she should keep searching the room, and then realised that if Eris had been in here, it would be obvious. She could never resist playing tricks on her sleeping father. At least his eyebrows had grown back in... mostly.

Hesychia trotted through the house, trying to curtail her growing alarm, and calling for Eris. At last she heard a faint giggle from the bathroom. She'd already checked there, and mentally crossed it off her list, but she groaned to herself as she realised she hadn't checked behind the shower curtain. The rings rattled as she yanked it back.

Eris gazed blandly up at her mother, her blue eyes disingenuous as always. She was dressed in her favourite party dress, coated in a thick layer of viscous goo. Hesychia sniffed the air. She couldn't tell what all of it was, but there was definitely Homado's blue bubble bath, Hesychia's expensive conditioner, and ice-cream. The ice-cream was obvious, because the not-quite-empty container was perched upside-down on Eris' head. A chocolate trickle ran down her pert little nose, and a pink little tongue stuck out to catch the drip.

Hesychia screamed silently through gritted teeth. They needed to leave in ten minutes. Aoelus would need feeding, lunches weren't made, Hypnos was still asleep, and now she had to deal with THIS?

"Mētēr! Look at me!" Eris beamed. "I'm an ice-cream truck!" She leapt out of the shower, ducked past Hesychia and ran down the hallway, shrieking the familiar song. Sticky drops of blue bubblebath and chocolate ice-cream spattered behind her.

"STOP! WOULD YOU JUST STOP?!" Hesychia bellowed. Eris' footsteps skidded to a halt, then came padding cautiously back towards the bathroom. They stopped outside the door.

Hesychia collapsed to the bathroom floor, tears running silently down her face. She covered her face, ashamed that she'd shouted. Her shoulders shook as she sobbed with suppressed frustration and exhaustion. It was so hard. So hard. All she wanted was some quiet. She needed it.

She heard a new set of footsteps come down the hallway. There was a muttered conversation between father and daughter, inaudible except for his final words, "Use the hose then." Eris tiptoed away, her normal frenetic pace subdued for once.

Hypnos poked his head around the door frame. "You OK, honey?" he asked, trying to stifle a yawn. He came in and sat beside her, oblivious of the colourful splatters, and held his arm up, offering a hug. Hesychia leaned into him, relishing his closeness.

"It's so hard. I don't know if I can do it any more! What were we thinking?" she mumbled. Hypnos squeezed her gently, encouraging her to go on. "We used to be so good, you and me. We could be ourselves! Who am I now? I can't be the goddess of silence when all I do is yell at the kids!"

Hypnos yawned. "I know exactly what you mean. It feels like... it is eight years since I had a proper sleep." He shrugged. "It is hard. I just keep telling myself that it's not forever." He looked half-seriously at her, his newly-grown eyebrow arched. "It's not forever, is it?"

Heschyia laughed. "They'll grow up some day," she said, then froze, stricken by the thought of what a teenage Eris might be like.

He grinned. "Until then, you can be the goddess of sometimes-silence, and I'll be the god of wants-to-sleep."

Hesychia laughed, and leaned in to kiss him. He returned the kiss with interest, and reached to stroke her hair. A whoop from downstairs startled them, and they sprang apart.

"MOM!" Homados cried. "Eris put the hose in the piano again!"

The sunshine splashed scarlet against Jean's eyelids as she gently rocked her chair. Her gnarled hands, with swollen knuckles and papery skin, lay limply in her lap. She ignored the staff bustling to and fro, answering the impatient demands of distant bells; she ignored the crochet blanket slipping off her lap; she ignored the wafting scent of cabbage that suggested it was nearly time for what passed as dinner here at The Golden Oaks.

She was too busy for any of that.

Deep in reverie, Jean remembered. Her memories took the form of a house, her childhood house. Jean wandered through it, her gaze sliding over the cluttered knick-knacks and minutiae of 92 years of life. She mentally picked up a snowglobe and shook it; she smiled as tiny flakes settled over the squat brick building of the Moore School of Electrical Engineering. She'd never admitted it to anyone, but the war years had been the happiest of her life. It had always felt wrong to be happy in war, but the challenges she'd faced, the problems she'd solved, and the complexities she'd mastered while working on ENIAC had fed something deep in her soul.

And the friends she'd made, oh, the friends. A whole group of women who loved maths and spent hours working on solutions to problems they didn't even have words for. It was Evelyn who had taught her the "memory house" technique, a way to visualise and memorise complex information. Evelyn had taught Jean other things, too, that made her blush even now. Jean put the snow-globe back on the mantelpiece, smiling to herself.

"Computers", they'd been called. Just like the grey plastic boxes her grandson was so obsessed with. She gripped the handle of the drawer labelled "James" and slid it open, keen to replay her first cuddle, his first steps, his high-school graduation.

The drawer was empty.

Jean frowned. It had been happening more and more lately; things weren't where she expected, or just looked strange. Too often, it was only an empty space that told her something was wrong.

It was those gaps that had sent her here, to The Golden Oaks. Things had gone missing from what she called "her running memory", a joking reference to the fact that she stored short-term tasks as pictures stuck on her virtual refrigerator. Three burned dinners in a row, three fire engine call-outs, and she'd ended up here, tucked up with blankets and cabbage-smell. Her grandson had brought her here... what was his name? It started with a "J", she was sure of it. She looked for the drawer, but it was gone. A blurry discolouration on the wall was the only sign that something of import had once been there.

Things seemed to disappear so fast, these days. It's why she was spending so much time here, in her memory house. Reinforcing, remembering... defending.

Jean reached for a silvery silk scarf, draped next to the snowglobe. She started to bring it to her face, to inhale the scent on it, Evelyn's scent, but a hand on her shoulder and a repeated "Mrs Gabouldi? Jean? Mrs Gabouldi?" brought her back to reality.

One of the staff was crouching next to her, watching her face with professional concern. "Are you alright, Mrs Gabouldi?" She reached for the slipping blanket and pulled it back onto Jean's knee, without waiting for an answer.

"I'm fine," Jean answered, crossly. "Call me Jean. Gabouldi was my husband's name, and I didn't like him much."

The staff member laughed, not quite concealing a patronising tone. "All right then, Jean. I'll remember that. It's dinner soon, won't that be nice?" She stood up. "Oh, I'm Sue. I'm here most nights." Sue turned and bustled away, summoned by a bell, but Jean still caught the muttered "Not that you'll remember."

Defiantly, Jean returned to her memory house, with an image of Sue gripped in her fist. She looked around. So cluttered, so full, so many memories... yet gaps glared at her, painful and raw, like the hole where a tooth should be.

There was a space on the wall, faintly discoloured. Something tugged at her memory- a snowy-blonde head of hair? A boy at the beach? No, it was gone. She filled the gap with the picture of Sue, taking pleasure in using a ridiculously large nail to fix it in place, before scrawling "Sue" across it in red ink.

She'd always used red as a warning, for people and things to be careful of. Funny how none of the red things seemed to be missing. They glowered at her, garish and unharmonious, dominating the room. Reds were like that.

She reached for the nearest one. A shoe, in a shade of burgundy that almost looked attractive until you realised how odd it looked on a penny loafer. She'd stuck it here in her memory house, as a reminder not to get distracted by theorems while cooking. Vincent had beaten her with it, holding her down like a three-year-old, punctuating each of his words with a painful thwap. "All - I - want - is - meatloaf," he'd panted, before making her eat the blackened lump that remained.

Jean contemplated the shoe. A thought occurred; if things were disappearing... could she make them disappear? She threw the shoe at the wall. It bounced off and lay stubbornly on the floor. Hmm.

She concentrated for a moment, with a knack made easy by years of practice. A rubbish bin appeared, a replica of the foot-pedal one her daughter, Barbara, had bought her for Christmas one year, after carefully saving her pennies. How Vincent had laughed. She stepped on the pedal, amused as always by the way the lid flopped upwards, and dropped the shoe in. She let the lid close, then opened it again. The shoe was gone.

She felt better already.

What else could she get rid of? She found the strawberry jam jar she'd carefully stored pennies and dimes in, saving for a trip back to Pennsylvania, where Evelyn and several of the other girls had settled. It had disappeared after Vincent came in ranting one night; she'd started to ask him about it, but quickly changed her mind. Into the bin it went.

Jean picked up a carmine-covered book, "What Men Don't Like About Women". Vincent had thrown it at her one night. The corner had nicked her forehead, and the sight of blood, as always, had made him apologetic and charming again. Barbara had been conceived that week. Jean laughed bitterly at the reminder that she'd thought things would get better.

As she dropped the book in the bin, a playing card slipped out from between the pages and tumbled to the floor. The two-faced king of diamonds stared up at her, both heads grimacing and grotesque. She'd put it there the day after Vincent's funeral, when a pale, sweating lawyer had revealed that Vincent had left her nothing but gambling debts.

There were more, many more, mostly to do with Vincent and the things that made him angry. She'd spent a lifetime cataloging them. Jean scooped up armfuls and dumped them into the bin. He was gone, and she didn't need them any more.

She reached for the next red that caught her eye, and found herself holding a faded rose. It wasn't red with warning, though perhaps it should have been; it was the rose that Vincent had brought her, the first time she went out with him. She'd been happy then, flattered by his attentions and his smooth words.

The rose went in the bin. The only red remaining was the fresh "Sue" scrawled over the picture of the rude nurse. Jean snorted and snatched it off the wall. Sue didn't deserve a space here. Into the bin she went. A patch on the wall wavered and firmed, shaping a drawer with a label on it. "James," that was his name, of course it was!

The room was much emptier now, spacious, clean, tranquil. Jean was drawn to the silvery silk scarf on the mantelpiece, lying next to the snowglobe. She caught it up, held it to her face, breathed in its sweet scent. Evelyn, oh, Evelyn.

A hand brushed down her arm. Jean turned, and smiled.

====

"Mrs Gabouldi? Mrs Gabouldi? Jean?" Sue shook her shoulder. No response. She reached to check Jean's pulse, but without much urgency. She'd seen that smile before.

"Damnit!" Jessica grumbled as she tried to back her van out of the driveway. The rain was bucketing down, clouding the rear window, and the rear wiper wouldn't work. She clicked the switch a few more times; nothing. The dark, smudgy view wasn't helpful, but she made her best guess and backed out onto the road.

Thankfully the windscreen wipers were working, but even they battled to keep up with the downpour. "Better get that fixed tomorrow," she thought. "So long as Gavin actually pays this time." Money was pretty tight in her village, and there weren't many jobs around. She relied on the casual pay from whatever gigs she could get.

She carefully navigated the slippery roads, not at all inclined to the leadfootedness that had seen her get more than a few tickets over the years. The white lines disappeared in the reflected glare of her headlights, and she was relieved to see the glowing windows of the local pub. Rainbow streaks of chalk on the blackboard out front were all that were left of the "LIVE MUSIC TONITE" she'd seen Gavin scrawling earlier.

Jessica scowled as she looked for a carpark nearby; she was going to have to make a run for it, and with her guitar and amp, too. She found a space, stopped the van, and shrugged into her jacket. At the back of the van, she lifted the rear wiper and gave it an optimistic wiggle. You never knew. She opened the back door, slung the strap of her guitar case over her shoulder and hoisted her amp into her arms. Damn. She balanced the amp carefully against the side of the van with one arm, and reached up to shut the door.

She staggered her way to the pub, half-wading. The air inside hit her with a humid warmth and a blast of beer stench. It smelt like home. Gavin nodded and waved from behind the bar, and one of the local lads took the amp from her and carried it to the front, where a couple of carpet-covered pallets formed what passed for a stage around here. Nearly show-time.

Jess set up, tuned her guitar, closed her eyes and struck a chord. The bar quietened infinitesimally, and she felt the magic pour through her, exuding from fingers and throat. Silence fell. An hour passed without her noticing. She sang, she played, she bantered with the audience. The lads gave as good as they got, with the long familiarity of past schoolmates; she barely noticed the unfamiliar person sitting quietly, transfixed against the bar.

She needed a drink. At the bar, Gavin slid over a beer, most unlike his usual frugal self. She grinned at him, but he shook his head and pointed at the stranger. Jess raised an eyebrow, drained the glass and went back to the stage. As she quickly checked the tuning on her guitar, she took the chance to surreptitiously study the stranger; about her age, dark hair and eyes, clean shirt and jeans. Too clean, not really her cup of tea. She liked a bit of grittiness.

The rest of her show sped past. The local lads, buoyed by beer, had bellowed through the choruses with volume, if not tunefulness. The stranger had grinned, entertained but not lubricated enough by liquor to join in. The same beer sat by his elbow all night.

Gavin gave her a meaningful wave, and she wrapped it up. He'd been in trouble recently for breaching the terms of his liquor license, and now he was very careful to have everyone out and on their way before one. The bar emptied as she packed up her stuff, humming to herself. Gavin shuttled between tables and bar, stacking glasses, collecting bottles, and wiping up the sticky remnants of yet another night.

Her ears perked as she heard the ring of the cash register; looked like she was going to get paid tonight! Gavin passed her a bundle of notes, and she tucked it into her pocket.

"Thanks, Gav." Jess bent to pick up her amp, but paused to adjust her guitar as it swung forward.

"Let me get that for you," he offered. Jess gratefully accepted, and they braved the wet darkness together. She lifted the van door and Gavin slid her amp in. "Good show tonight," he said. Jess grinned. It had been. She waved as she backed around; damnit, that rear wiper still wasn't working.

=======

She slept late. "One of the prerogatives of night work," she always justified to herself. Over coffee, she reviewed her mental to-do list: clean the bathroom, put the rubbish out, get the wiper fixed. Despite the weather, going out was more appealing than housework, always. Mechanics first, then.

It was close enough that she could drive there and walk home. She wandered into Tom's Garage and greeted the greasy overalls buried head-first in the engine of Mrs Smith's old red Holden, and then jumped as the person stood up. It wasn't Tom; it was the guy from the pub.

"Uh... hi," they both said, and then laughed.

"Where's Tom?" she asked.

"His sister broke her ankle, so he's gone to go babysit, if you can believe it. He asked me to come help out."

Jess laughed. "I'm not sure I do believe it! Um... I'm Jess."

He smiled shyly. "I know. I, uh, saw you last night. I'm, uh, Jamie." He held out an oily hand to shake, and then, horrified, took it away again. "Um. What can I do for you?"

"The rear wiper on my van isn't working. Might be a fuse or something. No biggy but it's a bit annoying."

He nodded. "I can fix that, no worries."

Jess gave him the van keys, and after a few more pleasantries, tightened her jacket hood and headed home through the rain. She spent the afternoon completing the housework from her to-do list, interspersed with Candy Crush and Facebook, her guilty pleasures. Come half-past four, she headed back to the garage.

Jamie smiled, swiping hair off his forehead and replacing it with a streak of grease, and she had to revise her opinion of him. She had a soft spot for what she mentally called "hands-on men", with an accompanying frisson of innuendo. Yum.

"Hi. Um. It should be all good now," he said, fishing her keys out of his pocket and handing them over. She weighed them in her hand for a moment, conscious of their warmth.

"Great! Thanks so much. Uh, how much is that?"

"Oh. Um. Don't worry about it. It was a minor fix," he said.

Jess laughed. "Tom won't like that!"

"Really, it was no problem." They stood for a moment and smiled at each other. He opened his mouth and was about to speak, when Mrs Smith bustled in to collect her car, hair all askew as usual. With a smile and tiny wave, he turned to speak to her.

Jess drove home, very thoughtful.

=======

Another morning, another to-do list: milk, bread, post that letter to her grandma. Jess squinted out the window; raining again, really? She sighed and got ready to go.

As she backed out of the driveway, the rear wiper swished, once, twice- and froze halfway through a swipe. Jess thumped the steering wheel and growled. She kind of liked Jamie; she didn't want to see incompetence.

He didn't look surprised as her van pulled up outside, but came over wiping his hands on a rag. As she opened her mouth, he spoke first, barely meeting her eyes. "I'm really sorry. I have a confession to make. I only sort of fixed your van. I, um, really wanted to see you again, and I'm really shy, and I didn't know what to do. I'm so sorry. It was really unprofessional of me."

Jess gaped at him for a second, and then grinned. "Well, I can hardly demand my money back, can I?" She tossed him the keys. "Fix it properly this time, OK?"

He nodded, looking abashed. "I'm really sorry. It won't happen again."

Jess laughed. "How about I hang out here while you fix it? I can keep an eye on you, make sure you do it properly."

His eyes sparkled. "I'd like that."

Ari flicked her long auburn hair over her shoulder, crossed her arms, and pouted. The current fashion for human things was all very well, but prom nights? With long evening gowns?

"This is ridiculous," she grumbled. "How will I swim?"

She pirouetted in the water, flicking her shimmering green tail behind her, and nearly knocked the proffered gown from the hands of the shop assistant. Her six sisters, each busily examining the racks of diaphanous gowns, gasped and looked disapproving. Ari hastily apologised, as her oldest sister, Aquata, gestured meaningfully at the gown.

"Fine," she said, "I'll try it on." Behind the seaweed curtain she struggled into the gown; its fitted purple bodice clung to her body, and the gossamer skirt floated down, forming elegant drapes and folds. She hated to admit it, but... it looked good. Ari turned to go show her sisters, but her tail flukes tangled in the skirt. She wobbled and sank. Frowning, she righted herself, and sedately inched her way out of the changing room.

Her sisters cooed over their littlest sister, and rushed to find their own dresses. "Isn't this exciting?" Andrina squealed. "I can't believe we're having a prom! And in a week!"

Ari just scowled.

=========

Prom night came. Ari avoided the primping and fussing by sneaking out of the castle early. A single sea anemone in her hair, the purple gown tucked in her bag until the last moment, and she was ready. It'd do.

If she was going to be fashionably late, so her disdain would be obvious, she had some time to kill. She headed down to the park. As she'd expected, Crush and the other turtles were there, just chilling under a kelp tree.

"Ari! Duuude," Crush said, lazily gesturing with a flipper. "Whatcha up to?"

"Oh, you know, not much," she said, toying with the strap of her bag, conscious of its contents. "Got any suggestions?"

He looked around, and leaned close. "Might do. You interested?"

She eyed him thoughtfully. Ari liked Crush, despite his relaxed and occasionally erratic ways, but her family didn't. Ah, what the heck.

"What have you got?" she whispered back.

"Something new. Dude, it's totally sweet. It's called Rapture, and you'll love it. Easy ride, sweet as, totally takes your worries away."

Ari nervously glanced around. "How... how long does it last?"

"Just an hour or so. Plenty of time for you to get to that prom of yours." He looked at her solemnly and slowly blinked his big eyes. Ari giggled; that was as close to a sly wink as Crush could get when he was wasted.

"I'm in. Hook me up." She sat next to him, and discreetly palmed the object he slid towards her with a flipper. A quick glance - a nondescript grey tablet - and she swallowed it.

She waited. Nothing much seemed to happen, so she distracted herself by describing her sisters' fixation on humans. "... and when they like someone, they don't say 'I'm hooked' any more, they say they 'have a crush'!" She blinked at Crush, and burst out laughing. "If I-" she snickered, "had a-" she giggled, "a- a- a crush on you-" she snorted, "I'd have a crush on Crush!"

"Dude," he said. "You are like so raptured now."

She nodded, and laughed until she hiccuped. Crush laughed with her.

=========

Eventually the giggles died away to an occasional snort, and they sat in companionable silence. Ari leaned back against his shell, watching the kelp fronds dancing in unseen currents.

"Thanks, Crush," she said. "I needed that."

"Dude, no worries!" he said. "Any time!"

"I suppose I should get ready for this stupid prom," she sighed. Crush just nodded, so Ari slipped behind a clump of sea lettuce and changed into the floaty purple dress. She inched gingerly back to Crush. His eyes boggled appreciatively, but he said nothing but "Dude, want a lift?"

Ari nodded, grabbed the edge of his shell, and they were off, bouncing and scooting through the water. By the time they arrived at the prom, her hair was tangled, the anemone long-lost, and her cheeks were flushed with laughter. "Thanks, Crush!" she said, and boldly made her way inside.

She was immediately engulfed by a gaggle of sisters in a rainbow of gowns. They talked over each other; "Where in water have you been?" "What have you been doing?" "What have you done to your hair?"

The loudest of all, as always, was Aquata, who demanded "Don't you want to be here?"

Ari grinned. "Oh, I'm just raptured to be here."





Apologies to both "The Little Mermaid" and "Finding Nemo"! My partner for this intersection round is mstrobel, and her entry is here.

Jamie clutched her husband's hand and laughed. The grainy black and white image on the screen jumped as the ultrasound handpiece pressed against her slippery stomach jiggled in time with her laughter.

"Two?! What do you mean 'two'?!"

The white-coated technician looked at her and grinned. "Just what I said, there's two in there! You're having twins. Congratulations!"

Jamie's laughter turned to sobs, gasped exclamations of "Twins! What are we going to do?!" and back to laughter again. She hiccuped, and looked at Mike, who hadn't taken his eyes off the screen. "Honey? Are you okay?"

He looked at her, his face expressionless. She could almost see him running mental calculations of increased costs, carseats and cots, clothes and college, but he suddenly squeezed her hand as a giant smile spread across his face. "I'm great."

"Twins! I guess that's why I've been so sick. Everyone kept saying I should be feeling better by 14 weeks."

The technician slid the handpiece over her rounded belly, methodically measuring and searching. "Look here," she said. "They each have their own placenta, and... this line, here, means that they're each in their own amniotic sac."

"What does that mean? Are they identical or not?" Jamie asked. She pictured two girls, with shiny dark curls like Mike, dressed in matching dresses, and then imagined a pair of boys with her blonde hair and blue eyes.

"You'll hear it called 'di-di' but it's the lowest risk twin pregnancy. We can't tell if they're identical or fraternal until they're born- unless it turns out that they're boy/girl twins. You can try to find that out at the 20-week scan."

The technician handed her a towel to mop the clear goo from her skin. Jamie wiped it off as best as she could, and adjusted her clothing. She was suddenly conscious of the precious heaviness within her, in a way that hadn't seemed real before. Two babies!

As she sat up from the reclined bed, her stomach lurched and she quickly put her hand to her mouth and breathed carefully. The technician assessed her pale face and quietly said "Bathroom's across the hall." Jamie lumbered off the bed and scurried across the hallway.

Mike made a brief motion as if to follow her, but instead turned helplessly to the technician. "It's three o'clock. So much for "morning" sickness!"

Jeremy fumbled his keys out of his pocket with one hand, careful not to spill the chicken salad he was carrying, and unlocked the front door. He hadn't mean to be home quite so late, but the code release hadn't gone well. The day had been so busy that he hadn't even got to eat the lunch that a co-worker had dropped on his desk around 1, when they noticed he hadn't even had a coffee break yet.

Charlotte didn't say a word, just offered him the baby. Jeremy hurriedly dropped the chicken salad on the coffee table, and cradled his daughter close. He gazed down at her murky dark eyes, then placed a reflexive kiss on her wispy hair as he looked at his wife.

"Sorry it's so late," he said. "Things fell apart."

"Well, they nearly did here, too," she snapped. "Ella's only just stopped crying, first time all day."

As if in response, Ella stirred, stretching and grumbling, a promise of trouble that threatened to grow. Jeremy cradled her closer and automatically started the swaying bounce that he'd learned over the last six weeks. She turned her head towards his chest and started mouthing her hand. "I think she's hungry."

"She can't be!" Charlotte said, collapsing exhaustedly onto the couch. "I've been feeding her all damn day! I'm not a bloody cow."

"I know... but look," he said, tilting his daughter so that Charlotte could see her searching mouth. "She looks hungry to me."

"Fine, then. You feed her." Charlotte looked away so he couldn't see the tears forming in her eyes. He knew that tone of voice, though, the tone of tiredness, self-doubt and worry. It had become all too familiar lately.

"You know I would if I could," he said, trying desperately to find a tone of sympathy that wouldn't be interpreted as patronising through the endless fug of exhaustion they were operating in. He worried about Ella, but he worried about Charlotte more. Ella had both of them watching out for her, but Charlotte only had him. He refused to think about who was looking out for him.

Charlotte's voice cracked as she muttered, "I don't think my milk's any good."

Jeremy carefully lowered himself to the couch next to her, protective of the infant in his arms. He pressed his leg gently against Charlotte's. "Look at her, though," he said. "She's growing and beautiful. You're doing great."

Charlotte leaned against him, hiding her face. "I'm not! She's hungry all the time! And I'm so tired. I don't know if I can do it."

Jeremy paused. He'd been determined to be the best father he could possibly be, so when Charlotte had gone through stacks of pregnancy books from the library he'd flicked through them, too. An infographic had suddenly come to mind, of growth spurts and wonder weeks. Wasn't there something about a six week growth spurt? It seemed so much her domain, though, and she was so tired and therefore sensitive that he was reluctant to suggest it.

Ella chose that moment to loudly protest the cessation of movement, and her hand-sucking became even more frantic. Jeremy quickly lumbered to his feet and started swaying again.

"Tell you what. How about you try to give her a bit more of a feed, and then I'll jolly her along while you have a shower."

Charlotte lifted her head. "Are you saying I smell?" Jeremy almost made hasty protestations, until he glimpsed her tiny smile, a glint that he hadn't seen in weeks. He grinned back, and gently gave Ella to her. Charlotte sighed, settled back and did the complex one-handed fiddling inside her shirt that preceded every feed. As she delicately fended Ella's hand out of the way and helped her to latch, she glanced up at Jeremy. "What about dinner?"

"I'll sort it out while you're in the shower." Jeremy went to the kitchen and filled a glass of water, just as Charlotte called to ask for one. He quietly grinned to himself at the thought of how quickly some parts of this turbulent change to their life were becoming routine, and gave her the drink.

Back in the kitchen, he rummaged through cupboards, hoping earnestly to find something attractive and, more importantly, easy to make for dinner. There hadn't been last night, and there wasn't tonight. By the time Ella had finished feeding, and Charlotte handed her to him, en route to the shower, he still had no inspiration. In the end, he toasted some bread, found the least soggy lettuce leaves in the fridge, and put the chicken salad on the table. There was only so much he could do one-handed.

Charlotte re-emerged, her hair wrapped in a towel, and took Ella from him. Her fresh clothes were promptly branded with curdled milk. Her resigned sigh was followed by an accepting snort, which grew into an all-out giggle. She sat at the table, laughing, and Jeremy joined her.

When their laughter stopped, they looked at each other, just breathing and smiling, enjoying the camaraderie and synchronicity that used to come so easily.

"I was thinking," Charlotte said as Jeremy dished out their impromptu dinner, "That maybe it's the six week growth spurt. Mum reckons it only lasts for a day or two."

Jeremy nodded in agreement, and ate a forkful of chicken salad. He promptly spat it out. "Urgh," he said. "It's gone off."

I hate practicing this piece. It has such a stereotypical tuba part; 68 bars of careful counting, and then a fortissimo blat of low B flat. The second half is better; it swings into a marching om-pah-om-pah, with lots of interesting bom-bom-bom-bom runs between phrases. That's what a tuba player likes to see.

We're not divas. If we were divas, we'd be twittering away on endless curlicues of hemi-demi-semiquavers, or smouldering on sax solos. Nope; being the bass base is what suits me.

The counting gets a tad tedious sometimes, though.

It's not so bad once you know the piece. Then you can just listen out for cues, so long as you trust your band members. Triple timpani thump? Bar 14. Trumpets coming in with the melody, that's bar 32. The bassoon quacks, and we're halfway there.

There's not much point counting the start of this piece, anyway. We've never made it past bar 60 without stopping for the clarinets to sort out their triplet quaver runs. The conductor will raise an eyebrow and repeat the accented rhythm, DAH-dah-dah DAH-dah-dah DAH-dah-dah DAH. She'll ask them to clap the rhythm, then sing it, then play it before she goes back to bar 60 yet again. I'll count from there; we might make it to bar 83 and my blat.

Here we go again. The beginning ticks past; a trumpet fanfare, a piccolo scale, soaring chords from the French horns. I empty condensation out of my slides and clear out the spit valve. There's the timpani, and the trumpet solo, and the bassoon. Bar 60, here we come.

DAH-dah DAH-dah DAH-dah DAH-dah-DAH... doh.

We stop. The clarinets practice, yet again. Our conductor repeats: DAH-dah-dah DAH-dah-dah DAH-dah-dah DAH. OK. Good? OK.

She starts in bar 60. DAH-dah DAH-DAH-dah DAH-dah DAH-DAH-dah-DAH. Arrrgh. My tuba is going cold, and I'm rapidly losing focus. I mindlessly wiggle my fingers up and down, checking that all the valves are moving freely.

She's working again with the clarinets, clapping and singing rhythms. I share a silent look with the euphonium player on my right. She suppresses an amused twitch of her mouth and looks away.

DAH-dah-dah DAH-dah-dah DAH-dah-dah DAH... surely they have it by now? Our conductor is obviously feeling confident; she's taking it from the top. Timpani, trumpets, bassoon... and coming up to the clarinets.

DAH-dah-dah DAH-dah-dah DAH-dah-dah DAH.

They nail it. I'm so surprised that I completely forget to count, and lose my place in the music. I frantically listen, trying to work out where to come in... is it there? There? Arrrgh, too late.

The conductor stops the band with a wave of her hands. "Tuba missed it," she says. "Go back to bar 60."

The trombone player on my left glares at me. "Sixty-nine bloody bars rest," she mutters. "And we nearly made it that time."

Amanda looked at her watch, and leaned forward to glare at the front door. She wriggled her phone out of her jeans pocket, a bit of a struggle in the confines of the car seat, and double-checked the time. They were going to be late, dammit.

She tapped her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. It was tempting to honk the horn until her husband finally emerged. Despite his work hauling him all over the country, he could never get it into his head that you had to be there well before the flight time, that check-in wasn't something that you just breezed through fifteen minutes beforehand.

Trouble was, he somehow always managed it, schmoozing at the staff and getting on the plane.

He wasn't the one flying this time, though. Amanda had been anticipating this trip for months. Her father, a man her mother described as "a deadbeat perma-child", had contacted her for the first time in 18 years. Despite the history- forgotten birthdays, promised visits that never eventuated, Christmas gifts that never arrived- she was looking forward to seeing him, if for no other reason than to tell him that she never wanted to see him again. She hadn't quite decided.

Nervousness coiled in her stomach, and she gave in to the impulse. She leaned on the horn, blat blat blaaat, and finally he came out. He climbed into the passenger seat, grinned at her, and said "Ready to go?"

Amanda repressed the urge to snarl at him, and started the car in silence. In her peripheral vision she could see Paul open his mouth as if to speak, but change his mind. She accelerated roughly down the street, the tension in her body expressed in her foot. A corner of her mind felt guilty; she wasn't really mad at him, just overwhelmed with anxiety, nerves and the memory of past hurts.

The 20-minute drive to the airport passed without conversation. Amanda stopped the car in the drop-off zone outside the main doors, pulled the key from the ignition, and sat for a moment with her hands in her lap. With a deep breath, she pulled the lever to open the boot, opened the car door and went around to the back. Paul had already collected a luggage trolley from a rack beneath the "Drop-off zone - 5 minutes or less" sign.

He hauled her suitcase out and dropped it on the trolley. She looked at him, and proffered the car keys. "I'm sorry," she said. "It's not-"

Paul pulled her close and hugged her. "It's okay," he said. "I know this must be hard for you."

She nodded, snuggled against his chest. A moment passed, and with another deep breath she stood up straight.

Paul kissed her on the forehead. "It'll be okay. He'll either have got his act together and realised that he's been a fool not to be part of your life, or he's a total dickhead and you'll be right there to kick him in the crotch."

Amanda laughed, offering him the keys again. Paul always made everything all right. He tucked the keys into a pocket, and turned back to rummage in the boot. "If he's a dickhead, I'll kick him twice. He deserves it."

He grinned at her. "Now now, stay calm," he said. He held out her carry-on bag. Amanda took it, and slung the strap over her shoulder. Together they wrangled the trolley up onto the footpath, battling the obligatory wonky wheel.

Paul gave her one last kiss, confirmed her return flight details, and climbed into the car. He waved over his shoulder as he drove away; Amanda waved back.

She pushed her trolley through the automatic doors, and into the bustling airport crowds. Whatever happened on the trip, it would be okay. There was one man in her life she could count on.

The fiddler's bow flashes as he plays, his fingers flickering. His notes flirt with the mandolin and accordion, lighter than my feet will ever be.

I don't care. I dance.

It's a tradition. Monday is an odd night for dancing, but it's the one with the music I love. This pub is usually a refuge for elderly drinkers, but tonight it's claimed by a different clientèle.

The air is stifling. Beer fumes and cigarette smoke condense on my sweaty skin. I'm sober, but intoxicated with camaraderie, endorphins and the love of the music. I am buried in the crowd I meet here every week. Our feet fly together.

The minuscule area in front of the stage was never designed for the enthusiastic efforts of amateur Celtic dancers. These days it flexes beneath us, keeping time with the beating of the bodhrán, with the thumping of my heart.

My eyes meet Niall's across the dance floor. As so many times before, I quickly glance away, feigning interest in the band. I'm not looking, but I am acutely conscious of him, even through the press of bodies and the thrashing of feet.

Everyone whoops as the song finishes, applauding and sucking in lungfuls of the fuggy air. The bearded accordion-player grins at me as the band begins a new tune. This is my favourite set of reels, starting with The Silver Spear and building in intensity to the explosion of the High Reel. It's irresistible; I tap, stamp, kick and spin as the music lifts me from the base of my spine to the top of my head.

The crowd is moving, too, and somehow the shifting of bodies brings me next to Niall. I sneak another glance. The hem of his kilt flicks as he follows the rhythm with lithe grace. His dark hair curls sweat-slicked across his forehead, and his white shirt sleeves are rolled above his elbows. Even sodden with sweat, he smells good.

We dance through the building intensity. The single half-beat of silence before the High Reel is expected, but exhilarating every time. It bursts within my chest like a bubble of joy. The musicians are working as hard as the dancers, pushing the tempo, pushing us, pushing them.

It ends, as it must. The pub explodes with cheers, and the musicians disband, heading for the bar and a well-deserved drink. I head for the door. It's too hot in here, in more ways than one.

The crisp night air is a welcome relief against my flushed cheeks. I lean against the cold concrete wall, trying to catch my breath.

A familiar voice startles me as I'm handed a glass of water. "Here you go. I thought you might like a drink." It's cold and refreshing. Drinking it gives me something to do as I try to form a coherent sentence.

"They're on top form tonight," I offer, gesturing with my head towards the door.

Niall nods. He glances at me and looks away, his usual calm, quiet manner replaced by something more diffident. "You are, too."

I have no way to reply except a smile. We stand in silence until the random twanging of strings tells us the band is doing a quick tune-up.

"Coming?" he asks, holding the door open for me. I suppress the urge to make an old joke, and wade back into the dense atmosphere. He follows me in, and we join the group.

As the music begins, he takes my hand.