The Nightmare Puzzle

Sleep had eluded the boy for weeks now. Every night the conversation replayed over and   over again in his head.

‘We still love you very much, this doesn’t change that okay, boys?’

He tossed and turned in the bed as if battling with a memory that he simply could not shake off.

‘Sometimes, parents have to make tough decisions.’

Sweat pooled around the child, clinging to his cotton bedsheet, as he murmured incomprehensible replies to the words that streamed clumsily from his mother’s mouth.

‘We just weren’t happy any more. We haven’t been happy together for a long time. We need some time apart.’

‘NO!’

Ewan twisted so violently in the bed that the top half of his torso flopped over the edge of his mattress and he tumbled onto the floor with a smack and a yelp. He lay there, wild-eyed, waiting for the dream to erase itself from his mind’s eye and for the relief of the morning sunshine to wash away the stress of the night. 

These nightmares had infested Ewan’s mind since that terrible day two months ago when his parents sat him and his brother down in the living room. They were all assembled. Brother, brother, mother, father. Tantalising aromas of saag aloo and pilau rice wafted from the greasy metal containers towards Ewan’s nose and he had so desperately wanted to dive in and lap up the warm mouthfuls of sauce and vegetables after a long day playing football in the midsummer heat. He would have to wait. Mum told both brothers to sit their plates down, mute the television, and listen.

Mum paused. Shoulders hunched. Trying her best to maintain eye contact as droplets pushed their way through her thick lashes. Dad was motionless. He didn’t say a word the entire time, hiding behind his wife’s valiant effort to speak before the tears won the battle for control of her face. Mum said all of the stuff that Ewan had seen on those crappy American sitcoms where mums and dads split up. This was not a sitcom. This was real life.

Once mum had finished the announcement, she turned to dad. He nodded, regurgitated a few of mum’s words and then slumped back in his chair. He did not seem all that interested in discussing the matter any further. It was already decided. Ewan’s dad had never been one to dwell; not openly at least.

So they unmuted the television, solemnly scooped up the remainder of their curry and then, one by one, each member of the family shuffled off to bed without another word being spoken that night. 

Ewan had replayed the events of this evening in his head over and over again. Not only had the conversation plagued his dreams but his mind uncontrollably drifted back to that night whenever he was at school, playing football, or sat in the car on the short drive between his mum’s house and his dad’s part-furnished flat. 

Special didn’t quite do it justice when it came to describing Ewan. He was exceptionally bright, with a mind that was equally capable of solving a Rubik’s cube in under two minutes as it was writing poetry in the shower. He was one of the great thinkers of his age bracket, and whenever something new happened within earshot he would ponder every angle and every permutation until he had connected all of the dots and the answer sharpened in his mind. That was why the divorce had hit him so hard. Even at ten years old he felt as if he had failed to spot the patterns of behaviour that must have played out right in front of him; in his home no less. How could he have been so blind as to miss the slow death of his family?

These thoughts continued to harass Ewan in the days and weeks since that night in front of the TV, and - despite being no older than ten at this point - he could not help but feel that his dreams were not simply an unwelcome midnight visitor. They were trying to help him see something; he needed to solve this puzzle.

Back on the bedroom floor, and having recovered his breathing, Ewan staggered to his feet and waddled out of his bedroom and down the hallway. He made his typical early morning pit stop in the bathroom to relieve the pressure that had tormented his bladder, not his brain, throughout the night.

Ewan never locked the door. He had found himself stuck in a public toilet at Waterloo train station - the big, scary adult’s toilets - when the sliding bolt simply wouldn’t slide back in the direction needed to free the panicking little boy. Ewan’s mum waited outside, not wanting to enter the men’s bathroom unless absolutely necessary, but when she heard a primal scream come pouring from the lungs of her child after five minutes of failed escape attempts, she bolted past several confused, exposed men and managed to jiggle the door from the outside to loosen the bolt. She was a good mum. She knew how to fix any problem that Ewan couldn’t resolve himself. Just not a marriage, it seemed. 

After relieving his bladder and wiping any traces of his morning activities from the toilet seat he forgot to lift, Ewan thumped his way down the stairs and into the living room. He was spending the weekend with his mum, and so Ewan followed his typical Sunday morning routine of grabbing his fully-charged Nintendo Switch, launching himself headfirst into the comfiest sofa in the living room and settling down for an hour or so of intensely focused gaming. This morning’s game of choice? Superstar Mini Golf. Ewan had never been into real life mini golf, but something about trying to place a pixelated golf ball into a hole on a colourful screen using only your thumbs really appealed to the problem solver in him. The bright colours summoned solutions from deep in his brain. It allowed Ewan to do his best thinking.

Ewan’s mum trundled into the room with her morning coffee. Black, always. She nested down in the free armchair and watched as her son held the console up above his head, contorting his body like a cat that stretched in the sun in search of the warmest sunbeam. Ewan seemed a happy enough child, all things considered. She was relieved that he was doing so well in school and appeared as chirpy and mischievous as ever. 

She didn’t know about the nightmares.

Ewan dropped his arms to smile at his mum. She returned the smile with as much enthusiasm as she could muster these days, but before she could ask her son how he had slept, he bolted up from the sofa and bounced towards her.

‘So, Mum. It’s Daisy’s birthday tomorrow. After school, she’s having that party isn’t she? So I wanted to go out later and buy her a card and something pink or glittery. That’s the sort of stuff she normally likes! Girly stuff! So I need your help finding something pink and glittery. Maybe with a horse or a dog on it, okay?’

Daisy and Ewan were best friends. Their parents had much by chance on a trip to Centerparcs five years sooner and the four of them had hit it off instantly. The dads loved Northern Soul music and supported equally disappointing football teams. The mums loved fashion and travel and were both fiercely successful in male dominated careers. Fortunately, the children had clicked just as much as the adults, and Ewan and Daisy had become best friends overnight. They attended the same school, walked to and from school together most days - accompanied by Ewan’s dad or Daisy’s mum - and played for hours after school in the park or at each other's house. Ewan had pushed through all sorts of teasing from his fellow ten year olds, with his male friends questioning why he would want to be best friends with a girl, but Ewan could not have cared less. Daisy made him feel happy. He loved her, in the way only a ten year old loves so completely and so innocently.

Ewan had not seen Daisy for weeks.

They were in different classes in school, and for the last few weeks had been placed on a different lunch and play rota. Ewan’s mum had started walking him to school, which she had never done before, and after school Ewan’s dad would collect him in a whirlwind rush through the playground before Ewan had a chance to pick Daisy out of the crowd. The routine had changed and Daisy had been carved out of it. Ewan did not understand, yet he knew that the birthday party would be the perfect opportunity to rekindle their friendship.

‘So, Mum? Can we go to the shop? Pleeeeeease?’

Ewan’s mum stiffened in the chair and slowly sat up, shoulders hunched once more as she swept a hand across her face. She paused for a moment, considering her options.

‘Sorry sweetie. We have to go to the opticians tomorrow so you won’t be able to go to Daisy’s party. Why don’t we get her a card and a present and I will drop it over at their house when you are at school?’ 

The lie stung her lips like acid.

Ewan’s heart sank. This was his first chance in ages to see his best friend and yet his mum seemed to care more about his stupid eyes than his friendship. The typically docile boy felt a burst of anger surge through his body. 

‘No, Mum! I haven’t seen her for weeks. Every time I want to see her you say we have to be at the doctor or the dentist or go shoe shopping. I don’t care about this stuff, I want to see my friend!’

Mum’s eyes exploded with surprise. This was an uncharacteristic outburst from Ewan, but in truth she was surprised he hadn’t reacted like this to the events of the past weeks any sooner. She knew the avoidance and the lies could not last forever. She had hoped for a little more time to figure out the right thing to say.

‘Ewan, I’m sorry my love. But we can’t go. I just can’t - I can’t be there and your dad is away so you won’t be able to get there. Let’s just sort a card and I’m sure you will see each other soon.’

This response was insufficient in Ewan’s mind.

‘No, no. I know, I’ll call Daisy’s dad and ask him to come and collect me.’

‘No, Ewan. You will not do that, Graeme is a busy man and he’ll be-’

‘Fine, I’ll call Daisy’s mum. I’m sure she will come and get me. She likes me. She’s always nice to me, unlike you right now!’

‘Don’t you ever speak to me like that. Don’t you ever fucking say that to me, Ewan do you understand! Don’t mention her in this house!’

Ewan’s mum covered her mouth, as if she was trying to push the poison back where it came from before it could corrupt her son’s heart but Ewan’s eyes were already swelling with tears. He drooped his head and began sobbing, quietly. 

If a stranger had just walked in the room, and hadn’t met Ewan before, they might think he was quietly sulking. Ewan’s mum knew that, for her son, these moments of outward emotion were a big deal. She felt terrible. Scrambling towards him, she hugged him and began the repair.

‘Sweetheart, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to shout or swear. You haven’t done anything wrong, I’m so, so sorry.’

Ewan peeled himself away from his mum’s arms. He was devastated, but not because of the shouting. The truth that had felt just out of arm’s reach this whole time had suddenly smacked him in the face and now - despite his tender age - he knew exactly why his parents were separating. He knew why Daisy had been surgically removed from his life. He knew why his mum had snapped upon mentioning Daisy's mum.

He had known this whole time, but only now did he see. No need for the opticians after all.

‘What did he do, Mum?’

‘What do you mean, Ewan?’

‘Dad. What did Dad do with Daisy’s Mum?’

Those American sitcoms had taught Ewan more than just the script for announcing a divorce. They had also shown this young boy some of the reasons why mums and dads broke up. Ewan had assumed that adults only kissed the wrong adults on television, but as he thought back to his mum’s flattened energy, his dad’s constant absence from the house at weekends and the way Dad and Daisy’s mum sat a little too close on the sofa and then awkwardly shuffled apart whenever Ewan entered the room, the pieces of the puzzle finally made sense. His mum’s refusal to let him attend a simple birthday party was the missing piece.

Ewan’s mum sat back, took a deep breath, and finally gave up the fight. He deserved the truth. She wouldn’t lie to her son in the face of such a direct and reasonable question.

‘Sit down, Ewan. Ask me anything. No more lies.’

Mother and son talked for the next two hours. No flashy virtual golf could peel Ewan away from the conversation with his mum that seemed to dislodge the weight that had sat in his chest for the past two months. Each sentence shared drained the stress as he finally heard the truth. Ewan’s mum had suspected something was going on. Her friends had suspected the same. She snuck a look at Dad’s mobile phone and it had confirmed everything. She confronted him and he had admitted to it all.

It had been going on for three years.

‘Mum, when is dad home from his trip?’, Ewan asked purposefully.

‘Tonight, sweetie. He’ll be back around 7pm. Why do you ask?’

‘Can you call him? I want to speak to him when he is home.’

‘Are you sure, my love? It’s a lot of information for you to think about. Maybe you should take a few days and let me talk to him first?’

Ewan smiled, much to his mum’s shock. He had been trying to figure out this mystery for weeks. It had been keeping him awake at night and infesting his dreams. Despite the revelation, this was the most relief the young boy had felt for two months, and he was never one to avoid an opportunity for new information,

Ewan had his dad in his crosshairs now. He told his mum to make the call.

Four hours later, there was a knock at the door. Ewan’s mum trudged towards the door but the blur of her emboldened son whizzed past her and, before she could say a word, Ewan opened the door and stood staring at his dad.

Ewan’s dad filled the door frame with the molten-orange lamplight silhouetting him. He looked imposing and yet Ewan glared, necked jolted upwards, searching for eye contact with the shadow man before him.

‘Ewan, er, h-how are you, son?’

Ewan stepped aside, keeping a hand on the door and slowly pushing it to a close just as his dad slumped into the house.

Ewan stepped back in front of his dad, grabbed a handful of the hem of his dad’s t-shirt and began walking towards the back room. Ewan’s dad exchanged a confused look with his ex-wife but she offered him no relief from will of the determined little boy. Ewan’s dad followed, entered the back room and sat down cautiously in the nearest chair. Ewan looked at his mum, smiled confidently and then slowly shut the heavy wooden door. He wanted to speak to his dad, one on one. Man to man.

Weeks of stress and bad dreams and confusion. Ewan could now put a name to the face of his pain and, finally, the culprit sat sheepishly in front of him looking utterly bewildered by the silent authority of this ten year old boy. The forty-five year old man tried to reclaim some authority by speaking first,

‘Ewan, your mum tells me you want to talk. I just want you to know that things aren’t always as clear as they se-’

Ewan raised a tiny, slender finger to his lips and his dad’s bumbling sentence faded with a whimper.

‘Dad’, Ewan spoke, slowly. ‘Start from the beginning. Don’t lie to me. I will know’

Ewan’s mum stood just outside the door, ear pressed to the wood hoping to pick up the scraps of whatever her formidable son was extracting from her slippery ex-husband. The past couple of months had been horrific and she had lost faith in men after learning of the extent of the betrayal delivered by the man she loved. And yet, as she thought about her son holding his own dad to account and forcing him to take responsibility for his actions, she could not help but smile.

‘He’s nothing like his dad’, she whispered to herself. 

Tears again, tonight. Tears of pride, this time.