'Home Safety' by Linda Irish

Of course things are the same as always. Michael makes light of our relative family rankings. Ella-The-Elf-Wife contradicts herself to be agreeable. Jeannie pulls ‘help me’ faces over forkfuls of pond-life.

Impossible fish and spinach pie is apparently our absolute favourite although nobody remembers saying so. Mum joins every dot for us on a neighbour’s recent illness. Dad’s deaf when Michael mentions insurance. Now the cricket scores. Weather reports from Florida, never mind the devastating floods closer to home. We bowl overripe resentments. Fire answerless questions. It’s funny how the house still smells of safety, despite years of casual emotional vandalism.

“Your Dad’s lost so much weight,” Jeannie whispers in the hallway.

I straighten a dimming family photo. “He’s old.”

“But he’s approaching skeletal,” she insists. She’s become attracted to the dramatic.

My brother’s touting his latest cochlear implant device in the lounge when the hospital ring. Isn’t that strange, 3.42pm on a Saturday? Dad’s snoozing. Michael takes the call, quicksteps Mum into the kitchen. As he passes me, Michael places his hand on my shoulder. Squeezes like he’s checking for irregularities.

“I should dry the dishes,” I hear Mum say. There’s a splutter. A percussive tremor on the slate tiles. When we were kids, I was scared of the Big Wheel. Once a year Riley’s Funfair would roll up and butcher the playing field out back. Michael bet three week’s pocket money I was too chicken. As our car creaked and swung at the apex, he snatched my robot coin-bank, then opened his fingers. Eighty-two feet. Why should I remember that now?

On the bus home Jeannie files her nails furiously. I think of Michael’s hand on my shoulder. How if he hadn’t done that, I might still feel safe.