The Funny Thing about Norman Foreman by Julietta Henderson (sci fi books to read .TXT) 📗

always getting the pat-on-the-head, don’t-you-worry-about-a-thing-little-lady treatment. Although that could be partly because I’m the only little lady in a used-car lot full of big men. But a counsellor I saw once not long after my dad died, recommended by a kindly and rather observant lecturer at university, did once tell me, almost admiringly I have to say, that I had a ‘vulnerable quality’. She pronounced each syllable very slowly – vul-ner-ab-le – and it was a few panicky seconds before I realized she hadn’t just told me I had a serious gynaecological condition. Which, now that I think about it, in a way was pretty close to the mark. For a couple of months, at least. Anyhow, as handy as coming across as a helpless female can be at my job when it comes to getting things off the high shelves in spare parts or the stationery cupboard, it’s hardly the way you want your only child to see you, is it?

On the night I saw Norman’s amendments to the Five Year Plan we lay on his bed together for a long time, just staring at it without either of us saying a word. I could feel the heat from his psoriasis seeping through his pyjamas like a third person, mixing in with the smell of toothpaste and still, faintly, cheese. Even though it always flared up when he was stressed or tired or had overdosed on dairy, so I thought I was prepared for what was coming, in the weeks after Jax died Norman’s skin condition took on epic proportions. The worst it had ever been. It looked like it was positively gloating. Spreading across his arms, legs and torso and creeping up the inside of his neck to fringe his chin and cheeks like a rosy Amish beard. Claiming its best friend back. Where ya been, buddy?

As usual, it fell to the more mature one of us to break the deadlocked silence. And when Norman’s voice finally hiked across the great divide of blankets it was high-pitched and wobbly, reminding me of the younger, lonelier, pre-Jax version of my boy that I thought had gone for ever.

‘It doesn’t mean anything, Mum. Honest. It doesn’t matter. It’s just, I dunno. I didn’t even . . . I don’t . . . I just thought maybe . . .’ Yes, Norman, I wanted to say. Maybe. Maybe your biological father will get over the shock of finding out he has a fully formed pre-teen son as a result of a brief encounter in a pub car park or a student bedsit with a totally forgettable girl. Maybe he and his lovely wife will be delighted at the prospect of a new addition to their family of high-achieving kids. And maybe the Edinburgh Fringe will welcome an unknown twelve-year-old boy with dubious comic timing as their headline act and the next year you’ll sell out Wembley and your father will be the proudest man alive, clapping from the front row.

Maybe all that will happen and you’ll be too busy and too deliriously happy to remember about your dead best friend and having to look after your mother, when she should be looking after you. Point number one continued to hover insolently in the space between the wall and the bed, wafting its accusing breath over me. I wanted to knock its bloody block off.

I could hear the branches of the apple tree in our front garden banging up against the window downstairs. I’d been meaning to get them trimmed back for about two years. Hadn’t got around to it. Just like I hadn’t got around to giving Norman a father. Just like I hadn’t got around to jumping back on the ride of life with the rest of the human race since my father died. Bloody serves me right now – and where did that come from?

My mouth was so thick with unspoken words I was nearly gagging. Pick a few and just say them. But that big, greasy word soup slurping around in my mouth was swirling so fast I couldn’t quite get a tongue-hold on the right ones. The good-mother ones. Open wide, Sadie.

‘I never knew you wanted to find your father, Norman.’ Brilliant. Of all the things my son needed to hear right then, I’m pretty sure that wasn’t one of them. In the silence that followed I could tell he was considering his answer carefully, so as not to hurt my feelings. And knowing that hurt more than anything he ever could have said. Look after Mum.

‘I don’t. I mean, I didn’t, Mum. Not really. I just thought . . . well, with Jax gone, it’s just . . . it’s just me now, isn’t it?’ The kid’s voice nearly killed me on the spot. Soft, shaky and trying so hard to be brave. And he wasn’t wrong.

‘I’m never going to have another friend like Jax, Mum. But I . . . I just thought that maybe the next best thing might be a dad. You know. Like a . . . a guy.’ And the thing is, it was one of the few times in my life that maybe I actually did know.

The branches were still banging against the window and the big yellow plan was still hanging on the wall. Jax was still dead and everything was just the same as it had been two minutes ago. But nothing was.

Now, I don’t really know how what happened next happened, because I certainly don’t recall thinking I had something useful to say. I blame point number one and wanting to knock its bloody block off, because what came out of my mouth was a total and utter surprise to me. And that’s putting it mildly.

‘I think maybe you’re going to need some help with that new plan of yours, Norman.’

As soon as the words were out, slamming number one back against the wall in their crushing wake, I felt Norman’s breathing quicken on the pillow next to me. Even the other person in the bed stirred in surprise and let