QUICK FICTION

SHORT STORY

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THE FINAL INSTALMENT OF A NEW SHORT STORY BY KIWI NOVELIST BRONWYN SELL

Istole the grandbaby from her cot 10 minutes after my daughter left – just long enough that I could be sure she wouldn’t circle back to grab some forgotten item. Bad, bad babysitter.

There were precious few opportunities in life to lie on a sofa with a baby sleeping on your chest, and I would take them where I could. Next week this smooshed-up sleeping face would be slightly different, and the week after that, different again, and so on until she was 60-something and her late mother haunted the bathroom mirror, peering out at her while she peered in. In my memory, it seemed like my girls had been babies for a day.

The grandbaby sucked on her lips. (I wasn’t yet calling her by her name. Adeline was a name a child had to grow into. And I liked “grandbaby”. It was what all the cool grandparents were saying.) I adjusted my hold. My arms would be sore tomorrow, but this was worth every ache. Everyone warned you how life zipped by. At some point I’d taken to warning my own girls – yes, it turned out I was that age – but they would just look back at me with a mixture of pity and impatience. By the time you truly understood, it was already too late.

I tsked. Too late? What would a 95-year-old have to say about that? (And would I listen?)

“Life is short,” I whispered to the grandbaby, literally a captive audience. “Take your chances while you can.”

Cars passed along the road outside. Crickets sang. Dreams crossed the grandbaby’s face in twitches and snuffles and sighs. When the ache got too much, I risked changing position, which put my phone in my direct line of sight. The phone in which James Brewer lived. Did I dare release him, like a genie? What would I even wish for?

“One snuffle for yes, two for no,” I told the grandbaby. She didn’t snuffle. “I’ll take that as a yes.” These days Nana made all her own decisions.

Before reason had time to prevail, I grabbed the phone and released the genie. Well, accepted James’ friend request, which was surely the 21st century equivalent.

And cue the pleasant flush. This time I closed my eyes and enjoyed it. The wellbeing mags I’d become addicted to since the separation would probably quote some study about the physiological benefits of romance. Between that and grandbaby cuddles, my serotonin levels had to be off the charts.

My phone beeped, vibrating in my hand. I let out a squeak. The internet messaging beep. James: Well hello, stranger! My face heated. With an armful of stolen grandbaby, I couldn’t hold the phone and type, so with some difficulty (and most things were done with some difficulty now) I laid it on the sofa beside me and hovered my fingers over the screen. After considering multiple options, I settled on “Hi!”

Even so, it took me several minutes to get up the nerve to press send, after which I snapped my hand back fast enough to get wrist whiplash. I snorted at my ridiculousness. James: Are you still living in Auckland? I’ve just moved back. Want to catch up?

Uh-oh. Shizz was getting real, as Alex would say, though she wouldn’t use the word shizz. I started to reply, but couldn’t get past, “Yes, still in Auckland.” I backspaced. Typed it again. Backspaced. Tried something jauntier: “Yep, still trucking along in the big smoke!” Backspaced. Who was I trying to be?

I needed back-up. Alex. I’d given her the rundown that afternoon on the actual phone, taking advantage of the 10-minute window when I knew she’d waiting outside the school gate in her car. Me: Are you there? James has messaged to ask if I want to catch up. I don’t know what to say.

I’d learned that phone messages to the girls could take days to return, if they ever were. Internet messages were returned within the hour, if not the minute. This one took two minutes. Alex: How about yes? As I was reeling from that outlandish suggestion, James messaged. Again! James: (I’m assuming you’re no longer married, seeing as you’re using your maiden name. Apologies if I’ve got that wrong.)

I switched back to Alex. Me: Help, he’s just messaged again and I haven’t replied to the first one. Alex: Ooh. Copy the conversation to me (but only if it’s G-rated). Do you know how to do a screenshot?

I melodramatically rolled my eyes, which was of course lost on the phone. Yes, Baz had done all the techie stuff pre-separation, but the girls had no idea what it was to tune an analogue TV or programme a video recorder. Technology today was so intuitive, when you got used to it. And for anything else, there was Google. I sent the screenshot. Me: I’ve tried to reply a few times but I keep deleting it without sending. Alex: You know he’ll know you’re doing that, right? Me: What? Alex: Watch the screen… Me: ??? Alex: Did a flashing dotdot-dot come up just then? Me: Yes, for a few seconds. Alex: It was telling you I was typing. Me: No! Really?

‘I grabbed the phone and released the genie. Well, accepted James’ friend request, which was surely the 21st century equivalent’

Alex: Dating in the 21st century, Mum. Me: It’s hardly dating. There’s probably nothing in it at all. Alex: Oh, there’s something in it. Me: You can tell that from 40 words, can you? Alex: Sounds like he only wants to catch up if you’re single… Me: You’re reading too much into it. He might just be checking he’s not stepping on Baz’s toes. It’s like that couple-friends rule. The men can catch up. The women can catch up. But one of the husbands can’t meet the other wife for a coffee, no matter how well you get along. That would just feel wrong. Alex: My money’s on my theory. Have you seen this? It’s him, last year.

A photo loaded. A man in a wetsuit. I tried zooming in but my phone wouldn’t let me. He looked trim but I couldn’t make out facial features below the silver hair – shorter now, but at least there. The wetsuit bode well – the beach was my happy place. There was otherwise no sign of the boy I knew. He was a different person. I was a different person. So why did I find myself hoping Alex was right on the whole checkingI-was-single thing? Alex: He looks good. I waited for the disclaimer... Alex: For his age. Me: But what if he does want something and it doesn’t work out? Alex: But what if it does? Me: But what if it doesn’t? Alex: But what if it does? Me: But what if it doesn’t? Alex: Mother! Me: Daughter! Alex: Just say yes. It’s not like he’s proposing – yet! Me: Just when I was talking myself into a life on my own… Alex: Hey look on the bright side – maybe it won’t work out. Me: BUT WHAT IF IT DOES? Alex: LOL. I see what you did there. The will-they-won’t-they is the fun bit. Enjoy it. Take the risk. Me: This is supposed to be fun? Alex: Gotta run, soz. Takeaways are ready. Say yes xxx I inhaled deeply, getting a hit of eau-de-baby, and flicked back to my conversation with James – just in time to see the flashing ellipses. My stomach flipped, which wasn’t something I had experienced outside of gastroenteritis for decades. I waited but the dots disappeared, and no message arrived. Was he unsure too?

Interesting. Maybe Alex was right. Maybe this was a little bit fun. Maybe something would happen, maybe it wouldn’t, but I had to find out, right? And maybe I needed to quit thinking about the maybes and take that tiny terrifying step.

“If you’re sure?” I whispered to the grandbaby. She looked pretty relaxed about the idea. “Here, I go!” I said, calling her bluff. “That’s it, I’m doing it! You’d better stop me now!”

No reaction. It was decided. Me: I’d love to catch up... Where and when?

No, I didn’t want another

husband. But a boyfriend might be fun. #

‘Maybe this was a little bit fun. Maybe something would happen, maybe it wouldn’t, but I had to find out, right?’

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