Paths Cross

He sat in the back when she picked him up, even though the car was empty. She sat diagonally in front, glancing anxiously in the rear view mirror, wondering whether sitting in the back was good hitchhiker etiquette. He was her first. It was too dark by then to distinguish much more than a muted face, bearded and guarded with an emotionless glaze. Without a word they passed through the barely illuminated town streets to the quiet cul-de-sack where she lived, alone. He was little more than a teenager, eighteen or nineteen maybe, and an inch or two taller than her. Maybe it was his youth that had compelled her to stop earlier that day, or maybe it was the gnawing guilt that she had wasted her life on worthless things. She wasn’t a woman of charity, and she detested the interruption of her regular routines and habits; but if she could help, she would. Any decent person would.

She had known he would come home with her the moment she picked him up. When she suggested it on the ride home, he had nodded a little and muttered, “Yeah, thanks.” They drove in silence the rest of the way: his gaze fixed on a still point beyond the window, her thoughts roaming far and wide. She imagined the conversation she would have on the phone to her daughter this weekend, Kitty’s gasps of surprise punctuating her retelling of the hitchhiker story. She debated stopping at Tesco to buy something for tea tonight, but what would he do? Wait in the car for her? She tried to remember when she had last used the spare room and whether the bed was made. She wondered at herself: pulling into her usual parking space, unlocking the door to her end-of-terrace house, switching on the lights and inviting a stranger to share this piece of her life.

Standing awkwardly exposed in the artificial light of the kitchen, he looked even younger, newly emerged from boyhood but bearing an expression that said he was past caring what happened in life. She filled the kettle and tried to ignore the stale smell of smoke and old chips that had drifted into her home: the smell of city streets. Here in her house with sofa and toaster, vases and clocks and wallpaper and curtains, he looked uncomfortably out of place. In the car it had been okay; he belonged to the in-between places of the world, not here where a stable family had lived and laughed together through the years.

“Here.” She took a pale blue towel from the airing cupboard and led him upstairs to the bathroom she never used. Why would she, with her en-suite? “Have a shower. I’ll get some tea on.” He shed his grubby rucksack on the landing and disappeared into the bathroom. She stood motionless for a moment, and then the shower clicked on and sent her hurrying off to find fresh sheets for the guest room. It was clean and empty, devoid of any trace of previous ownership. Once, not so long ago, this house was full of energy, every room stamped with the solid imprint of family life. Gosh, it seemed a lifetime ago now. She never could have imagined that, age 48, she’d be living alone again, divorced from her husband and alienated from her son. Who could have foreseen the fragility of it all?

He took his time in the shower, doubtless trying to scrub away months of street grime and bathe his bitterly cold body back to life. Bent over the sink, she heard him shuffle into the kitchen and felt his eyes boring into her back. Rinsing the last glass, she closed her eyes for a minute before picking up the cutlery and turning to lay the table.
“It’s only leftover chicken with some spuds and veg. Nothing special, but I did a bit of gravy if you want it. Usually it’s only me so, you know, I don’t bother much.”
“That’s fine. Perfect, really. Thanks.” His white-knuckled grasp on the chair frame betrayed the nonchalance in his voice; she half expected him to bolt out the door like a frightened rabbit before she’d served up. But as if reading her mind, he slipped into the seat and clasped his hands in his lap, gazing unwaveringly at the swirling floral pattern of the tablecloth. Steaming plates of food appeared and she wiped her hands and took her usual seat at the table, next to him, side by side. How long was it since she ate with anyone? David and Theresa came over three weeks ago with their kids, and she’d only just stopped finding biscuit crumbs and bits of toast down the side of the sofa from their visit. Perhaps not since then.

“Go ahead, eat. There’s plenty more if you want.” She’d noticed the sharpness of his shoulders, the hollowness of his cheeks; his portion was twice the size of hers. With a slow nod, deliberately and methodically he picked up the knife and the fork and began to eat. Side by side they ate, with nothing but the scraping of cutlery to serenade a remarkable meal.
“When did you last have a hot meal?”
“Dunno. Last Saturday, maybe.”
Silence.
“You’ve got somewhere to go on to tomorrow, I suppose?”
He nodded, but didn’t say anymore. She’d hardly expected him to. Nervously shifting the cutlery on her empty plate, she tried again: “Can I do a bit of washing for you? I’m putting a load on anyway tonight, so it’d be no bother.” She waited while he chewed and swallowed, still only halfway through his plate.
“That would be good. Thanks.”
“Just pop it in that laundry basket over there. I’ll put it in the dryer so it’s ready to go nice and early.”
Another nod of acknowledgement.

Suddenly aware of the strangeness of the situation, she stood abruptly, knocking her knee on the underside of the table and rushing off to tidy away the dishes. There was still ice cream in the freezer, she remembered, but that would mean more time at the table, together.
“There’s ice cream in the freezer. Help yourself if you want some later,” her voice echoed through to her guest in the dining room. Usually she tore through the dishes, a skill honed by years of motherhood, but tonight she deliberately took her time. Every few minutes she found a reason to turn around and steal a look at his slumped figure, shovelling and chewing as though it was the last thing he would ever do.

He didn’t say anything when he left the table. She heard the chair slide out and then the creak of the stairs as he climbed. Minutes later he returned wearing the striped pyjamas she’d put out for him and clutching a thin plastic carrier bag, swollen with the rags he’d been wearing moments before. Just for a second, their eyes met and there was a glimmer of clarity and understanding. “That’s the lot.” He dropped the bag at her feet and fled back upstairs. “Hey, did you want that ice cream? Or a bit of telly?” She hurled words after him in desperation, hoping to crack his hardness with the onslaught. “You’re really very welcome to stay in the lounge for a bit. I’ve got a few things to do for tomorrow so you’d have it to yourself.” But he was gone, impossibly insulated in the empty space of the spare room. If only a flimsy wooden door was all that separated them.

From nowhere, a profound weariness fell on her shoulders. She was spent; exhausted, as washed out as her limp kitchen curtains. The attractive furnishings and matching upholstery of her home that had so often filled her with delight were an insincere veneer tonight. She hated it all. Pressing her fingers hard into her skull, she scrunched her eyes closed and tried to reason herself back into the security of her humdrum life. Tomorrow she would drive into work, drink tea in the staff room with Mel, predictably discuss the latest episode of some period drama. But beneath it all she was still alone, so completely alone. She opened her eyes and stared out of the dark window, looking beyond her haunting reflection in the glass. If only she could turn back the clock. If only life could be like it used to.

It was nearly midnight. She pulled curtains across the darkness and set the washing machine, then poured herself a glass of milk to take upstairs. Habit forced her to double-check the door was locked before she flicked out the lights and trod heavily up to her bedroom in the darkness. She left the light off while she undressed, swiftly and shivering with cold. Only once she was folded between the crisp, clean sheets did she switch the bedside lamp on and pick up her novel while she finished sipping the milk. Her eyes stumbled through the words on the page, completely disconnected from her brain. Folding the corner and taking off her glasses, she checked the time on her digital alarm clock: 12:03am. Was it too late to call Kitty? It was a Thursday so she’d just be finishing her shift. The yearning to talk to someone about this evening was unbearable now that the possibility had entered her mind. She reached across to the opposite bedside table for the phone, and punched in Kitty’s number.

“Hello?”
“Hi Kit. It’s not too late, is it?”
“Of course not, Mum! I’ve just got in. Everything all right?” Her tone was quick and distracted.
“Well, yes, it’s been an eventful evening...”
Kit interrupted, “Was work ok?”
“Yes, yes, fine.” Kit didn’t seem to hear her.
“So you’ll never guess what happened at work today.” She paused for a second and then ploughed on. “Darren finally asked Kate out, but she said no because she likes Tim, but of course she didn’t tell Darren that, only that she didn’t...” her voice blathered on, meaningless to anybody save herself.
“Mum? Mum, you still there?”
“Yes, yes darling. I’m here. Sounds like you’ve had quite a day,” she cooed in her well-rehearsed motherly voice.
“So, how are you? How’s your week been?” Kit sounded sincere, but she knew it was nothing more than polite concern.
“Fine, Kit. Just the usual.” All of her intentions to tell Kit about tonight, about him, faded away. It seemed foolish now. “Look, Kit, I’d better let you get to bed. But I’ll ring again on Sunday.” Her voice was tired and harassed.
“Ok.” Kit sounded worried. “Mum, you sure you’re alright?” The concern was genuine now.
“Fine, darling. Just a bit tired. Speak soon.”
“Ok. Love you.”
“Love you too. Bye.”
The call clicked off and she put the phone back in its place.

It took longer than usual for her to fall asleep that night. When she finally did drift off, she dreamt incessantly of him. In her dreams she carried him back through the years into the past, to a golden time when he was a little boy with a loving family. She dreamt of him putting on a royal blue uniform for his first day at school, his face full and shining with expectation in the late autumn sunshine. Then she was watching him play football on a freshly mown playing field, shouting to his mates and laughing with the carefree abandon of youth. Every so often he would glance across, catch her eye and smile mischievously, as though sharing some secret joke. She carried him all the way to puberty and through his teenage years. Doors slammed, arguments blazed, tears were shed. His face grew longer and older; his eyes became dark and hollow; his smile faded. She woke up in the blackness with sweat on her forehead and sheets twisted around her ankles.

He was there waiting for her when she slept again. This time she released him into the future, setting him free in the unknown. She dreamt of him curling up to sleep in a dark, roadside alcove; his body was pale and stiff as a corpse, buried by rugs and blankets. Then he was standing on the roadside, his arm outstretched and thumb upturned: just as she’d found him yesterday. Every corner she turned in her dream he was there again, waiting. Occasionally he would evaporate into a heaving city crowd and she would fight to keep her eye on him, then lose him, then become frantic in her search for him. All through the night he journeyed through her dreams and she chased after him, never quite catching up, never connecting. She would reach out her arm but he was always just an inch away; before she could touch his shoulder, he would be gone.

She must have succumbed to the numbing placebo of deep sleep eventually, because it was already light when she woke, a good half hour later than usual. The full force of cold, hard reality hit her immediately, a stinging slap in the face. He was still here, in her house, where he belonged. Her dreams and the memories they had evoked lingered with the eerie morning mist; her feelings had changed since she went to bed last night. A new determination rose up in her, brought to life by a spark of hope that things could change, had to change. By the time she had made the bed, her resolve to talk honestly with him was set. She ran through the conversation a thousand times while the kettle boiled: she would tell him how she missed him, how she longed for his company, how she would be more understanding this time. She’d talk practicalities, offer him his own space, make him feel welcome but not a burden. She would apologize for the harsh words of the past and for how things had turned out, so far from what she’d intended. Buttering her toast, she allowed herself to imagine the future. She’d cut down her hours at work so she could spend more time with him. Maybe they’d book a holiday, with Kitty too, go somewhere nice. The possibilities tessellated around her in the dazzling and intoxicating technicolour of dreams. Anything could happen.

As she stood in the kitchen scraping crumbs off her plate, she noticed the washing machine. Empty. She froze, inhaled sharply. He was awake. She dropped the plate, ran up the stairs. Maybe he was just packing, or maybe he’d taken his clothes to get dressed and fallen back to sleep. She’d not heard anything from his room. She stood outside his door, catching her breath and listening. Nothing. Her heart pounded and her hand shook. She knocked once, twice. Nothing. “James?” Her voice was quiet. “James? Are you there?” A bit louder. She waited. He couldn’t be gone, not now when things were about to change. She hadn’t had time. It was all wrong. Slowly, she pressed the handle down and let the door swing open. The curtains were open and the room was blindingly bright with white morning light. Full of light, and completely empty. The bed was made, the pyjamas were folded neatly at the foot of the bed, and he was gone.

There, bathed in the harsh and unforgiving light of the early morning, she fell to her knees and wept. She wept for lost opportunities and unrealised blessings of the past. She wept for the hope that had been stolen from her and the grace that she’d never possessed. And she wept bitter, bitter tears for her son, her only son, because who could say whether their paths would cross again in this world.