Free Where the Moon Isn't by Nathan Filer Page A

wiped his hands on a paper towel and climbed down the ladder. I stayed in the bedroom, listening.
    ‘Can we change the colour, Richard?’
    ‘You liked it.’
    ‘I know. And I do. Can we?’
    I could hear them hugging, a kiss planted on a cheek. ‘If we leave now, we’ll get there before it closes.’
    As they pulled out of the driveway Dad wound down his window, waving and holding his thumb in the air. I took a deep breath, smelling the wet paint. Then I smeared a section with my fingertips and let it dry against my skin. I’m hopeless at naming colours, but it was something like terracotta. It was rich and warm, and all at once I understood they would come back with white or magnolia or one of those colours you see in waiting rooms and offices, but don’t really notice.
    When we decorate a room, we’re wiping away its old personality and giving it a new one. Mum could lose the Pokémon wallpaper and curtains, the aeroplanes on strings. But she didn’t want a room people commented on; she didn’t want paint with personality. That’s what I think, anyway. And it might sound mad, but my mum is mad. We have more in common than we care to admit.
    We got rid of my brother’s belongings. Even the N64 went to a charity shop, along with three black bin liners full of his clothes. This was Sunday and the shop was closed, so we did what the sign said, and left them in the doorway. That felt strange but we didn’t need a ceremony – it was what it was; stuff no longer needed.
    Of course his keepsake box stayed. That goes without saying. When everything else was finished, Dad placed it carefully inside the new IKEA wardrobe, and we were done.
    I suppose it should have been obvious that after a knee operation my granddad would need a bed downstairs.
    Perhaps it was obvious. He stayed with us until he was out of the wheelchair, and all the while he slept on a fold-out in the lounge. As far as I know he never once made it upstairs. He didn’t even see the new guest bedroom. Or its magnolia walls.

 
    milestones
    It was the way our shadows were cast. The sun was low in the sky behind us, and as I pedalled, my mum kept pace, running three or four steps behind me, shouting encouragement: You’re doing it, sweetheart. You’re doing it. Looking at the ground, I watched her shadow, watched it slowly recede so that my front wheel was criss-crossing her knees, then torso, then head, and I was pulling away. I really was on my own.
    ‘I’m ready, I can do it.’
    ‘Pardon? I can’t hear you.’ Mum was calling through my bedroom door. ‘Now please. You need to get ready.’
    I pushed my face against my mattress, nudging at a spring with my jaw. ‘What time is it?’
    ‘It’s nearly midday. We need to get going or you’ll miss it.’
    I took a deep breath. My sheets smelled sweaty and stale. ‘I’m not going,’ I said.
    ‘Of course you’re going.’
    ‘They’ll post them.’
    ‘I can’t hear you. Can I come in?’
    ‘I said, they’ll post them.’
    As she opened my door, she gave it a little tap. Then came the sigh, and the smallest shake of her head.
    ‘What? Say it.’
    ‘You’re not even up,’ she said.
    ‘I’m tired.’
    ‘I thought—’
    ‘I never said I was going.’
    In a single movement she picked up clothes from my floor, dropping them into my laundry bin. She stood for a while, looking around the room, noticing the small pipe and bag of that Bloody Stuff on my bedside table, pretending not to notice, and then quickly turning to open my curtains.
    ‘Matthew. What on earth?’
    My curtains were no good because the light would creep under the folds, so I’d flattened out empty cereal boxes and taped them over the glass. ‘Oh for— what next?’
    ‘Leave it! I need it there. It’s too bright.’
    ‘It’s meant to be bright, it’s called daytime. It’s like a cave in here.’
    ‘I mean it. Leave it.’
    She stared at the cardboard, her hand still raised to take it down. Then she closed the