Free The Other Side of the World by Stephanie Bishop Page B

has been exactly friendly. Officially welcoming, perhaps, but not friendly. It isn’t the scene the brochures promised, with barbecues in the backyard and the neighbors dropping by with a casserole for dinner. And there had been that awkward introduction with his boss, Collins, when he stopped by the office on Henry’s first day.
    How was the move, Collins had asked, and are you settling in all right, hope you’re comfortable. If there’s anything I can do, and so on and so forth. Then the question: “So, where did you say you’re from?”
    â€œEngland,” Henry replied.
    â€œYes, yes, of course,” said Collins, pausing. “But where were you born?”
    Henry didn’t want to answer this question. His family had ­always been English, even in India. Especially in India. But ­Collins wouldn’t understand this, and he couldn’t lie. He waited a moment, staring at Collins as though he didn’t understand the question, then opened his mouth. “India,” he said, pushing his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels. “I was born in India.”
    â€œOh?” Collins said. “Yes, of course,” he repeated. “I thought it must have been something like that. Very well then,” he said, backing out the door. “Have a good day.”
    A week or so later, Collins came by again. “Don’t you have a place to go?” he quipped. “Do you sleep under the desk?” Was he being funny? Henry wasn’t sure. He must have looked quizzical, for Collins roared a big laugh and knocked Henry on the shoulder. It’s true—Henry is always the first to arrive and the last to leave. He works hard; he wants to make an impression. It’s also the case that he sometimes isn’t in a hurry to go home of an ­evening—the radio always on when he just needs some silence, the children always tired and hungry. Little May hauling herself up to standing, then falling backwards and banging her head, Charlotte picking her up and trying to soothe her while she stirs a pot of something, Lucie tugging at Charlotte’s skirt. But after Collins’s comment he has been more cautious. No need to draw attention. Now he leaves work at five like everyone else and sits down to dinner at six.
    He flicks the indicator and turns left towards the highway. Three months. To think they’ve been here three months. He can’tmake sense of it. It feels like a year at least—at other times it feels only a matter of days.
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    Once Henry has gone, Charlotte gets up, pushes her feet into her slippers, and goes to the bathroom to brush her teeth. As she bends over to run the water she slips sideways, lifting her arms and gripping the basin so as to steady herself. It is the fatigue, the run of nights with a teething baby. She had forgotten. How could she have forgotten? The way the solid world dissolves. Walls jump into her path, doorways narrow, sinks and counters shrink and pull ­backwards. Yesterday she dropped a plate and two cups, all of them shattering over the wooden floor. She remembers holding the crockery and then feeling her fingers let go. In between there was the quickest thought that moved ever so slowly through her mind: I think the cup is slipping. I think I’m going to let go . Now she shuffles to the kitchen, holding her hand to the wall to steady herself, and prepares ­breakfast: cereal, followed by toast and another pot of tea. She puts the placemats down, sets out the bowls and plates, knives and spoons. There is the milk bottle, the sugar, the butter dish, the cereal box. She takes the bread from the freezer and prizes off three slices.
    The crates and furniture sit in an awkward jumble in the hall and living room. Although she has been looking forward to the shipment, today unpacking is the last thing she wants to do. She opens the cardboard tabs on the cereal box and a flurry of tiny moths escapes