Free The Other Side of the Bridge by Mary Lawson

and called him from the foot of the stairs.
    “Supper, Ian.”
    “Okay.”
    He went downstairs stiffly, his muscles protesting. His father was in the dining room already, standing by his chair.
    “Hi,” Ian said. He put the quarters Arthur had given him on the table beside his father’s place. “My first wages,” he said proudly.
    His father looked at him. It seemed for a moment as if he didn’t recognize him. Then he smiled faintly and said, “Very good.”
    Ian was disconcerted. He studied his father more closely. He looked strange.
    “Are you okay?” Ian said.
    “Yes,” his father said. “Of course.”
    His mother came in and set a covered serving dish on the table. The vegetable dishes were already there. “We should sit down,” she said. She seemed strange as well. Her eyes were red and he noticed that her hands were trembling.
    They sat down. Ian looked from one to the other. His mother began serving the meal. The scrape of the spoon on the side of the dish seemed to echo back from the walls.
    “Is something wrong?” Ian said.
    “Is this enough meat?” his mother said.
    “Mum? Is something wrong?”
    She put down his plate. She studied it for a moment and then looked down the table at his father. “I have something to tell you,” she said finally. “Your father and I have something to tell you.”
     
     
     
    Afterward, Ian excused himself from the table, leaving his meal untouched—none of them had eaten anything—and went outside. At first he just stood on the porch, not knowing what to do or where to go. It was getting dark. Bats were flicking back and forth above the houses across the street. One of the Beckett kids from next door raced past on his bike, his crouched-over body a gray blur in the dusk. Ian stepped off the porch and started walking. He gave no thought to the direction. He wanted to walk, and not to think. He walked fast, head down.
    His mother had done most of the talking. She’d started off by saying that she was leaving. He hadn’t understood at first—leaving what?—and when he’d finally understood, he hadn’t believed her. He’d thought she must be upset about something he or his father had done and was saying it to punish them. He’d looked to his father for help, and it was his father’s face that told him she was serious.
    She said that she and his father no longer loved each other, hadn’t loved each other for years. His father tried to protest at this but she stopped him. Actions speak louder than words, she said. She had loved him once, and the proof of it was that she had given up eighteen years of her life for him. She’d given up everything to come with him to this—she searched for the right words—this godforsaken place. This wasteland. She had done all the giving.
    After the first couple of sentences Ian had gone temporarily deaf; his mother carried on speaking and he’d been able to hear the sound of her voice, but the words meant nothing. Then his father broke in. It seemed to Ian that his father had aged twenty years since they’d sat down. His face seemed to have caved in. He said, “Beth, for the love of God.” To Ian he said, “I’m sorry. We’re both very sorry. Your mother is upset; she needs a little time away, that’s all.”
    His mother said—now he could hear her again—“Your father is still trying to pretend.”
    By now two clear lines of tears were running down her cheeks. Ian was so stiff with shock he could scarcely draw a breath.
    His father said, “Beth, please. Please.” He looked at Ian and said, “Don’t be too upset. We hope very much that this will sort itself out.”
    “It has sorted itself out,” Ian’s mother said, the shaking of her voice breaking the words into ragged syllables. “This is how it has sorted itself out.”
    Ian couldn’t look at either of them; his eyes were focused on the fine weave of the tablecloth in front of him. He hadn’t even known they were unhappy. Or at least, with