My Internal Organs Have Melted

Published July 23, 2021 by Naomi Rettig

              

If I was rum and raisin ice-cream

I would not be here,

I’d have melted away,

Evaporated, dissolved,

Just my raisins remaining,

Dehydrated, shrivelled.

If I was a mint choc chip ice-cream

I would not be here .

I’d have melted away,

Evaporated, dissolved,

Just my choc chips remaining,  

Disgustingly sticky.

If I was a strawberry ice-cream

I would not be here.

I’d have melted away,

Evaporated, dissolved,

Just little pips remaining,

Insignificantly.

If I was a vanilla ice-cream

I would not be here.

I’d have melted away,

Evaporated, dissolved,

Zero trace remaining.

But I’m not a delicate ice-cream,

I’m a human bean,

And my strong skin holds in

Exhausted sloshy organs.

When I cool will they migrate

Back to their slots once more?

Or will my kidneys

Stay in my toes?

Ice Cream Types

Published July 22, 2021 by Naomi Rettig

Vanilla is comfort, familiar, and safer.

Chocolate is decadence held in a wafer.

Strawberry is sensuous and loving the sun.

Cheeky mint choc chip is looking always for fun.

Raspberry ripple is flirtatious and rude.

Pistachio eaters are frequently nude.

Tutti frutti are lovable freaks.

Vegan pecan for sexy ass geeks.

Neapolitan for the want-it-all’s.

Salted caramel for the know-it-all’s.

Rum and raisin wants adventure and travel.

And coffee lickers watch their life unravel.

Cuckoo

Published May 20, 2021 by Naomi Rettig

I sit in my car chewing on nicotine gum and watching the mourners seep into the church. I don’t recognise anyone. Leaning back and closing my eyes, I toy with the idea of driving off somewhere else, anywhere else. My overnight bag is in the boot. I could. I wouldn’t be missed.

There’s a tap on the window. I open my eyes. Keith. My brother-in-law is attempting to smile, his face almost pressed against the glass. I stare at him and press the button. The window drifts down. His wobbly face twitches. It seems he doesn’t know whether to start talking while the barrier is lowering or wait.  He waits. I chew. The whir of the window stops.

‘Kate. Hello.’ He exhales, expelling the essence of peppermint and meat. Cheap sausages, I think.

‘Hello Keith.’ I don’t smile, hoping my sour face will encourage him away from my personal space. It doesn’t.

‘How are you?’

‘I’ve just driven six hours to come to my mother’s funeral in bank holiday traffic with a hangover.’

‘Oh. Yes.’ He straightens up and recedes from my window, fidgeting with his tie. ‘Are you coming in with us now?’ He glances across the car park to my sister and their two adolescents. It’s odd seeing her dressed in black. I only see her wearing florals, bright yellow, or tacky Christmas jumpers. Josh and Max are in matching black suits. One is tapping away on his phone. I think it’s Josh. They’re both the same height now.

I take out my gum, wrap it in a tissue, and pop it in my pocket. Keith hovers as I lock up then we walk across in silence.

‘Hello Kate.’ My sister smiles. It’s a tired smile. She looks old.

‘Jackie.’ I smile back, but I’m not sure it translates to my face. My Botox hasn’t had time to settle.

She takes a deep breath. ‘Let’s go in.’

The service is short. A brief history of Mum’s life accompanied by sniffing and snivelling from Jackie. Keith and the boys look like they’re waiting for a bus. Friends of Mum give their condolences to Jackie outside the church. I don’t think many of them know who I am. I’m a stranger. To everyone.

Jackie says thanks to the vicar then turns to me. ‘Do you want to follow us in the car to the wake?’

‘I’m going to give that a miss.’

Jackie’s face wrinkles. ‘Why? You’ve come all this way.’

‘Exactly. I’m tired from the drive. I’m just going to the house.’

‘Fine. Do what you want, you usually do.’ Jackie sighs. ‘I’ll call in later.’

‘I’ll probably be asleep.’ I walk off to my car, judgement smothering me.

I pull up outside Mum’s house. I see a curtain in the house opposite quiver as I lock the car. Nosey neighbours in their narrow semi-detached houses with their narrow semi-detached minds. Yes, it’s me, the bad daughter, the one that left and only comes back unwillingly for birthdays and Christmas.

Closing the front door, I drop my bag on the floor and stand still listening to the almost silent house. That bloody clock is ticking loudly. Leaving my bag in the hallway, I follow the noise of the clock into the lounge. Mum’s beige threadbare wingback chair is still shaped with the indentation of her. The burgundy walls are still depressing. The flowery curtains are still deciding what decade to fit into. I wander around the room, looking at all the cheap ornaments on display like I’m in a mundane museum. Photos in mismatched frames are everywhere. Most of them Jackie’s kids in various stages of growth. I stop at a picture of Jackie and me. We must be about ten. Linked arms, smiling on a beach. Morecombe, I think. We do look like twins. That was when I believed we were. About a year later, my nan told me I was adopted.

I sit on the sofa, taking the photo with me. I trace my finger over the two smiling girls with matching swimsuits and matching brown bobbed hair. Nan had told me not to tell anyone I knew. She said it would upset Mum too much. It hadn’t even been a real adoption. Apparently, while Mum was giving birth here in this house to Jackie, I was left on the doorstep. I often wonder how my life would have been different if, instead of Mum and Dad registering me as the twin to Jackie, they had handed me to the authorities. I knew Jackie was the favourite. I understood why. She was the golden child, and I was just a cuckoo.

I realise I’m crying. Not big ugly crying but tiny veins of tears trickling down my cheeks. ‘Oh, Mum.’ I say out loud to her chair. ‘Why didn’t I tell you that I knew? Why didn’t you tell me?’

The clock ticks. That bloody clock. I discard the photo frame on the sofa and wipe my face with the tissue in my pocket. I forgot I wrapped my gum in there and proceed to wipe it over my eyes. ‘Shit.’ Removing gum from my eyelashes, I stride over to the clock, remove the batteries and fling them to the floor. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’

‘I never liked that clock either.’ A voice says quietly behind me.

I reel around. ‘Jackie! Why aren’t you at the wake?’

‘I went, but it didn’t seem right that you were here alone.’ Jackie puts her handbag onto the armchair by the door.

‘I’m fine. You can go back if you want to.’

‘You don’t look fine, and I don’t want to.’ Jackie picks the batteries up from the floor. ‘I don’t think Mum liked the clock either.’

‘Then she should have got rid of it.’

Jackie places the batteries on the mantelpiece next to the now muted mahogany clock. ‘Think she felt a duty to Nana Babs to keep it.’

‘How ridiculous.’

Jackie nods. ‘How long are you going to stay here? You can stay with us next door if you’d feel more comfortable.’

I’d feel more comfortable on a bed of nails in the middle of a motorway. ‘I’m fine here. I’m going back home tomorrow.’

‘Oh. I was hoping you’d stay longer.’ She sits on the sofa staring at her hands and then erupts into tears.

I freeze. No automatic instincts kick in. Does she want me to console her? Give her some space? Say something meaningful? I opt for sitting next to her and placing my hand on her back. She still sobs but is now more subdued. I awkwardly stroke her back. We sit with my silence and her soft sobbing. I feel tears formulating in my eyes. I swallow them down. One of us has to be in control.

Jackie wipes her eyes and takes a deep breath. ‘I miss you.’

I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing.

She takes another gulp of air and sniffs. ‘With Dad and Mum both gone, I’m frightened you’ll disappear from my life and leave me too.’

‘You have Keith and your boys. You’re not alone.’ Unlike me. My hand is static on her back. I remove it.

‘But you’re family too. We grew up together.’

One of those statements is true.

Jackie turns slightly towards me. ‘I know we haven’t been close since you left. I know why. But I’d really like us to build bridges.’

My hands clasp themselves like magnets. ‘You know?’

‘Yes.’ Jackie nods. ‘Mum told me.’

My chest feels like my lungs have been punctured. ‘Mum told you but didn’t have the decency to tell me?’

Jackie frowns slightly. ‘I guess she thought it was more relevant to me.’

‘Wow!’ I lean forward, desperate not to faint.

‘Mum told me not to tell anyone, but I thought you knew somehow when you moved away and didn’t keep in touch.’

I focus on the swirly brown carpet. My stomach feels like it’s trying to replicate it. Or decorate it. ‘Nana Babs told me.’ I swallow down bile. ‘And also told me not to tell anyone.’

‘I wish I’d said something to you before now. This secret has been eating away at me.’ Jackie reaches across to her bag and extracts a tissue.  ‘I’ve felt such an imposter around you whenever you came to visit.’ She blows her nose. ‘A cuckoo in your nest.’

I sit up. ‘A cuckoo in my nest?’

‘Yes. I know Mum favoured me a lot of the time, but I think that was because of me being abandoned like that, and selfishly I accepted it. And now I’m so sorry because it pushed you away.’

My heart accelerates like a cheetah chasing an antelope. ‘What do you mean you abandoned like that?’

Jackie stops looking at the awful carpet and turns her focus to me. ‘Did Nana Babs not tell you the full story? I was left on the doorstep. Here.’

I take deep breaths. I don’t want one of my panic attacks right now. ‘But it was me on the doorstep.’

Jackie stares at me, her eyes wide and wild. ‘No. Nana got that wrong. I was the doorstep baby.’ She reaches out and grips my hand. ‘You thought it was you?’

‘Yes.’ My speech feels weighted with granite. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. Mum and Dad were both O blood groups, but I’m type A. That means they couldn’t be my biological parents.’

I feel Jackie squeeze my hand. A spike of emotions rips through my entire body. I implode and spew out a strangled shriek accompanied by a torrent of tears.

Jackie hugs me and cries too. We sit entwined in grief for what feels like hours but is merely minutes.

Jackie releases her embrace and reaches for more tissue in her bag. She hands one to me and frowns. ‘You’ve got something sticky in your eyelashes.’

I laugh. ‘Oh, nicotine gum.’ I take the tissue and pick out the remaining gum.

Jackie wipes her eyes. ‘I can’t believe you’ve spent all these years thinking you were adopted.’

I finish picking at my eyelashes, satisfied all the gum is out.

‘Why do you think we bought the house next door to Mum?’

I shrug.

‘Because I felt an obligation to stay close and look after her. She took me in and treated me as her own. In fact, better than her own. I felt that I owed her.’

I shake my head, still processing. ‘Meanwhile, I ran away like a selfish brat. Resentful to you for being the perfect daughter with your perfect husband and your perfect kids.’

‘Ha!’ Jackie sinks back into the sofa. ‘Keith thinks he’s romantic if he changes his underwear every day, and the boys are obnoxious ungrateful ignorant teens right now. You have it right with your high flying career and luxury apartment in the city.’

I laugh and flop back into the sofa too. ‘What? My boringly glamorous head of accountancy job and my microwave meals for one. I haven’t even got a cat.’

We sit in comfortable silence in the uncomfortable room. I close my eyes and almost doze off.

‘Why don’t you stay longer?’

‘I guess I could work from here for a few days.’

‘You could always move in here. Permanently.’

I open my eyes and tilt my head towards Jackie. ‘That’s quite a big decision.’

‘I know.’ She nods, then leans back, closing her eyes. ‘Just want you to know that I’d like it if you lived closer.’

I lean back and close my eyes again too. ‘Would Keith letch at me over the fence if I was sunbathing in a bikini?’

‘Probably.’

‘Would the boys get on my nerves with their noisy music over the fence?

‘Probably.’

I peep across at her. She’s still got her eyes closed and is smiling. ‘Can we burn the clock?’

Eyes still shut, her smile expands. ‘Definitely.’

My smile twins with hers. My heart rate reconciles itself.

The Money

Published February 10, 2021 by Naomi Rettig

The grubby gym bag, bursting with twenty pound notes, lay on the kitchen table between them like a corpse on a mortician’s slab. Hannah and Ollie stared at it as if waiting for it to come to life. The refrigerator clicked and a clock ticked.

Hannah hauled her gaze from the bag to her husband. ‘Should we call the police?’

‘No.’

‘But it’s obviously not legal.’

Ollie glared at her. ‘No shit.’

Hannah lowered her head and fiddled with a button on her tatty pink cardigan. ‘How much do you think is there?’

‘Let’s find out.’ He stood up and leaned over towards the bag.

‘Don’t touch it.’ Hannah bit on her lip. ‘The police will probably want to test for finger prints, won’t they?’

‘We’re not calling the police.’

‘But…’

‘My garden, my property.’ He planted his hands on the table. ‘We’ve lived here five years, whoever buried this would’ve been back by now if they were going to. They’re probably dead. Or if  Mrs Monroe’s buried her life savings then technically it was ours the moment she sold the house to us. And she’s dead now so she won’t be turning up to collect it.’

‘She’s dead?’

‘Christ.’ He stood upright and rubbed his head. ‘Yes, I told you. About a month after we bought the house.’

‘Oh, I don’t remember.’

‘Of course you don’t, you stupid cow.’ He pulled the bag towards him. ‘Get me a drink.’

Ollie started taking out the bundles from the bag. Hannah went to the other side of the kitchen and poured Ollie a glass of whiskey. Her hands were shaking and she was almost tempted to take a sip herself, but she didn’t, knowing what the consequences would be. Fading bruises reminding her. Instead she stared out of the window at their small back garden, at the hole that was going to house the foundations for Ollie’s barbeque patio. She stared at the hole, imagining the pond that she’d always wanted there. She heard Ollie laugh and was plucked back from her dreams. She placed his drink down on the table.

‘Five hundred thousand pounds.’ He took a gulp of whiskey. ‘Half a million.’

Hannah flopped down onto the chair. ‘Oh Ollie.’

‘I need to think how to play this.’ He continued staring at the piles of notes. ‘I can’t just stick it in the bank, that’ll look dodgy. I can buy a better house, but can I pay for it with cash? Would that get flagged up?’ He chewed at his bottom lip. ‘Probably.’

‘What do we want a new house for? We can stay here and pay the mortgage off and still have enough to live off. You could give up work.’

‘Give up work and have to stay with you all day?’ He took another swig of whiskey. ‘And you know I hate living here with that creep next door.’

‘Ray’s not a creep, he’s just friendly.’

‘He wants to get into your knickers. And if you ever let him I’ll kill you both.’

‘Oh Ollie, you know that would never happen.’ Hannah twiddled the button on her cardigan again. The thread it was dangling from was getting thinner.

‘These notes might be on a wanted list, I’ve seen it on the telly. People get caught when they try to spend it.’ He pulled a note from one of the bundles and thrust it towards Hannah. ‘Take this to the shop and spend it. If we don’t hear anything then it’s ok to pay into the bank in drips and drabs.’

Hannah gingerly took the note. ‘Ok.’

Ollie scraped his chair back and stood up. ‘Now get me some food, I’m going to have a shit and a shower.’ He knocked back the last of his drink and left.

Hannah stared at the money. She had an urge to shove it back in the bag and disappear somewhere but her fear was greater than the urge. He would find her wherever she ran. She slipped the twenty pound note into her cardigan pocket then started to prepare his steak. Saturday was steak night.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Hannah crept back into the bedroom. She had mastered the art of peeing quietly and then avoiding the creaky floorboard on the landing. Drawn to the bedroom window she tiptoed over and peered out into the blackness. She saw a figure by the hole and stepped back, bumping into the bed.

‘Ollie! There’s someone in the garden.’

Ollie sat bolt upright then leapt out of the bed to the window. ‘Where?’

‘At the back, where…’

‘There’s no one there, you paranoid cow.’ Ollie got back into bed, rubbing his eyes. ‘Get back in here and make yourself useful now you’ve woken me up.’

Hannah glanced back out of the window, and seeing no one in the garden, started to doubt herself. She got back into bed wishing she’d kept quiet.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Hannah answered the door to a man she guessed was in his late fifties and her first impression was that he looked like an undertaker. A long formal black coat covered black suit trousers and he wore highly polished black shoes. He was over six foot tall, thin but muscular. He raised his black trilby revealing a shiny bald head and smiled.

‘Hello,’ he said.

Hannah smiled back. ‘Hello.’

‘I’m Alan. Alan Monroe.’ He continued smiling.

‘Oh, hello.’ Hannah frowned slightly.

‘And you are?’

‘Um, Hannah.’ She didn’t like that his smile didn’t extend to his eyes. He reminded her of a shark. All toothy grin with predatory eyes.

‘Hannah, you bought this house from my mother.’

‘Oh, yes, Mrs Monroe.’

Alan took a step forward. Still smiling. ‘Can I come in?’

Hannah’s fingers tightened on the door. ‘Why?’

‘Because I’d like to talk to you, more privately.’ He kept his shark smile in place.

‘Well, my husband’s not here.’

‘And?’

‘He wouldn’t like it if I let you in without him being here.’

‘I can wait on your doorstep, but the net curtains are twitching already.’

Hannah looked around at the neighbours houses, no one was twitching their net curtains. Neighbourhood watch hadn’t taken off here, no one gave a toss. She almost sighed with relief when Ollie walked down the drive carrying a four pack of cans.

Ollie looked Alan up and down as he walked towards him. ‘Can I help you, pal?’

Alan stopped smiling. ‘And you are?’

‘I’m her husband. Who the hell are you?’

‘I’m Alan Monroe. Cynthia Monroe’s son.’

Ollie stood inches away from Alan, looking up at him slightly. ‘So?’

‘Can I come in to talk?’

‘Say what you want here.’

Alan frowned. ‘You have something of mine and I want it back.’

‘I don’t have anything of yours.’ Ollie moved past Alan and thrust his cans at Hannah, who held them to her chest.

Alan took a step forward. ‘The hole in the garden tells me a different story.’

‘So I’m putting in a patio. Like I said, I don’t have anything of yours. Anything I have is mine, bought fairly and squarely from your mum. If you think any different then call the police.’ Ollie stood on the doorstep and folded his arms.

‘I don’t think that’s necessary.’

‘No, didn’t think so.’ Ollie stepped into the house, shoving Hannah into the hallway. He glared at Alan. ‘Now fuck off.’

‘I’ll be back.’

Ollie slammed the door. ‘I’ll be back, who does he think he is, the terminator?’

‘Oh god Ollie. What are we going to do?’

‘Nothing. That’s what.’ He pushed past Hannah, into the lounge, grabbing his beers and plonked down onto the sofa. Yanking back a ring pull he took took a swig.

Hannah followed him in. ‘But he’ll come back. We should just give him the money.’

‘You’re so pathetic. I’m not giving it back, it’s not his. He stole it from someone else, and now it’s mine. Food chain darlin.’ Ollie took another slurp from the can and switched the tv on.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

The bedroom light flashed on. Hannah and Ollie woke instantly. Ollie squinted. Hannah yelped. There was a gun with a silencer pointed at Ollie’s head.

‘I told you I’d be back,’ said Alan.

‘Get out of my house.’

Hannah noted that Ollie’s voice had less bravado than the day before.

‘Or what? You’ll call the police? I don’t think so. I will leave, when I’ve got my money back.’

‘That’s not happening.’

‘Then I’ll have to resort to dramatic persuasion.’

Hannah sat upright and pushed herself against the headboard. ‘Give him the money.’

Alan glanced at Hannah then back to Ollie. ‘You should listen to your wife.’

‘Shut up you stupid cow.’

Alan whacked the gun down onto Ollie’s head. It made a loud crack and Ollie cried and fell backwards. Blood ran from the gash. ‘Where’s the money? It’ll be a bullet next.’

‘No!’ Hannah screamed. ‘It’s in the airing cupboard.’

‘Stupid bitch.’ Ollie clutched his head.

‘Thank you.’ Alan smiled, turned, and started to walk away.

Ollie staggered from the bed and slammed into Alan’s back knocking him down. The gun flew across the floor towards the bed. The two men wrestled and punched each other until Alan managed to roll on top of Ollie and was pummelling his face. Hannah, shaking, got out of bed and picked up the gun.

Ollie looked up at Hannah. His one eye was closed and swollen. ‘Shoot him! Shoot him, you stupid cow!’ Blood spat out of his mouth like a rabid dog.

Hannah pointed the gun at Alan’s head and pulled the trigger. The sound from the gun with the silencer on was louder than Hannah was expecting. She recoiled back onto the bed like a ragdoll as Alan slumped onto Ollie. Sitting up she brought her breathing back under control. Ollie pushed Alan off and spat out a large globule of blood. They sat in silence.

‘Lucky we’ve got a hole in the garden for him to go in.’ Ollie spat out more blood.

Hannah stared at Alan’s body. She knew she should call the police but she didn’t want to be locked up. She needed to be free.

Ollie hauled himself to his feet and grabbed Alan under the arms. ‘Well don’t just bloody sit there, pick up his legs.’

Hannah placed the gun on the bed and then picked up Alan’s legs. They carried the body downstairs. Hannah dropped Alan’s feet a few times. Ollie swore at her. She was sweating by the time they’d lugged the corpse to the garden.

‘Where’s his shoe?’

Ollie whispered, but Hannah could feel the venom in his voice. She looked at Alan’s feet. One shoe on, one shoe off. ‘It must be in the house.’

‘Useless cow. Go and find it.’

Ollie rolled Alan into the hole while Hannah trudged back to the house.

She stood at the door watching Ollie. He was scratching his backside. She saw him notice her and she could feel his scowl even in the darkness. She strode towards him, shoe outstretched in her left hand. He snatched it from her and threw it into the hole. Hannah lifted her right hand up. It shook slightly as it gripped the gun. ‘Food chain, Darlin’ she said. Before Ollie had chance to react, she shot him straight in the heart, and watched as he dropped to the ground, his eyes wide and motionless. Next, she pushed him into the hole, where he fell on top of Alan, in a loving embrace. Tossing the gun in after him, she began to  shovel the excavated earth back on top.

Once completed, she lay on the grass, knowing she’d never be able to move house now. The makeshift graveyard tethered her here, forever. But, she was pretty sure the half a million in the house would help. Gazing up at the sparse stars she felt a calm radiating through her. She smiled. She couldn’t remember the last time she smiled. It felt good.

Monday

Published February 8, 2021 by Naomi Rettig

Rise up like a phoenix or a well baked souffle.

It’s the start of the week, a magic Monday.

It can be what you want, just open your mind

And your heart and your chakras if you’re so inclined.

Embrace what you’re given to deal with this day,

If life gives you lemons, whip up a sorbet.

Seek out the positives in all situations,

Enjoy the beauty of natures creations.

If someone is vexing then just walk away

Life is too fleeting for such mental affray.

So soar high like an eagle and just perhaps

You’ll have a good day and your souffle won’t collapse.

A Gothic Hamster Ate My Toast

Published December 27, 2020 by Naomi Rettig

A gothic hamster dressed in black

Crept to my kitchen for a snack,

Dark eye liner and backcombed fur

Hiding in shadows, a sinister blur.

I woke up for a midnight feast

Unaware of this gothic beast.

I made some toast, switched the kettle on,

When I turned to eat it, the toast was gone.

Had I lost the plot? Out of my mind?

I scanned the room and what did I find?

A little gothic hamster quite engrossed,

Dropping crumbs on my floor, scoffing my toast.

I coughed to interrupt him, he stopped and looked my way,

His eyes grew wide, he quivered, and he started to sway.

I crouched down low, smiled at him, whispered all was great

He cried and smudged his eyes, sorry for what he ate.

I dried his tears, cuddled him, told him all was fine,

He could come and visit me any time to dine.

My Ideal Christmas

Published December 14, 2020 by Naomi Rettig

Calorie free chocolate that tastes oh so good,

A cosy log cabin hid away in a wood,

White fluffy snow that sparkles so bright,

Reading a book in soft candlelight,

Snuggling under a warm Christmas fleece,

Meditating quietly with inner peace,

Listening to carols as I close my eyes,

Avoiding temptation of cream and mince pies.

Seeing my daughter’s smile light up the room,

Chatting with friends via Facebook and Zoom.

A real open fire with flames dancing high,

The brightest of stars in a velvet sky.

A cat purring happily on my lap,

Luring me gently into having a nap.

A trampoline session to make me feel groovy,

Then feet up, relax, and chillout with a movie.

The gorgeous Judd Nelson waiting in bed

Covered all over with a marzipan spread.