ESO 378 Nebula

            He tells her, ‘There’s a giant bubble floating way out in the darkness of space. A planetary nebula. Do you know what that is?’

            She shakes her head, wonders how it is he knows so much already. It’s not a trait he has inherited from her, this curiosity about obscure things, this strange, formal way of explaining them. The way a teacher would a pupil, or a parent a child. Only in their case the roles are reversed. It is he who explains to her the way things work.

            ‘It’s the remnants of a dying star,’ he continues. ‘It’s not a bubble at all, really. It’s just that sometimes the facts, and what is observable, collide.’

            And he flicks through the book until he finds the right page then turns it round to show her.

            ‘ESO 378 Nebula,’ he says. ‘ESO, that means it was taken by the European Southern Observatory. The number, well, that’s for identification.  And nebula, that’s the classification. It tells you what it is.’

            The details are important, and she knows not to interrupt until he has told her everything. She knows to nod as each piece of information is delivered.

            When he finishes, she looks at the photo and is surprised, because seen from earth, seen from some light-hearted moment, some childish point in time, it really does looks like a soapy bubble.     

            ‘The kind of bubble God would blow, if he were that way inclined,’ she says.

            And he laughs and turns the page towards him so he can look at it again, reappraise it, in light of this new, wholly unscientific statement.

            ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘If I were God, I suppose this is the sort of bubble I would blow.’

            Though she can see from his smile, from the gleam in his eyes that he is amused she sees things this way, so she throws his own words back at him, hoping he might explain them.

            ‘Sometimes the facts and what is observable collide.’

            But he doesn’t look up from the book, just mutters, ‘yup’, then turns and walks away. She has lost him again to this world which lies beyond her. To things she struggles to understand.

            ‘Nebulous,’ she thinks, and she smiles. ‘Yes, that’s the word for it. For the way she feels.’

                                                                        *

            Two days after the bubble incident the phone rings. The school. Can she come down? They need to ‘have a word.’

            ‘Is everything okay?’ she asks. ‘With Edward. Is everything okay?’

            If she could just ‘come down,’ they repeat.

            She thinks about calling Adam but can’t think what she would say to him. 

            ‘It’s the school. They called again. About Edward.’

            Again. They called again.

            She can’t keep bothering him with these things. Troubling him about their son.

            If there’s a problem she can tell him afterwards. And if there is none? What then?   Another little secret she and Edward can keep from him?

            Well, why not? It won’t be the last secret they keep.

            Instead she thinks of all the reasons the school has had so far for calling her. All those telephone calls that begin the same.

            ‘It’s Edward, Mrs Moore. Can you come down?’

            Each incident blurring into one. The snow globe, the butterfly, the matches, the apple.

            ‘What will it be this time?’ she wonders. Though a part of her can already imagine. ESO 378. Though how a cloud of gas and dust way out in space can lead to trouble in a classroom, she can’t imagine. Though a piece of her is intrigued, a piece of her wants to find out.

            But the bigger piece wants to run.

                                                                        *

            ‘It’s Amy Peterson,’ the teacher explains.

            ‘Right, I see,’ she sighs.

            And the teacher tilts her head to the side, as if she’s bemused. As if she’s thinking, ‘Oh, so you know about Amy?’

            In fact, this is what she says.

            ‘Oh, so you know about Amy?’

            ‘I know that her mother died, yes. About a year ago, wasn’t it?’

            ‘Six months,’ she corrects.

            But already she is only half listening because she’s trying to think of the connections. Amy’s mother. A planetary nebula. Edward. How would he connect these things?

            ‘She believes in heaven. Amy that is,’ the teacher explains. ‘And we let her talk about it, because it’s a comfort to her, as I’m sure you can understand.’

            And it’s not that Edward wouldn’t believe in heaven. He’d be open to the idea, she’s sure of it. But he would want some sort of proof, some reasoning and explanation.

            And she’s about to tell this to the teacher but doesn’t get a chance.

            ‘Mrs Moore, as you know, there have been plenty of incidents this year and we’ve tried to accommodate your son.’

            ‘Accommodate him,’ she thinks. As if he’s some sort of exception, a thing to be tolerated, a thing they need to find a special place for. And he is, of course.

            ‘Accommodate?’ she repeats.

            ‘Yes,’ the teacher continues. ‘Make room for him, so he can express himself.’

            ‘Listen,’ she says, ‘Can you please just tell me what happened. I don’t need you to be polite. I know my son. I know he’s not easy. Just tell me what he’s done and tell me what’s going to happen.’

            ‘Right, yes. It can’t be easy …’

            ‘It’s not. So, tell me.’

            Though she already knows how the story goes. As soon as she heard the name, Amy, she had imagined it.

            There’d be a conversation about heaven and its place in the universe, Edward explaining the existence of things, the known things, like nebula and stars and planets and moons. The continuous expansion, accelerating, perhaps towards heaven, but the journey incomplete, as yet, heaven just out of reach, always out of reach. Not really there at all, because it is always beyond.

            ‘Nebulous’ that word again. And she has said it out loud without meaning to and doesn’t know how to explain.

            ‘I’m sorry, what? Nebulous did you say?’

            She ignores it and asks, ‘did he tell her heaven doesn’t exist? Is that what he said to her?’

            ‘More or less,’ the teacher tells her. ‘He demanded proof, and when Amy could give him none she became upset, told him how terrible it was that he could be right. Perhaps heaven doesn’t exist. And as you can imagine…’

            She doesn’t need the teacher to finish.

            ‘Too much. Yes, that would be too much.’

            ‘They’re only ten,’ the teacher says, though why she thinks to bring this up now is a    mystery.

            ‘Is this a conversation kids that age should not be having?’ she wants to ask. ‘Is there an age for such things?’

            Though when she thinks of Edward, she can’t quite imagine it, that he would put a limit on things.

            ‘He’s just a curious child is all,’ she says. Again.

            ‘In every sense of the word,’ the teacher smiles.

            And they agree to have him stay home a few days so he can ‘think carefully about the way words too can cause unnecessary suffering.’

            ‘Sometimes the facts and what is observable, collide,’ she thinks as she gets up to leave. Though she keeps it to herself.

                                                                        *

            They drive home. In silence at first, because she has learned that quiet anger works best with him. It is something he understands.

            But she cannot maintain the silence as long as he can.

            ‘I heard Amy Peterson was upset.’

            ‘Is that why I need to go home?’

            ‘Surely you can understand that, Edward?’

            ‘No,’ he says. ‘Explain it to me.’

            And not for the first time she finds herself remembering those days when he was very small still and unable to talk. The easy peace of those days when all communication was conducted by touch and looks and soft, happy childish sounds, approximations of words that held no meaning beyond the comfort they provided. She remembers the soft down of his hair, how it stayed that way for almost two years, so that there was a babyish quality to him that was endearing and sweet.

            ‘How did he go from that quiet easy child to this?’ she wonders. Even though she knows it’s not true. Because she remembers the intensity of his gaze, even when he had no words. It was as if he was talking. Observing things, weighing them up, commenting wordlessly. As if he had been considering the world for millennia.

            Such a strange child.

            And now she must explain it to him. Well, okay.

            ‘You know what it means when someone dies, Edward, don’t you?’

            ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘They cease to exist.’

            ‘And you know how that can hurt people? When someone they love dies.’

            ‘Like that butterfly,’ he says. Not a question but a statement. As if the death of one or the other was the same. And maybe it is, who is she to say?

            ‘All Amy wanted, was to know her mum was safe, that’s all.’

            And he surprises her. ‘Of course. I understand that.’

            ‘You do?’ and she wishes she had not sounded so surprised because he turns to look at her, and she has to slow the car down and focus on the road because the feeling there, at the side of her head as he stares at her is so strong. Like the grip of a vice.

            ‘Then explain it to me,’ she tells him.

            And he does.

            ‘Amy Peterson doesn’t eat her lunch,’ he begins. ‘Every day she takes her sandwiches and when she thinks no one is looking, she empties the contents of her lunch box into the bin. And every day I see her do it. And so I told her. I told her: I see what you do with your lunch, Amy, and I really don’t think that’s the best way to get back to your mum.’

            And she slows the car right down then and rolls into a lay-by and stops the car.

            ‘You said that to her?’

            ‘Yes,’ he says.

            ‘But why? What do you mean?’

            ‘I just told you, she throws away her lunch. Every day.’

            ‘Yes, I know. But what’s that got to do with her mum?’

            And he looks at her and frowns, a small crease which sits between his brows, more perplexed than anything else.

            ‘She’ll die. If she stops eating, then she’ll die,’ he says. ‘Don’t you think?’

            She needs to take a moment. ‘Breathe,’ she thinks. Because Amy is such a bright child, like sunshine. Her happiness is not something anyone would consider fragile, even after all that has happened. And she wonders if perhaps Edward has made some sort of mistake.

            ‘So, what did she say then?’ she asks him. ‘When you told her it was a bad idea.’

            ‘She told me to leave her alone.’

            ‘But you didn’t.’

            ‘Yes. I did. But only after I explained it to her, first. Why it is she can never get to heaven.’

            ‘Right, I see. And why is that then, exactly?’

            ‘No-one can,’ he tells her. ‘No-one.’

            ‘You sound so certain of it. Surely an unknown can’t contain so much certainty?’

            ‘Yeah, I know that. But I don’t think Amy does. So, I asked her.  I said: tell me where it is then. Heaven. And she couldn’t of course. And I said that that was okay, because it was always out of reach. That this was the reason the universe was expanding, faster and faster;  so that however close we got, we would never be able to get there. It will always be out of reach. The only way to get there is to be allowed in. And, of course, if you don’t eat your sandwiches, if you do something like that, well, I really don’t think they would allow you in, do you? ‘

            And the quality of this statement, the vagueness of it, spiritual, metaphysical and so matter of fact, makes her laugh. Coming from anyone else, she would simply nod and utter a polite ‘yes’. But from Edward, it seems comical and unexpected and beyond even his seemingly limitless precociousness.

            ‘She believed me though,’ he continues. ‘So I think, from now on, she”ll eat her lunch. Which is a good thing.’

            And she wants to turn the car around and head back to school, confront the teacher with this new information, let her see that her son is not some strange creature, some difficult, unwieldy child. That he is observant, kind, intelligent. That he knows it can take a lie sometimes, to set someone straight.

            And, as if he reads her thoughts he laughs and says, ‘Don’t. Let’s just go home, enjoy a few days away from that place.’

            As she shifts the car into gear she sneaks a look at him. His head rests against the window and he stares into the hedgerow as if he’s asleep with his eyes closed.

            ‘Edward,’ she begins, but she gets no further, just squeezes the accelerator and pulls back out onto the road.

            Because she has nothing to say and neither does he. They understand one another again, the way they did when he was that wordless, speechless child. And she’s surprised at how comforting it feels. If she was to push the accelerator too hard now, speed down the road until they came to a juddering halt against some tree. If it were to end now, like that, it would be okay.

                                                                        *

            Adam comes home to find them in the kitchen pouring over an encyclopaedia, engrossed in the information it contains. All the wonders of the universe are laid out there, or that’s how it seems to her.

            ‘Gee, is that the time already?’ she says when she sees Adam walk in. ‘We’ve been side-tracked by all these stars.’

            And Edward lifts up the book so his father can see it and says something about red dwarves, but Adam doesn’t listen. Just nods a perfunctory ‘sounds pretty cool,’ then heads to the fridge and fetches them both a beer.

            ‘I’ll order something in, yeah?’ she asks.

            ‘Pizza!’ Edward’s immediate response. His response a relief, hinting as it does at something she tries not to long for. Something carefree.

            It’s only then Adam focuses in on them, and the chaotic spread of materials on the table – paper, pens, rulers , tin foil, scribbled notes and diagrams.

            ‘Looks like you’ve been busy quite a while,’ he says.

            And before she can stop him Edward explains, ‘the whole day almost. There’s so much to find out.’

            Adam shoots her a look but says nothing, just takes a sip of his beer and lifts up one of the drawings Edward has made.

            ‘That’s a nebula,’ he tells his father.

            Adam stares at the drawing and turns it around examining it from various angles.

            ‘Did something happen at school?’ he finally asks.

            ‘I’ll order the pizza,’ she says. ‘We can talk about it later. Mushroom okay?’

            And she looks at Adam as he stares at his son. If he could pick him up and turn him around, examine him from every angle, inside and out, she knows he would. But it’s not fascination she sees in his face. It’s not even frustration. Rather, it’s something closer to resignation as if he’s finally decided his son is beyond understanding now, and that, somehow, it’s okay to simply give up.

            And should she fight it, she wonders, or envy him that he has reached this stage?

                                                                        *

            They argue of course. When they have closed the door on Edward and he is asleep. When they know he cannot hear them.

            With every incident Adam knows his case for intervention becomes stronger. But she is still prepared to resist. Thinks even, with every passing problem, that she will always resist. Because this is what she is meant to do. She expects it of herself and she knows Edward does too, though they have never spoken of it.

            She told Adam everything just the same. About Amy, heaven, the nebula. And he had listened silently, his gaze falling on a place somewhere beyond her, as if he was unable to look at her directly. But she thought perhaps she saw a small flicker of something. A realisation and understanding that what she was telling him was more interesting than strange. It showed Edward was not what he appeared – not an awkward child, a special child. Simply the thoughtful child she had always understood him to be.

            Though if she were honest, she would admit she has not always felt this way. And she remembers again the strangeness of his gaze as a baby, and how unsettled it had made her feel. There were many times she recoiled from her infant son, something which had shocked Adam. ‘Cold hearted’ the accusation he had thrown. A barb which had lodged deep within her, but which she had not been strong enough to challenge. Was not even sure if she should, because there was a chill there inside of her. It was true. The warming up took years.

            But it arrived, and it has brought with it a strengthened will on her part to defend Edward after every incident, every argument.

            ‘He should see someone,’ Adam tells her. ‘I don’t know why you think he can go on like this. These exclusions from school, the solitariness – I mean, have you ever known a child with no friends? I mean, not a single one? How can that not worry you?’

            ‘He’s self-contained is all.’ she says.

            ‘Oh come on, Sarah! Don’t give me that! No-one likes him! He’s weird. He needs help.’

            The words filling the room before they notice Edward standing there, his head tilted, his eyes fixed on his father.

            ‘They’re not so likeable is all it is,’ he says. Matter of fact, so they have no way of telling if he is hurt or offended or how much he has heard.

            ‘Edward,’ she says.

            ‘Mum,’ he replies.

            And Adam simply stares and says nothing.

            So she waits. Waits for Edward to indicate just how this is all going to pan out.

            Waits for her ten year old son to calm the thudding in her chest.

            ‘Ed,’ Adam begins. ‘Ed, I’m sorry.’

            ‘Why?’ Edward asks, and she can’t be sure he is unaware of the threat this one word contains. The challenge it poses.

            ‘You meant it,’ he continues. ‘So why be sorry?’

            ‘Ed,’ Adam pleads. ‘I just want you to be happy is all.’

            ‘I am happy,’ he tells him. ‘I am very happy.’

            Then he turns and heads back to his room because nothing more needs to be said.

            They will never speak of this incident, any of them. She knows that from the silence which fills the room., both of them staring at the empty doorway where Edward had stood.

            She knows it from the silence which follows for days afterwards – ‘this will last for weeks, months. Forever,’ she thinks.

            It is a distance which can never be breached. And she remembers the terrible blackness she had focussed on in those photos in the encyclopaedia. The emptiness of the universe. The distance between objects. And she wonders if she can believe it, that it’s actually this distance which holds it altogether.

                                                                        *

            The school calls. Though this time they don’t ask her to come down.

            ‘I spoke to Amy today,’ the teacher says.

            ‘Oh. Is she okay?’

            ‘Yes, yes she’s fine. I just wanted to apologise.’

            ‘Apologise?’

            ‘Yes. I spoke to her some more about Edward. ‘

            ‘Oh. What did she say?’

            ‘She said he was perceptive. That he had a lot of thoughts going round in his head. But that he was right. About her that is’

            ‘The lunch you mean?’

            ‘He told you about that?’

            ‘He tells me most things.’

            ‘Right. Well, I’m glad he was looking out for her. It’s very considerate of him. And I just wanted to say that we’re all hoping Edward will return soon.’

            And she wants to mention she had known this all along, but she lets it slide, lets the teacher have her moment. Accepts the apology for what it is – a vindication she is not allowed to acknowledge. She ignores the request to discuss his return. ‘Let them wait,’ she thinks.’

            ‘Thanks for calling,’ is all she says, then hangs up. Until the next call, which will come, of course it will come.

            And she laughs at that. A big, out loud laugh that lasts so long she thinks she may fill the whole day with it. But when it ends, the worry begins again.

            ‘Was that the school?’ Edward asks her.

            ‘Yes,’ she tells him. ‘They’re wondering when you’re coming back.’

            ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Am I? Am I gong back?’

            And she shrugs and says, ‘only when you want to.’

            And she’s about to ask him when that may be. But he is gone. Just like that. Off to the corner of the room where a pile of papers lie scattered on the floor amongst a heap of tools and objects, some of which she can’t identify.

            The nebula is gone. The universe. The mystery of all that. Replaced by more prosaic things. First stones unearthed in the garden. Then bark peeled from the birch. And now wood, it would appear, which he is cutting to size to form something only he seems to understand. Every day brings a new project, a new investigation. Things studied with an intensity she would find too ferocious, too peculiar, were it not for the fact she has simply grown used to it.

            And sometimes she imagines it, the way these things must fire inside him, the ideas shooting through his brain and exploding somewhere. Somewhere deep within the folds of tissue and glowing nerves.

            A universe within a universe, expanding and contracting. And if there is a purpose to it, no-body knows.

            Though perhaps, she thinks, perhaps that is the point.

This story was shortlisted for the Bristol Short Story Prize 2017 and is available in the Volume 10 anthology alongside the winning stories.