Lemon was probably my favourite flavour the Christmas of ‘83.
Sticky. Sweet. Then turns bitter. Bittersweet.
I always made sure to have some sort of snack in my pocket, something to nibble on or chew whenever I needed a break. A pause from the performance of constant smiling or nodding my head in a way that meant ah yes, oui, I understand un petit peu. It becomes draining if I am being completely honest, keeping up the face of politeness and interest, all whilst having no clue what anyone was saying to me.
So, throwing a toffee – last year’s favourite – to the back of my mouth, letting my molars grind it together to break down its sticky walls seemed to me the better option. Saliva was a sloppy friend, folding its way through broken fibres of sugar as it fused with the vibrant colouring of primary reds and blues, staining the leather surface of my tongue. She, after all, had been trained to become like sandpaper after all these years of my marriage to Samantha.
It was always a game of smiling and chewing whenever we went to visit Les Grangers for the holidays.
I often thought of their family as popping candy, conversations bubbled then settled into prickled hums. It’s fun at first, then that tang lingers long after, and all you can do is hope it will shut up. To soften their spitting excitement, I would play old records that crackled and screeched instead.
I wasn’t aware at the time, but that was my final visit to their châteaux. Perhaps I would have acted differently, smiled a bit more, and chewed a bit less. Other than that, nothing else.
Working in property renovation, I always had an eye out for potential projects.
It’s a gift really, to be able what I do. Reawaken what it used to be by restoring its unique architectural structures. This château had so much potential, but unfortunately, the people who owned it had so little ability to do anything about it. It had beautiful high ceilings with lime-washed plaster walls that housed golden-framed oil paintings.
Idiots.
I mean the large windows gave it that unique charm. But instead, it was just a place of complete neglect, lighting up the follicles of dusk that would spring up from their hiding places, dancing in the sun and settling into corners as it belonged. There were many key features that gave French châteaux their signature looks. But this one lacked life, with sagging, dull chandeliers with fragments of glass or beaded pearls drooping beneath.
All you needed to do was strip it down. Rip its skin, break a couple of bones – that way you could play with the body itself, take on the role of Victor Frankenstein. But like Les Grangers, many don’t even realise that Frankenstein was the doctor, not the monster.
He was the only one willing to do what was necessary. That is why they don’t see what I see.
Throughout our stay, Samantha would often take me on walks around the grounds, describing how she would play tennis on the courts that were now overgrown with weeds and ivy crawling up the fences.
‘It used to be so beautiful. Céline and Marie do not have time to take care of it.’
‘I mean, look at them- they can’t even take care of themselves, Sammy.’
‘David,’ she shot me a look of surprise, like I’d said something I wasn’t supposed to.
But that kitchen. Now, that was different.
It accompanied this large fireplace, carved in stone with heavy iron plates placed like rotten teeth at the back of its mouth. The wooden beam across the top had been worn down with time, flicking splinters onto the cold floor. It looked like something that had been fed for years and had learned to expect it.
In front of the fireplace was a hammock where I read Stephen King or Grady Hendrix books and enjoy the quiet crackle of the fire. It was perfect. Watching the flames dance together as they consumed everything that came a little too close. I could have sat there and watched them for hours. It was the only place in the house that didn’t pretend, didn’t speak, just consumed unapologetically.
‘Je vais juste prendre un peu plus de vin.’
I could hear her voice screech on the other side of the château. To be classified as a cat lady, you must attain ownership of more than two cats. Therefore, Céline was most definitely a cat lady of so many ugly fucking “chats”.
Last Christmas, I dreamt that I had a thick clump of a cat’s hair stuck at the very back of my throat. Each strand would tickle my oesophagus as I inhaled and exhaled. Soon, the feeling became unbearable, and I crawled my fingers through my mouth just enough to touch the thick clump with the end of my fingernail. Itchy, I tried to move my tongue around it.
Still, I couldn’t reach and began to get desperate. Dropping to the floor, on my hands and knees, I opened my mouth as wide as it could go, feeling the corners tear and stretch, heaving uncontrollably. Eventually, this slop of green gunk slowly unlogged itself and fell out directly in front of me, staring back as it mocked my stupidity.
Céline snapped me back into reality, which irritated me, considering I would rather be stuck in the thought of a nightmare than live in one.
‘Oh! ‘avid!’
David, I whisper below my breath.
‘Zis is for you!’ she replied while pulling her scratched lens glasses through her silver-streaked curls onto her head.
She presents to me what looks like my nephew Jack’s upset stomach last April, when I visited for Easter break. We had seafood – bad mistake. As I looked more closely, I noticed that the white frame even mimicked the border of the toilet seat.
‘Oh, er- merci? What is this exactly supposed to be, Céline?’ I smile, not chew.
‘You are so funny, ‘avid! It is obviously un ours! I z’ought you would love z’his because you look like un ours!’
A bear. I look like a bear, according to my wife’s aunt. Brilliant.
Céline was an artist, one who spent her time painting eccentric pieces on canvas, mixing varieties of colour and mediums to form abstract pieces, which she never sold or made any money from. They were her catharsis, an expression of her true self that had reincarnated through art. At times, I watched her hands when she spoke – little jittery things, waving and twitching as she rambled about how we’ve become blind to art. The veins stood out, blue and purple lines traced over her that looked like bruises. It was as if she were holding her own hands captive, ordering them to move, terrified of what she might do if they didn’t keep up. But I knew they were okay, after all, she needed them more than they needed her.
Footsteps descended into the kitchen, and suddenly, my peace had been contaminated.
‘David? Are you doing, okay?’ Joel was the best out of the bunch. He tried his best to communicate with me through translating little words and phrases. I chewed less with Joel around. That was until Marie would ruin my mood.
‘Enjoy…’ Marie said, as she gestured over to my Firestarter book in my lap with her packet of cigarettes. I had been so excited to read it since the publication back in September of ’81.
Obviously, she found it humorous, illiterate twat.
‘My cousin Sammy’s petit mari reading his books!’ she announced as she went to join the group in the dining room. I pressed my jaw firmly down, cracking the Sherbert lemon in two.
Five o’clock meant time for a drink and a smoke. This was a religious cycle that would never be broken. Walking into that room was like how I imagined walking into my grandfather’s old cashmere jumper. Thin grey threads would be woven throughout the room, stitches formed while others were frail. They all thrived off it, finding comfort in the smoke’s thin, bony fingers that laced around them in a sort of sickening embrace, enjoying the now familiar routine of the smoke engulfing them and their conversation late into the night.
I couldn’t stand it.
Arriving on Monday meant all I had to do was survive until Friday morning.
But on that Thursday night, I couldn’t sleep.
Twisting and turning, I tried to find a comfortable spot, hoping to return to the indents that my body had made the previous nights. Sammy’s snoring didn’t help either, and by the time my eyes were bloodshot and sore, I glanced over to my watch to see it was two AM.
‘Sammy? Samantha? Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ I grabbed my pillow and pushed my head deeper into the lumpy mattress. I knew that the best thing to do in that moment was to return to the only place of sanctity in that shithole – my hammock.
Descending the stairs, I entered the kitchen – its anatomy lay bare and cold. A corpse. I climbed in, wrapping my arms around myself as I pulled my knees up to my chest.
That is when I heard the stomach of the beast. It let out a low, deep gurgle.
Feed me.
I listened to the craving of its hunger.
Sitting up, I looked over at the fireplace, with the high whistle of the wind piercing through the silence.
Feed me. Let me chew, let me bite.
At first, I only put in six logs, one for every cat Céline owned. I turned my back towards the fire to feel its gentle warmth. However, I couldn’t manage to shut my eyes. Instead, I would watch the reflection of the fire in the vast amounts of polished copper pots, pans, and lids dangling from ceiling racks. Each was arranged in precise, symmetrical rows on walls, creating a giant distorted mirror from their curved surfaces.
A hand. An arm. A leg. A torso. Capturing fragments rather than a clear picture. Body parts that hadn’t been sewn together yet.
Feed me.
I don’t remember exactly how many I put in after. Ten, maybe, fifteen? The fire kept chewing, swallowing each log whole. A burning tongue appeared, flicking outward in hopes of finding something sweeter.
They were sitting there, without purpose. One by one, I threw in random sketches, little paintings and their frames that had been scattered around.
Maybe a bear would suffice this hunger. I thought.
I watched as the varnish bubbled, blending into the amber hue of the flames. Each of the corners began curling inward, and dark smoke grew. The air was thicker now; it clung to my throat like tar sliding down my chest.
Its hand crawled towards me, calling out once again.
Feed me.
That’s when something moved by the door. A tail.
Of course.
I leant down on my knees, stretching my hands out to feel its fur, warm and alive, moving in between my fingers.
‘Sshh,’ I whispered, although I didn’t know who I was talking to.
The fire crackled behind me, anticipating the final part of its meal, the last bite of satisfaction. I stood, holding this creature in my arms. It was lighter than I thought, smaller as well. I wondered whether I should have found a bigger one.
The heat rose, starving to pinch a bit at its fur as I leaned further in, prickling at my skin beneath.
‘David?’
I froze.
The cat darted out of my hands, over my shoulder, violent and sharp, scratching my leg on the way down.
‘Fucking cats, right?’ I smile. But it wasn’t enough to suppress the need to chew. I sucked in the inside of my cheek, biting down repeatedly to taste the bitterness of my blood.
***
‘But Tini, I want you to know, I am a lot better now. Less hungry if you know what I mean.’ Dad winked.
I looked down at the third-degree burns, glossy and tight across his arms.
‘Listen, Tini, I love you. Good luck with the job next week. I’ll be thinking of you. Please do visit again, it means the world to me.’
Standing up, I watched as my dad was escorted back into DrTheresa A. Gannon’s room for his weekly session.
‘Tea?’ Dr Gannon asked.
I shake my head as I pick at the skin between my fingernails, peeling it back raw.
‘There was another incident with the fire. I assumed he didn’t tell you?’
Just as Dad was leaving, he turned and offered a smile.
I caught the inside of my lip between my teeth, pressing down until it began to hurt.
‘No, he didn’t.’
I couldn’t tell if it was the kind of smile that meant he was getting better, or if he was just smiling because he couldn’t chew.
