I am in my office shed, rushing to get some work done in order to clear my morning. An hour will do it, I think. Plenty of time.
I send my wife a message that says, “Text me when you’ve got him.” A few seconds later she replies with the words: “Nearly home.”
From across the garden I can see the dog running in excited circles through the kitchen. By the time I get inside, I find the middle one standing in the hallway, the light blocked by his tall frame – possibly even taller than when he left for the US a year ago. A small knot of worry that has been lurking in my chest all that time suddenly loosens. I’d forgotten it was there.
“Hey,” I say. “How was the flight?”
“Empty,” he says. “They gave me, like, seven beers. My pockets are full of them.”
“He was early,” my wife says, from somewhere behind him. We go into the kitchen.
“And you got a negative test?” I say.
“Yup,” he says. “And two more from the airport I have to take.”
“Are you tired?” my wife says.
“So tired,” he says.
“You’ll have noticed the new extractor fan,” I say.
“Do you want to eat?” my wife says.
“Maybe later,” he says.
“And oh yeah, we have mice,” I say. They both look at me.
“Do you have to work?” my wife says.
“I do, actually,” I say. “But just for an hour. At most.”
“It’s fine,” she says. “I’ll debrief him.”
The hour I spend in my office is difficult: like being confined to your bedroom to write thank you letters on Christmas morning, when all you want to do is play with your new toy before the cheap batteries it came with give out. Through the window I see the middle one and his brothers at the kitchen table, laughing and using all the milk.
Over the course of the next week the middle one begins his slow reintegration under quarantine – adjusting to the time difference, changing his phone’s sim card, sticking swabs up his nose and leaving them out to be posted. In the meantime, I worry about how we can present ourselves as a family that hasn’t gone insane in his absence. We must act normal, I think, because we can’t do anything about our hair.
For that reason, I am sorry he had to arrive so close to pickling day.
“Is there some kind of pickle shortage?” he says, watching me divide spices between half a dozen sterilised jars.
“You can’t buy pickles like these,” I say. The oldest one walks in while reading from his open laptop.
“Pickling day already?” he says, wrinkling his nose at the scent of boiling vinegar.
“It is,” I say. “And I’ve numbered the jar lids so we eat them in order.”
“What is happening?” says the middle one.
“It helps me,” I say. “It presupposes a future when these pickles will be ready.” The youngest one walks in.
“I thought I smelled pickling day,” he says.
A weekend of televised football eases the middle one’s assimilation, but on Sunday night he eats some chocolate from the wrong category.
“That’s mine!” my wife shouts.
“It was in the cupboard,” he says.
“I’m afraid that type of chocolate isn’t available to you,” she says. “You’ll have to get your own.”
“I’m not allowed out!” he says.
“I don’t make the rules,” she says.
“You made all of these rules,” I say.
“I want chocolate!” says the middle one.
Finally, after 10 days and three negative tests, the middle one pulls on his shoes and heads out into the wet afternoon. He doesn’t come back until after 8pm.
“We ate without you,” I say.
“That’s fine,” he says. “I’ll make something.” He leaves the room, returning a minute later.
“There are bugs in the spaghetti!” he says, holding out the packet. My wife stares into it.
“Weevils,” she says. “They won’t hurt you.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not eating this,” he says. For a moment I see us the way he must see us: people with crazy hair and pickled fingers, living in cosy symbiosis with parasites.
“I thought we got rid of them last time,” my wife says.
“Last time?” he says.
