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by Kate Horsley
On Sundays, when Papa’s out running, Mama and I look at photos of us, cuddling in bed with Kipper the dog and Mama’s photo box labelled ‘Peanut’ in Mama’s curly handwriting, (because my name is Peanut) and I think it’s nicer in the bed without Papa in it.
In the photo of me, I’m grainy and my head is a huge peanut on my shrimp body so that I hardly look human, but Mama says there’s nothing she loves more than staring at me. The photograph of Kipper is in colour and he looks just like he does now, with Mama’s arms wrapped around him – it’s Christmas in his photo and Mama’s eight, because that’s how old she was when the car killed him – and she always says that was the first time her heart snapped; the second was when she lost me.
I hear a sound I hate – Papa’s key in the lock – and it makes Mama shove her photo box in the dark space under the bed, because Papa gets mad if he sees the box and takes Mama to the doctor so she’ll be like she was before and go running and take trips with him and talk and laugh. Now he bangs a coffee on the bedside table and does a pretend smile, saying, I’ll take you out, we can get dressed up like old times, but Mama rolls on her back and pulls the covers up to her chin, sighing, just half an hour more…
When Papa’s safely gone, I climb on Mama and wrap my arms tight around her and snuggle my face in her flower-smelling neck, whispering, you’re mine, all and always mine, because I may be tiny, but I’m very heavy, which is a good thing, since I can keep my Mama where she belongs, cuddling with me in bed, so we will never ever be apart.
Kate’s first novel was shortlisted for the Saltire Award. Her second was published by William Morrow. Her short fiction has appeared in The Cincinnati Review, The Citron Review, Fictive Dream & BULL, and placed in Bath, Bridport and Oxford.
