“Take a cold bath then. It will calm the stinging down,” his mother says to him.
Joe goes in to run the bath, putting his hand in the water every so often, testing it, even though he knows exactly how cold the water is. He stops the tap then peels his t-shirt off very slowly, like someone who’s broken their arms or their back, biting his lip with the pain. After a minute the t-shirt is off. He turns his head, examining his back in the mirror. His back has a deep red bordering on purple color to it. Huge boils and white skin hang from his back making him look like a big walking lizard. He gets in and tries to settle in the bath but the pain makes him scream. He comes back out to his mother, cursing her.
“Are you completely f u cking stupid? That’s the worst thing I could have done.” He takes the sun burn lotion and throws it at her.
You really are a stupid B-ITCH! I didn’t even want to come to this dump.”
His mother, a face full of helplessness and worry, not knowing what to say, begins to cry. She thought bringing the three kids here for a holiday would help them get over the split with their father - and help her to - but it’s just made things worse.
“I’m sorry, Joseph. It’s too bloody hot here; we should have gone elsewhere. I’m so sorry, love,” she says, wiping tears back.
“Agghhhh,” he roars, trying to lie on the bed, “the pain Ma, the pain. If I had a gun I’d shoot meself.”
“I’ll call a doctor,” she says.
She goes down to the hotel reception. The man on the desk struggles to understand her. She grabs a pen and paper and writes out the word “Doctor.” The man opens his mouth and raises his finger to signal he understands.
“227…room 227. It’s my son. My son is very sick,” she continues, forgetting the man has no English.
The receptionist stops dialing on the phone, looking up at the woman with squinted eyes.
“Eh…no understand…” he says, pointing to his ears and shaking his head.
He points to the ceiling, “Doctor…eh, how you say…uno momento.”
The woman is relieved. “227. Sunburn…” she rubs here arms and her back, “Sunburn.” The receptionist nods. She stops miming, satisfied the receptionist has understood her.
“Numero 227, si. Doctor,” he says waiving the phone.
There’s a cue forming behind her now. She hears tuts and whispered obscenities.
An English woman strides forward in front of her and says in a twangy cockney accent, “Excuse meee, we’ve been waitingggg here ten minutesss. Is there other staff on who can check us innn, we want to get to bedddd.”
The receptionist smiles, “Uno momento, per favore.”
The cockney woman sighs loudly and walks back to her place in the cue.
“Eh 227…is Mrs. Kelly, yes?” The receptionist asks her.
“Rita, please,” she says, “Rita Kelly.”
“Ah, Rita…doctor come soon. Ok?” he manages to get out, surprising Rita with his fluency this time.
“Thanks you,” Rita says, pointing down the hall, indicating she is going back to her room, “227, yes?”
“Si,” the receptionist says, smiling.
Walking through the lobby she looks out on the veranda and sees couples sitting, reclining, talking gently by the poolside, drinking beers and cocktails. Soft salsa music plays and Technicolor lights dance across the water. For a moment she wishes she wasn’t burdened with the kids. She wishes he had the kids and she was holidaying here by herself.
A tall man with black hair, wearing shorts, sandals and an open shirt bumps into her as he steps off the elevator.
“Oh, excuse me Signora,” he says, smiling with teeth which look too white set against his deep tan.
“Oh, my fault, sorry,” Rita says, blushing.
“Are you not joining the party?” the man asks her, pointing outside. The light from behind her head reflects off the thick gold chain around his neck.
“Maybe later,” she says, trying to smile.
“See you later then,” he says walking off. He turns and winks, showing her his white teeth again.
When she gets to the room Joe is pacing up and down the floor with his hands pressed to his temples.
“Joseph? How are you dear? The doctor is coming.”
“What the fu-CK can he do?” he grunts.
“I told them you had sunburn,” she says rubbing her arms.
“Ok, Ok,” he emits. Joseph tries to sit on the couch beside his younger brothers. “Agghh,” he screams, jumping up. His brothers stare up at him with open mouths. “Joseph,” the younger one says, “are you ok?”
“Do I look ok? Do I sound ok?” he snaps. His mother moves towards him.
“The doctor will be here. He will bring medicines for you, love.”
They sit and watch TV. She tries to concentrate on the film, Dirty Harry, but can’t really follow what’s happening. Each scene seems disconnected from the rest, like a series of different films all playing back to back.
She goes into the bathroom and looks at her face in the mirror. She has a young face, not the face of a forty year old woman with no husband and three kids. People consider her attractive. She was never appalled by life, never suffered inconsolable bouts of depression like some of her friends did. She tilts her face upwards under the light. She can make out the wrinkles beside her eyes. They are feint, but there nonetheless. Little cracks beginning to show. She runs the tap and splashes water on her face. When the husband left she used to ring her friends when she came in from work and talk for hours. Am I am good person? She’d ask them. Am I controlling or annoying in some ways? No, Rita, they’d say, you are a wonderful person. It was him, not you. The thought of asking her friends these questions embarrasses her now. I’m losing it they must have thought, losing it. She never imagined such inner chaos was possible. Does he feel it? She wonders. She is certain he doesn’t. Her mother says she will take the kids during the day while she works. This is such a weight off her shoulders. Her mother will even take the kids some nights so Rita can have a social life. This is a blessing. The husband wants nothing to do with her or the kids. That was how he put it, “You or the bloody kids.”
“Mam…” Joe says, knocking on the door, “when’s this doctor coming?”
“Soon, dear.”
Out of the three boys, Joe is the one who looks most like his father. He has his father’s face. And his voice in the last few hours reminds her bitterly of her husband’s voice.
“I can’t take the pain, Ma…Ma, do we have any tablets?…”
She sits on the toilet seat and puts her head in her hands. “Just a minute, dear,” she says.
