That evening I stood at the top of the stairs, listening to Mum and Dad watching TV. A sitcom was on and every now and then Dad chuckled.
I looked in the office and out onto the street. Old Nina’s lamp was on, her front room flickering as she watched TV too. I thought about what she’d said to me, about not waiting for a storm to pass but to go out and dance in the rain. I knew what she meant. I couldn’t sit this one out; I had to tackle it head-on. Taking a big, deep breath, I made my way downstairs.
“Matthew? What’s the matter?” said Mum, her eyes wide as I stood in front of the TV.
“Sorry, but I need to talk to you,” I said. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
Dad quickly switched the TV off and they both sat there, waiting. I wrung my hands together, digging my thumb into my palm.
“I clean because … I clean because I worry if I don’t, someone will die.”
Mum gasped and gripped Dad’s arm.
“What do you mean?” said Dad.
I couldn’t look at him. I knew that if I caught his eye I’d just stop and run away. I carried on.
“In my head, I believe that if I don’t keep clean, if I don’t get rid of all of the germs, then I could get ill …”
I cleared my throat.
“… and if I get ill then I could make you ill and then you might die. Like Callum did.”
Mum’s hand went to her mouth. I swallowed a lump in my throat, not looking directly at them.
“I was sick once. When you were pregnant, Mum, do you remember? I was sick all over you when I had chicken pox.”
Mum nodded, her hand still at her mouth.
“After that, you went to the hospital and … and … you lost the baby.” I started to cry. “I don’t know how or why, but from then on, I felt like it was my fault. I felt like Callum died because I was ill.”
I broke down into sobs. Mum rushed toward me and Dad stood up.
“Oh Matthew!”
“And that’s why I clean so much. That’s why I need the gloves, so that I don’t get any germs on my hands. I’m sorry about the gloves, Dad. I know you hate them.”
Dad couldn’t speak. He just nodded.
“But I need them, you see? I need them so that I don’t kill anyone else like I killed Callum.”
I broke down then. My body shook with my sobs and I thought I’d never stop.
“Matty, of course it wasn’t your fault,” said Mum, pressing her fingers to her chin. “It was just one of those things, it had nothing to do with you being ill or throwing up or you having chicken pox. I had it when I was young, so I was probably immune anyway!”
She took a step toward me, but I backed away.
“Why have you kept this a secret all this time?” said Dad. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
I calmed down a little.
“I just, I just couldn’t tell you. But then Hannah got pregnant next door and … and it just got worse.”
Mum was crying now, smiling through her tears as she nodded at everything I said.
“I wrote him a note, Mum,” I said. “I left it by his angel before school one day.”
“You did?” she said, dabbing at her eyes. “I didn’t know you did that.”
I nodded.
“I told him it was all my fault he isn’t here and I said … and I said I was so, so sorry.”
“Oh Matthew.”
I broke down into proper sobs.
“I’m going to get better, Mum, Dad. Honestly I am.” I took a breath and wiped my eyes. “Dr. Rhodes is going to help me. She said it’s going to take a lot of hard work, but she said I can do it.”
“Of course you can, son.”
Dad put his arms out to give me a hug, a big smile on his face as tears rolled down his cheeks.
“I’m not cured yet, Dad. Don’t push it.” I laughed.
And then Mum and Dad laughed with me. We wiped our eyes and we actually laughed about something that had made my life miserable for the past five years.
“I’m proud of you, Matty. Do you know that? I’m very, very proud,” said Dad, his voice wobbling. I smiled at him.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“And if you need me to do anything, Matthew, you just say, okay? Anything at all! I can come in and talk to your school and explain things. There’s no need for secrets anymore,” said Mum.
“Okay,” I said, wiping my sleeve across my cheeks.
I’d done it. I’d told them. I’d actually told them. My shoulders dropped and I felt the black beetle that was constantly there in the depths of my stomach loosen its grip. I was tired, so, so tired.
Dad had put his arm around Mum, and they both stood watching me.
“Actually, could you do something for me now, Mum?”
I reached into my back pocket and took out the tiny piece of wallpaper that I’d put there to keep safe. To keep me safe.
“Can you throw this away?”
I placed the Wallpaper Lion’s eye on her open palm.
“What is it?” she asked as she studied it.
I sighed.
“It’s nothing. I don’t need it anymore.”
I smiled at their puzzled faces and then went upstairs to my room.
I knew the answer to Dr. Rhodes’s question now, the one about my hopes for the future. I turned to the back of my notebook and started a blank page.
My Hopes for the Future, by Matthew Corbin
One day I want to walk downstairs, put my arms around my mum, and give her a big hug. She’ll start crying, I expect, so then I’ll leave her to pull herself together and go and find Dad. I’ll give him a big slap on the back and say, “How about that game of pool now, eh?”
Mum will cook us her finest roast dinner, popping her head into the conservatory every now and then to see how the game is going. We’ll sit at the table to eat as Nigel purrs, brushing himself against my legs, so thrilled to see me. Afterward, stuffed with food, we’ll collapse together onto the sofa and watch some old comedy film that makes us all laugh.
That’s my ambition.
That’s how I want my life to be.
I want to go downstairs and rejoin the living.