Fiction: The Ritual

By James Callan

On sunny days we rock in the hammock after breakfast. We lie together and count the passing gulls and hawks, each plane trailing its long, white banner. Beneath our sagging weight, we pretend each flower head is a shark, each ambitious weed a tentacle reaching for our asses. I swing us higher and faster than we should, compromising safety for fun, which is why we laugh almost as much as when we tickle each other until we are short of breath.

We have to go.

One more time!

But we have to go.

One more time!

Okay!

Inevitably, on these sunny days, we are late to school. And all of this before the long goodbyes.

I love you!

I love you, too!

This is our last exchange before I turn to leave my son for the day. Or maybe it was the kissing noises that we traded, palm to our lips and “mwah!” Waving, repeat.

I love you. I love you, too. Mwah! Mwah! I love you. I love you, too!

And so on, his little ritual echoing outside the classroom, annoying the other kids who settle for a simple “Bye, Mom,” “See you, Dad.” And me, loving the closeness, hoping it’s not an over-attachment thing (mine or his or both).

I can tally on my fingers the times my own dad told me he loved me, I can do this and still retain a grip on my car keys as I walk away from my little boy. How many times did the kid tell me he loved me? Just right now? I don’t have the fingers for it, and I’m not keeping track. I take it for granted, thinking these sentiments are cheap. I roll my eyes for the benefit of a burned-out mom walking in with her own kid, as if the whole thing is ridiculous, not precious, not perfectly him.

I love you! I can’t help but shake my head as I turn the corner, hearing him laughing, transitioning to “school mode.” Daddy is gone. The OCD in him can relax. The love can lie low. I am relieved for the quiet, the moment of peace. Six hours until pickup. Six hours of “solo mode.”

I get the call around midday, an alarm bell to smash the serenity of our lifestyle block. I am weeding a blackberry patch, hot and sweaty and full of scratches. My phone is somewhere in the tall grass by the stock fences, lost in a tangle of dandelion and wire. I wade through these gigantic lily things that cannot die, that grow as wide as a wedding dress two months after I raze them level to the earth. I keep my water bottle wedged within to stay cool, out of the sun. My phone, too. It’s under there, and I follow its cheery jingle to guide me to the call.

I reach under the hem of Lilly's skirt, find the vibrator wedged deep within. I chuckle at my lewd imagination, the perverted jokes that make removing blackberry a little less dull. I have missed the call, but it rings anew, vibrates to life, activated in my thorn-shredded fist. It hurts, sure. But it’s superficial, the kind of pain that goes away.

Who’s calling me, anyways? I see that it’s Eastern Sun, my kid’s Montessori. Fucking A, don’t they know? Daddy’s got three more hours of solo mode.

They tell me gently. They tell me frantically. They tell me officially. The principal, the teacher, the paramedic. It’s my son, they break the news. My late, little son.

He ran out. Didn’t look. He chased the paper plane. They know not to throw things over the fence. Never allowed to climb them. I am so sorry. I am sorry. Oh, I am so sorry. It’s your son. It was the paper plane. I am sorry. So sorry.

It’s on a loop, like the morning ritual. It echoes, annoying no one, setting the blackberry bush on fire, transporting the stock fence and the big lily to a distant, weird dimension where they matter, where they even exist. My stupid imagination pretends it’s the worst April Fools prank the world has ever known. It’s September. I guess it’s how I cope. Cope? I think not. I walk in a straight line to my car, right through the blackberry bush. I am torn to shreds, and I do not feel a thing.

On sunny days, on rainy days, on any and every day, I watch the hammock through the window over breakfast. It sways in the wind, the flower heads and weeds tickling the wilting meniscus of its unburdened cloth. Overhead, there are gulls and hawks and planes. Beneath them, the blackberry patch has engulfed every acre.

I love you!

I love you, too!

This was our last exchange before I turned to leave my son for the day. Or maybe it was the kissing noises that we traded, palm to our lips and “mwah!” Waving, repeat. It’s my ritual. My OCD. I can’t seem to stop saying it, repeating it.

Always repeating it, even now, after all these years.

 

 

 

 

 

James Callan is the author of the novels Anthophile (Alien Buddha Press, 2024) and A Transcendental Habit (Queer Space, 2023). His fiction has appeared in Apocalypse Confidential, BULL, Reckon Review, Maudlin House, Mystery Tribune, and elsewhere. He lives on the Kāpiti Coast, Aotearoa New Zealand.