The Alphabet Project, Part 8: "Gravity"

Tom was our second child, after Lydia. He isn't with us anymore. He...

They realised immediately, of course. I was in labour for six hours, Dan by my side, trying his best to help by holding my hand, or saying the things the books told him he should say. Needless to say none of it helped that much, but it was good that he was there.

Anyway, one last push and out came Tom, straight into the hands of the midwife, and I noticed immediately that she looked a little, well, confused. Tom cried straight away so he was clearly breathing perfectly well, but obviously something was wrong.

"What is it?" Dan asked.

"Well, it's a boy," said the midwife. That well sounded strange. "But-".

"But? Is something wrong?"

They seemed to be messing with the scales, turning them upside down for some reason.

"Is it his weight?" Dan said.

The issue was certainly strange. It turned out that Tom, for some reason, didn't observe gravity. He wasn't weightless as such, but for him gravity was reversed, so when the midwife weighed him she had to turn the scales upside down over Tom and let him press upwards against them. Seven pounds and nine ounces, but in the wrong direction. They did some tests and found no reason for his condition, and after a few days they let us take him home.

We had to adapt things of course. His cot was easy enough as we just turned it upside down, and we quickly discovered that it was only his body that was affected by his condition, so if he wet himself it fell downwards as a normal - I hate that word - baby's would. Every night we put Tom into his cot, threaded the blanket through the bars and tied the corners into a bow around the top - bottom? - of the cot so it looked a bit like a sling, and put a bucket on the carpet for in case he had any little accidents.

Time passed and Tom started to crawl, then toddle. We built a run of sorts along the lounge ceiling for him to follow, and to stop him hurting himself if he fell we put him into a harness attached to a line which we looped around a rail Dan fastened to the wall close to the floor. The line was just long enough that he could crawl or toddle, but if he fell he would be caught by the line, stopping an inch or so short of the ceiling, hanging like Tom Cruise in that "Mission Impossible" film. It worked wonderfully, our son the little balloon. The only awkwardness concerned his toys, which naturally remained on the floor, so when he wanted anything we had to pass it to him on a hod, and eventually we fastened them to little islands of Velcro on the ceiling.

He grew, and Dan & I wondered what he would do as an adult. He could become a tree surgeon, a colleague holding him like a balloon on a safety line as he wielded a chainsaw in the highest branches. Maybe a painter and decorator, specialising in high rooms. Perhaps a store detective, pacing around the ceiling of a shop, watching thieves from above. Of course he might just work in an office, sitting at a desk bolted to the rafters, a one-man mezzanine.

Tom got a girlfriend, which naturally caused its own unique problems. One night he told me they had made love and she had to go on top as ballast, but as he was heavier they still ended up rising up to the ceiling where she banged her head, toppled off, and fell to the floor. In the night she felt cold and found that he had fallen asleep and risen to the ceiling, the duvet pinned between him and the artex. They split soon after that.

Tom learned to drive, and was fine as long as he didn't try a convertible, as the roof and belt would hold him in safely. When he got out of the car he would wear old lead-soled diving boots to weigh him down, so he could lead something close to an ordinary life. He seemed happy enough.

But then again...

The afternoon it happened he was watching football on the TV with Dan and some of his friends in our lounge. They were all a bit drunk - merry, nothing more. Tom was up on the ceiling, complaining that the drink - he used one of those squeezy bottles - had gone to his head for obvious reasons. Everyone was laughing, everyone happy. Tom suddenly looked sad, smiled at us, and walked out of the room, stepping over the lintel. I followed him into the hall, and as he turned the latch on the front door he looked at me, smiled, and just said "I can't do this any more. Bye, mum. I love you." Then he opened the door, blew me a kiss, and stepped outside.

My wails brought the others outside, and Dan looped an arm around my waist as we watched Tom drift over the house. He was waving. He looked happy. He floated higher and higher, passing the trees, fading into the clouds.

"Maybe I should phone the airport to let them know, in case... you know," said Dan. I stopped him before he could mention bird strike.

"I love you, Tom," I said to the sky.

I told myself that he heard me, that he knows.

*

Written by Peter Lee on a train to Manchester from London, Tuesday 22nd March 2011.
(C) 2011 Peter Lee. A Nasal Hair Production. In memory of Arthur.