Page 49 of AMS.TER.strum

‘Given the circumstances…’ Joey’s grumpiness expresses everyone’s sentiments.

I encase my own frustration in my huff. ‘It is what it is, guys. Sadly, the circumstances don’t look like they’re about to change anytime soon.’

‘Need to be somewhere?’ Joey hasn’t missed my furtive glances towards the clock.

‘His dad might not be feeling well.’ Gordon’s family went through the same battle with dementia after his grandmother was diagnosed a few years ago.

That seems to sober Joey. ‘Sorry, man, I’m going stir crazy with this lockdown madness. How is your dad doing?’

‘He’s got his good and the not-so-good days.’ My cookie-cutter answer comes with a shrug of helplessness, because no matter how grateful I am to get to spend more time with Dad, it hurts more and more to watch the “good days” becoming an exception.

I used to joke to Corrie that, if I ever got my hands on Aladdin’s lamp, the first wish I’d want granted would be for the coyote to finally catch that damn bird. I stand by my wish, but I’d push it to the third place now.

My very first one would be to find a way for the body to not fight itself, including wiping its memories like water marker ink on a white board.

My second wish, almost voiced in different words, would be for Corrie and the babies to be nearer. Not because it’s second in importance, but because, as my Dutch grandma used to say, ‘When you are healthy, you have many wishes, but when you are sick, you only have one.’ And what wouldn’t I give for Dad to keep recognizing me; to stop slipping away; for his body to be healthy, really his, instead of a weakening husk where his mind only makes temporary appearances.

The incoming call brings an instant smile on my face, temporarily pushing my gloomy thoughts aside. ‘Hey there!’

‘Hi…’ Corrie stifles a yawn.

‘Sleepy?’

Corrie’s yawn becomes a proper one. ‘This is my permanent state now: sleep-deprived, fried-minded and shabbily-clothed.’

She tries to joke, but I see the dark crescents under her eyes. She’s got her hair pulled in a loose bun and is wearing an oversized hoodie that gives her the look of a college girl. No matter how sleep-deprived, fried-minded or shabbily-clothed, she’s beautiful, and it sucks there’s no immediate prospect of seeing her and the little people any time soon. There hasn’t been a day that I’m not missing them, after seeing them every day for the two weeks that followed their hasty entrance into this world.

‘Sorry I can’t be closer to give a hand…’

The corner of her mouth tilts. ‘Is this why I received a couple of adorable onesies and another milestone card writing, Today, we are six months old?’

My smile broadens. ‘Glad they arrived right on time.’

Thanks to you, Otto and Ada have their milestone photos.’

‘Prepare yourself for more, till they turn twelve months. Then you can only get year milestones.’

‘I’m so grateful for all of you keeping me and my babies alive. Dory with her meals, Mom and Dad with the all-round help, and you with the presents and the phone calls…’

‘See what happens when someone has too much time in their hands? And we only keep you alive because we care for you and want you sane. The rest you do yourself.’

A wail sounds before she can answer. ‘Shit, gotta go check, because when one starts crying, the other follows suit. Wanna hang up?’

‘No, I’d like to see them.’

Corrie

Sleepwalking has its perks; it means my permanent mind-funk doesn’t register the full decibels of baby crying, which probably has my neighbours cursing. I drape Ada over my shoulder, then get Otto, who has miraculously been sleeping through his sister’s screams.

‘Hey, baby girl, what’s bothering you?’

Ada takes a shuddery breath that shakes her whole body and coos against my shoulder as I walk back to the open plan living area. I love our relatively new, ground floor apartment. Hauling anything—kids, shopping, buggy—three floors up became an exercise in resourcefulness while living in Johan’s place. Bless Dad’s connections in the city where finding housing is mission impossible.

The place is close to Westerpark, smaller but far cosier. Right now, it could be easily called babyland, for every corner is taken over by baby stuff, including the dining table, where the two baby carriers are for easy access and supervision.

Communicating with Luuk on a daily basis has become a routine I gladly slipped into in the months after he left. Our check-ins aren’t necessarily long. Sometimes, it’s only a Good morning text and a How’s your day going? later on, which is funny, due to our different time-zones, but it’s better than nothing. And there might be a quick phone call during the week, so that we hear each other’s voice. But what’s sacred is our weekly video-calling, which we try to schedule before the kids wake up so that we can catch up and he can also see them.

I wonder if he knows how much I’m looking forward to those calls, to seeing his face, even if it’s miles away. From the looks of it, there’s no immediate prospect of the situation changing soon. I’m stuck at home most of the time anyway, lockdown or not. His situation is similar, and my heart breaks every time I hear the sparingly distributed news about his father. Luuk shifts our talks to the babies and how they’re growing, his expression expectant now, as I approach and place them in their carriers, then switch the screen for him to see them as we talk.