The Test

I allow myself a quick once-over in the mirror in the hallway before calling the boys down for breakfast. The dress is a little snug around my waist, but it’s still my favourite. It’s the one I wore when I told my late husband I was pregnant with Isiah, and we’d made love again just to be doubly sure. I haven’t worn it since having Rubin, but the fact that it still fits (more or less) is testament to everything that’s been good in our lives.

I’ve made a full English breakfast for the first time in ages. I move the laptop from the kitchen table to the far end of the counter. I rescan the newspaper, but the words may as well be hieroglyphics. I close it, pick it up again and scrunch it into a ball as tightly as I can, until my hands burn. I throw it in the bin, not the recycling.  

I can hear them messing around upstairs. Isiah’s footsteps are the largest and echo throughout the house. Rubin’s voice is a wind chime – he’s trying to reason with his older brother. Silence lingers for a few tight seconds before they charge down the stairs like a tsunami, spot me standing by the cooker and rush me, hugging me fiercely. I let them hang there, clumsily tugging my dress down, choking me a little bit. I squeeze my eyes shut and order my tears to retreat.

It’s Isiah that reminds me about the test – they need to take it before school today. He’s always been the organised one. Today, I wish he wasn’t. He cleans his plate and makes his way to the laptop. The information pack from the school says I shouldn’t watch them taking it, but I can’t help myself. His slight frame hunches over the keyboard, his eyes scanning every word before him, looking for the words between words. He’s done in less than ten minutes. I kiss the top of his head and resist pulling him into another hug.

Rubin’s turn. He stares at the screen suspiciously, so much like his father, the thinker – why do anything straight away? At question five he asks me for help. My heart sinks. I say, Baby, I can’t help you with this one. I want to throw the laptop into the bin and set the whole lot on fire. The newspaper has unfolded itself a little, like a snake. I spy the start of the headline: Latest test for population control…

Rubin is done just as they have to leave. They’re arguing again. They’re wrestling. They make up. They laugh. I don’t reprimand them. They run out of the door shouting, ‘Bye, mum.’ I should reply, but I don’t.

I click on the link to the ‘parents - results' screen. As I expected, Isiah scored the highest. His prize: he’ll get to come home to me tonight. And live.

I close the laptop. Slowly, I take off my dress. The stool is freezing cold against my skin. I sit and watch the kitchen clock for a while.