Difference of Opinion

A Child's Playground

Brett woke up, rolled over and peeked through the curtains. The warm sun shone against the foggy window. At long last there was a nice day. It had seemed as if, for the last two weeks, every day he had woken up to the rain thundering against the ceiling. It was strange to hear that in the morning as it made him feel as if it should be night-time and he should be in a deep sleep. But even when he felt safe and snug in his home, as if the ceiling was sheltering him like a massive umbrella, he always had to leave that. He had to brace the cold, heavy shower, even when he'd already had a warm shower inside. One thing was for sure—it was easier to control the water pressure and temperature when he was inside. But as soon as he stepped outside, he was completely powerless and vulnerable. Plus, he really hated spending the day in damp socks.

But today seemed quiet and easy. Even the birds seemed to be gently chirping, as if they were out sunbathing and nodding their heads along to the sound. Brett fell back down into his sheets, staring at the oddly clean, white ceiling. He'd never realised how perfectly blank it was. How refreshing to feel as if nothing was at his beckon call, that he could breathe and not tense up about the smallest things. Even his muscles seemed to loosen, as if his body was only full of air and nothing else. He was like a plastic bag that drifted against the wind, then settled on the edge of the road. It would just stay there, as morning strollers went by, only glancing at it, but never picking it up.

In only a few minutes, he felt himself lying there on his bed, almost numbly. He was just staring at a ceiling, which wasn't really interesting in itself. It had really only made him think of other things. He had always been a bit lost in his thoughts. Too emotional, no doubt. He rolled over and read the time in red lights on his alarm clock. They glared angrily at him, reading 8:15. Too late. Too late. You should be up by now.

He shot up and his legs hit the ground. Almost immediately, little Rebecca came sprinting in and clung herself to his leg. She was his five-year-old daughter. By the looks of it, she had just woken up; she was still in her pink spotted pyjamas and her dark curly hair was on end. But her eyes were bright and open.

"Daddy!" she cried, tugging on his arm. "Can I go to school today?"

"Not today, Becca," he said, pulling her into his arms. He felt the weight of her against his chest, though she was usually fairly light. "Daddy needs you home with me today, okay?"

"Okay!" she agreed, always enthusiastically. It meant she could go and have fun. When she got a day off school, her dad always took her out somewhere. Sometimes he would even take her to the movies if she was extra good.

Brett felt a building strain in his back, so he had to put his daughter down. It was always that heavy feeling in his back, or his chest, or sometimes his head. He couldn't handle lifting things like a full kettle, a pile of plates or his own daughter. It was why his boss told him to take a few months off. He would always have to sit down and push the weight of his body against the chair, since he couldn't lift it himself. He knew he was taking too many breaks during work. It only made sense to take some time off to recover. But he was sure he would be in shipshape in no time.

He got up and told Becca to go on and make her bed and get dressed. As soon as she scurried out, Brett opened up his drawers and looked for something decent to wear. He had to dig through all the women's clothing, which he still hadn't thrown out. Why on earth he hadn't was beyond him. He grabbed them and threw them in a pile on the floor, like dirty laundry. He would deal with it all later. At last now he could find a fresh pair of clothes. But when he sniffed most of his shirts, they did not smell fresh. Sort of musty. But he shrugged and threw on something anyway.

When he lightly knocked on his daughter's door, he hesitated before going in. A part of him always felt weird about it. He didn't want to invade her privacy or see her getting changed. Despite this, he edged himself in; he saw Becca with a dress tangled over her head. He chuckled and helped pull it down, guiding her arms through the right holes. It was a vibrant yellow and green dress, with flowers the size of fists. Once it was properly on, she danced around the room, waving her arms about. However, Brett began to feel that heavy feeling in his head again.

"Pipe down!" he cried. Becca immediately stopped. She stared at him with wide eyes, like a puppy being disciplined. Her dad had been having yucky pain a lot lately. She wanted to scoop him up in her arms, like he did for her, but she knew he'd be too heavy.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm really sorry, dad."

"It's okay Becs," Brett said with a sigh. He stroked her on the shoulder, without looking her in the eye. His head was throbbing. "I love you, you know."

"I know daddy."

He had a look around her dim room, where everything had colour but it was all much darker, as if a black cloud hung over. The curtains were still closed, so he walked over and threw them open. A stream of bright light fell onto him.

"It's a really nice day today," he said. "Let's go for a walk, shall we?"

"Okay!"

So, he took her by the hand and walked her down the street. The neighbourhood felt empty and quiet by 9am. Apart from the occasional old man walking his dog or a mother in sportswear, speed walking a child in her pram, with a phone against her ear, there was no one. He felt as if they had the whole suburb to themselves, even if only for an hour. As they went along, Becca began to jump over the cracks in the footpath. She'd just tried stepping over them at first, but it was much more fun to jump over them. It was a bit of an odd way to walk though, as she kept slowing down, or going off to the side, in order to avoid the dreaded crack. She couldn't step on it. She couldn't.

"What are you doing, silly?" Brett asked. He obviously didn't understand the game.

"I can't step on the cracks," Becca said, just narrowly avoiding a large crack. "Otherwise I'll have to marry a rat! Don't you know that?"

"I already married a rat," Brett said under his breath.

"What?"

"Nothing darling," he said. "Watch out, you've got to jump really high to avoid this crack! One, two, three, jump!"

Just as she was about to lift off, Brett pulled her up and she was flying, really, really high, right over that crack. She squealed in delight, as this was much better than jumping over. She knew that if her dad was there, he could lift her up and she could fly and never, ever touch any cracks.

They walked around the block to the nearby playground; it was unnaturally colourful and it stood out like a sore eye. Brett went and sat down on the plain bench and waved Becca away when she asked him to play. Instead, he watched her run up the beaming yellow stairs and then slide down the burning red slide, all with that natural grin on her face. The playground seemed to shelter his daughter within its rainbow colours. He watched her as he crossed his legs over, buried his bare hands into his lap and sunk down into the seat.