October Exclusive - "Bobbing" - Part 2

Robin has skived a lot of school since his dad walked out. So perhaps he missed the lesson when kids are taught what to do when they get younger. When there’s magic. When they’re left the same size (maybe a little smaller) than their baby sister. And when their mother acts none the wiser.

“What’s got into you?” Mum asks, looking down at Robin. “You’re acting so funny tonight.” But she’s asking the wrong questions, she’s missing the news headlines.

Robin lies on the changing mat in the nursery, where there are two toddler-sized beds, where there is enough clothes, toys and changing supplies for both of Mum’s children. Because of magic, apparently. Because of Halloween tricks. Which begs the question; where’s the bubbling cauldron? And of course; where’s the witch?

“No nappy,” he begs, naked and panicking. His request comes out clean enough. Noh nah-pee.

But Mum’s response isn’t helpful, it belongs in a different world.

“Silly Robin,” she says, and she has him taped up in Pampers in no time at all. She pats the front of his nappy fondly, making him gasp at the continued invasion, making Robin’s face redden to the max, because somehow that gesture was even more patronizing, more infantilizing than the nappy itself. “There, snug as a bug.” She smiles at him. “You’ll need nappies for a while, honey, even your sister isn’t ready for potty-training. And now you’re all ready for a lovely costume!”

Ah yes. The costume. Robin shakes his head. “Don’t want it.” He really doesn’t. And perhaps some of this would be bearable, if he didn’t have to wear Lucy’s second-choice outfit. He pleads with his eyes, waving with smallest, weakest of hands.

Mum laughs. “Silly Robin. Let’s get you all dressed up. Although I don’t know if I’ll be able to take you trick-or-treating, you might look so cute and cuddly that Mummy will keep you home all night for lovely snuggles!”

She’s just kidding, of course. Robin knows that. And the understanding that this isn’t just about wearing a babyish costume – that Robin will be paraded along with his sister, shown off to the neighbors, cooed over and taken photos of – makes Robin find an even deeper shade of red to turn. Mum seems to think all is normal, but how far does the magic trick go? What about the neighbors? What about his mates? Ever since his mother discovered Instagram, Robin has refused to be included in her shared images. Tonight, Robin understands all too keenly that she won’t be taking no for an answer.

He turns his head, looks over at Lucy who is playing patiently with her Skye stuffie. She will want to take it with her tonight, perhaps, given that she’s dressed the same way as her favorite Paw Patrol character. She’ll want to wave the toy proudly when each door opens, so grown-ups can validate just how perfectly identical Lucy looks in her costume, right down to the fuzzy, floppy ears.

Robin goes limp as his mother dresses him, succumbing to the inevitable.

The costume is soft, even softer than Lucy’s. It’s fuzzy, and with his eyes closed, Robin can imagine that the one-piece costume is just the kind of pyjamas that little kids wear, like a onesie.

But do onesies have hoods? Do they have wings? And come on, let’s get real; do onesies have bells?

Mum fits Robin’s arms through the fuzzy sleeves and his feet through the fuzzy legs. She pulls up the side-zip and pulls the hood over his head.

She groans, clearly delighted. “You look darling,” she says. She produces another moan, hand on her chest as if her heart is fit to burst. “Look, Lucy! What do you think?”

Lucy beams. Apparently she wants nothing more than to see her brother dressed as a…well, what is it? She rushes over and cuddles Robin. “Unicorn,” she supplies. Yoony-con.

And as if he needed it – he doesn’t – Mum takes a picture with her phone and then sticks it in front of Robin’s face. “Look at you! Look, honey, you’re a unicorn!”

Robin’s shoulders slump. He’s a unicorn all right. Complete with a 3D face and silver horn on the hood, along with a colourful belly and glittery pink (what else?) wings.

“You’re going to be so cosy,” Mum says, “it’s perfect. Oh!” She puts her hand to her mouth as if realizing for the first time. “The neighbors are going to just love you!”

Robin hangs his head. He thinks of Mark, who lives down the street. What if he’s home, what if he sees? Will he just see another little brat, or will he see what’s really happened like Lucy? Robin’s mouth his dry, and his bladder gets heavy, as if he might need to use his nappy before they even leave the house. Mark won’t be impressed, like Lucy clearly is. Quite the opposite.

“All fuzzy,” says Lucy, coming back for another cuddle, making Mum laugh as she continues to take pictures. What hashtag will she use to share these? #toddlerlife? In this new reality, does Mum really think it’s okay to dress up her son in a costume so clearly meant for a girl?

Lucy says again, “All fuzzy.” She cuddles Robin tight, and at least he can gain some reassurance from that. Robin sighs. And he wonders, is this the worst thing that could have happened? Is this a true Halloween horror story?

Abruptly, without warning, perfectly formed and more real than the present moment, Robin remembers a Halloween memory from when he was a toddler the first time, when he was around Lucy’s age.

His father, reaching for his hand so they could go trick or treating. But it wasn’t his father, was it. It was a monster, an imposter, with his father’s body but a nightmarish face

Robin had looked at the yellow and black skin, the red boils and impossible horns, and he had burst into tears.

His father had laughed – it was definitely Daddy’s voice, produced through rubber, unmoving lips. “It’s me, Robin. It’s only me.”

Robin shrank back, made himself even smaller than he already was, covered his eyes, prepared for the end of everything.

“Baby,” his mother had said. In a good way, in that special way she could say it. “Baby, it’s just Daddy.” Her tone changes, harder and with a loss of patience, as she tells her husband, “Take it off. He’s just a baby, he doesn’t understand.”

Robin kept his eyes shut tight, held in his mother’s arms, heard Daddy’s muttered acquiescence.

“There. Fine. Come on, look at your old man.” His father groaned. “Look at Daddy.”

Robin did as he was told, because he was more used to his father looking like himself than a monster, and he was rewarded with Daddy’s normal face and the rush of relief that came with it. The monster was gone – or rather, it was held in Daddy’s hand, a curled up mask.

“Yucky,” Lucy had said, making her opinion clear on Daddy’s misguided attempt at a Halloween costume. But that’s impossible, because Lucy wasn’t born then. Still, in Robin’s memory, he looked over and sees Lucy, who’s the same age she is now, so the memory has to be fake, something else cooked-up by the magic spell.

Lucy wasn’t wearing her Paw Patrol costume, which at least made some kind of sense, because was Paw Patrol even a thing 10 years ago? Instead, she was dressed like a bird – no a chicken, a mass of yellow feathers on top of orange-tighted legs.

In this fake memory, Lucy rushed over and cuddled Robin, stood between him and their father. An almost-three year old defender of her little brother. She came over and joined the embraced that had been started by their mother, and for a moment Robin was engulfed by the feathers, ticking his face, making him both claustrophobic and giggly at the same time.

“It’s okay,” Lucy had said. So-kay. And is that what she always said when Robin was upset, when he’d taken a tumble or gotten over-tired? No, because she wasn’t there, because this memory, as real as it feels, can’t be authentic.

“Come on, mate,” said Daddy. “We better get going, before all the good sweeties are gone.”

Daddy reached out with his free hand, and Robin took it easily, grinning with relief.

How did the rest of that Halloween go? Robin can’t remember. He must have collected sweets, he must have had a stomach ache and he must have stayed up too late. He must have had a wonderful time. But he doesn’t remember any of it; he only remembers the monster, his mother’s kind words, and the tickles on his skin from Lucy’s feathered costume, all sensations as clearly defined and immediate as if it was happening right now, real time.

“You’re dreaming.” Mum tickles his sides, bringing him back to the nursery. “Silly Robin.”

Which is pretty ironic, Robin thinks, satisfied with his use of the word, even if he can’t say it out loud. Pretty ironic for his mother to be okay with her 12 year old son becoming a toddler, to have apparently forgotten his last 10 years, and then to accuse him of dreaming.

She’s the dreamer. She’s the lost one. But who set the trap, who said the magic words. It was bad enough being taken out like this, dressed like a toddler that surely most people will assume is a little girl, and who will treat him, and talk to him, as if he’s got nothing but pink sparkles between his ears. 

Robin must find the witch who put this humiliating plan into motion, so he can beg for his old life back, so he’s not stuck like this.