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“I'm not allowed that game.”
“Oh.” I kick myself, why would an eight-year-old be allowed to play a violent game? My nephews aren’t.
Connor looks back at me as he finishes the level on the game, a chart appearing on screen. “Do you playFIFA?”
“No, is that what you're playing?” He nods. “Can you play with two-players?”
“Yes.”
“Cool. Can I play?”
He holds out a spare controller, this time studying me carefully and I smile as I take it. “Thanks.”
For ten minutes, we lose ourselves in the fantasy football game, Connor occasionally shouting out at his triumphs and turning to me with a grin. With numerous nieces and nephews, I'm used to children but with Connor I can't relax—my smiles are forced.
“You're my dad,” he says, eyes fixed on the game.
“Yes. I didn't know until recently.”
“Are you staying now? Mum was getting married but he left. I think that's good because now my real dad is here.”
Shit.“I'll stay for a little while. I live in England.”
“You could live in Australia. We have a spare bedroom.”
I smile at his childlike solution to the situation but guilt knots my stomach. I'm coming back only to leave him again.
Hannah returns with iced water and passes us both a glass. Connor places his on the coffee table in front of him and resumes his game. Then, Hannah sits next to Connor and rubs his back, and I remain trapped behind a haze of confusion.
What now?
* * *
Hannah tidiesthe plates and Connor eats ice cream as the strange domesticity I'm thrust into closes around and traps me in their world. She insisted I stay for dinner, as did Connor
Connor rubs his eyes sleepily as Hannah brings in a collection of medication and lines the different sized and shaped pills on the table in front of him.
Poor kid.
“I have to go to the hospital soon,” he says between mouthfuls of ice cream. “Again.”
“I know.”
A cloud passes his face before he points at me with his spoon. “Mum said you're a rock star. Are you?”
“Yep.”
“Do you play guitar? I like Guitar Hero. We can play.”
“No, I'm a drummer.”
I laugh at the obvious conclusion on his face that I'm not that exciting after all. I can't imagine an eight-year-old listens to music much, and if he did, it wouldn't be mine.
“Is that why you have long hair?” he asks.
“I guess.”
“My hair will fall out again soon.”
