What Not to Do If You Turn Invisible. Ross Welford
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jeans and a T-shirt. I’m mesmerised into silence as I can see the clothes filling out with my invisible body as I put them on. Somehow, the mundane action of getting dressed is a little bit calming (only a little bit – I’m still bubbling inside, like a pan of milk boiling over), and I can breathe better, and at least I stop crying.
On the way to the kitchen I catch a glimpse of myself in the long hallway mirror. Well, I say ‘myself’. What I really see is a pair of jeans and my favourite red T-shirt walking all by themselves. It would be funny, like watching a special effect for real, if it wasn’t me inside the clothes, and I catch my breath again and swallow hard to stop myself from restarting the crying.
In the kitchen, Lady lifts her head from her basket. She pads over to where I am standing and sniffs at my feet, or at where my feet would be. I reach down and stroke her.
‘Hello, girl,’ I say, automatically, and she looks up.
I’m not sure if anyone can really read the expressions on a dog’s face, but I swear Lady looks scared and confused. I crouch down to reassure her, but it seems to have the opposite effect. I tickle her ears because I know she likes that, but instead of licking me and making me laugh, which is what always happens, her tail goes between her legs and, with a little whine, she heads straight out of the kitchen door into the backyard. I’m left looking at the door as it bangs shut behind her, and the corners of my mouth turn downwards.
I try Gram’s number again.
It goes to voicemail.
I don’t leave a message.
And now there’s this kind of continuous monologue going on in my head, running through various courses of action.
I still have not completely let go of the idea that I am dreaming. Perhaps this is just some especially persistent dream-state that the usual dream-checks don’t dislodge? I keep pinching myself, shaking my head – all that stuff.
Obviously, none of it works, so I decide on something a bit more extreme. Standing there in the kitchen, I slap myself on the cheek. Gently at first, then a bit harder, then really quite hard, and finally – to finish off – a powerful wallop with my right palm against my left cheek that is both noisy and very sore, and more tears prick my eyes.
I do a sort of checklist.
This much I know:
1 I am alone, and I am invisible.
2 I am definitely, definitely not dreaming. (Pinch, slap, ow! Check again.)
3 Gram is not picking up her phone, presumably because she thinks I’m messing about, or – just as likely – she has put it on silent so that it doesn’t ring during Mrs Abercrombie’s thing.
4 I could go round there. (Where? I’m not even sure where she is. The church hall, probably. Well, that’s in Culvercot, for a start, and what am I going to do? Just wander into the church hall and announce I am invisible? No.)
5 Is there a friend I trust? Once it would have been Kirsten Olen, but more recently? No: I no longer trust her enough.
6 I am so thirsty my throat actually hurts.
First I will deal with the easiest thing to put right. Besides, it gives me something else to think about.
I start to make tea. Tea is Gram’s response to pretty much everything. She told me once that the actual making of tea – waiting for the kettle to boil, putting the cups out and so on – was just as effective as drinking it for calming the nerves.
Then my phone rings.
It’s Gram. Yesss!
‘I’ve come out of the meeting, Ethel. I see you’ve called me again. What is it now?’ Her tone is brisk, no nonsense, which doesn’t bode well.
‘I told you, Gram: I’ve become invisible.’
And then I spill it all out: the acne, the ‘Pizza Face’ jibes, the sunbed, falling asleep, waking up ninety minutes later in a pool of my own sweat, looking in the mirror, screaming for help …
Everything up to now. Sitting here, drinking tea, telling Gram what happened.
It all comes out kind of garbled, I’m pretty sure, but not completely nonsensical.
I finish up by saying, ‘So that’s why I called you. You’ve got to help me.’
For a long time, Gram doesn’t say anything.
That’s when I know she doesn’t believe me.
Why would she? It sounds completely demented. Gram doesn’t believe me because she cannot see me, and if she cannot see that I actually am invisible, then why on earth should she believe me?
It’s crazy. ‘Preposterous’ even, to use one of Gram’s favoured expressions.
I wait. I have told her everything. I have told her the whole truth and nothing but. All I can do is wait to see what she says.
What Gram says is this:
‘Ethel, my pet. It’s hard growing up. You’re at a very tricky crossroads in your life …’
Oo-kaay, I think. Don’t like the sound of where this is going, but go on …
‘I think many of us feel invisible at some point in our lives, Ethel. As though everyone is just ignoring us. I know I did at your age. I did my best to fit in, but sometimes my best was not enough …’
This is getting worse. Can there be anything worse than a sympathetic response that completely and utterly misses the point?
I’m struck dumb, sitting there listening to Gram drone on about ‘feeling like you are invisible’ while I watch my teacup magically rise and fall to my lips.
Then I look down and gasp in horror. There’s the tea that I have just drunk, floating in a little misshapen lump where my stomach is.
My gasp causes Gram to pause.
‘What is it, darling?’
‘My … my t-tea! I can see it!’ No sooner have I said this than I realise how daft it sounds.
‘I beg your pardon, Ethel?’
‘Oh, erm … nothing. Sorry. I, erm, I missed what you were saying.’
‘Listen, I’m sorry you’re feeling this way, but we’ll have to talk about it when I get back this afternoon. It’s the treasurer’s report next and Arthur Tudgey is sick, so I have to deliver it. I have to go back in.’
And I’ve had enough. That’s it.
‘No, Gram. You’re not listening. I really have disappeared. I don’t mean in an imaginary way. I mean really. Really really – not metaphorically. My body is not visible. My face, my hair, my hands, my feet – they are actually invisible. If you could see me, well … you wouldn’t be able to see me.’
Then it hits me.
‘FaceTime! Gram, let’s FaceTime and then you’ll see!’
I’m not even sure Gram can do FaceTime, but I’m sounding hysterical anyway.
I’m trying to put this the best way I can but it’s coming out all wrong, and the tone of her voice has gone from sympathetic and concerned to something a little bit harder, a bit stern.
‘Ethel. I think you have gone far enough with this, darling. We’ll talk later. Goodbye.’
It’s me who hangs up this time.