The word of God

 

On Sunday night, the doorbell rang at ten twenty-three. A neighbour had been by earlier looking for a parcel, I thought it might be him again, although it seemed odd that he would come back this late. I turned on the front light and saw someone smaller than me through the glass of the front door. It had been cold all day, rain just barely falling until it was suddenly raining. I opened the door and there was an elderly black man, shaking, one hand full of one pound coins, and a cane in the other, and he said, please, I need help, and I, as quickly as I opened the door, shut it, walking backwards away from it. He didn't wait or protest, just turned around, I could see through the glass, and walked away.

I feel like a brain tumour has been removed and we're trying to figure out if I'll recover or not. Still waiting to hear the results of the biopsy. I had one last flourish of visa panic, the kind that is trying for everyone around me, the kind I create myself, but subsides whenever some new information comes to light and whatever it was I had worried might happen is proven to be irrational. The cold and perpetual Brexit hanging on has helped tamp everything down — everyone is depressed and moving slowly except the children who seem to be completely unaffected. One of them is crying, sure, devastated, but that's over her portion of chicken nuggets, not anything purely existential. I can laugh, it'll be okay sweetheart, do you want me to buy you some more, I can, we can do that.

The Pihlajas of Harborne all went to get our pictures and fingerprints taken at the Post Office on Saturday, the final piece in the immigration paperwork puzzle. The man with the perfect beard taking our money said, Are you really a doctor? and I said, Well, yeah, I have a PhD, yes, and he said, Oh, and I could tell that he was disappointed. We were there with another family, probably refugees because there are only visas for skilled workers and students and I couldn't tell myself a story where they were either. They had four small children and we smiled, feeling a kind of solidarity, but of course, what did we really have in common. I said to Yoko, this is just an inconvenience for us — there's no end to this story that isn't better than 98% of the people in the world. Ninety nine percent, really: we paid our ninety six pounds and left through Victoria Square up to Starbucks to get coffee. I let go of the stupid pretence I usually have about what they can and can't order — that thing parents do when they pretend spending ten pounds and making the kids get something they didn't exactly want is any different in the grand scheme of things financially than spending fifteen pounds and letting them feast. What does any of it matter.

I am eating like I do when I'm stressed, like I can't stop, like I'm drowning and eating keeps me afloat. I know I should drink more water, that I shouldn't work out as hard to compensate, I'm just making it worse. I go to bed and fall asleep almost immediately. Yoko said it's less than three minutes, but I don't remember. I heard a noise, it woke me this morning at 4:15 and I went downstairs ready to confront whatever addict had come back for our phones, or was caught in the cold and wanted something, but it was only my youngest daughter, using the toilet. I was surprised: could she get up by herself now and go downstairs? Only hours ago she was weeping about having to share a children's meal with her sister. She looked at me matter-of-factly like she was a teenager, and I felt old.

I decided not to go back to bed, started eating and meditated. I checked the bank account and did some quick maths, had another piece of toast and looked at a picture of animals suffering on the PETA Twitter feed. And then that's all. My coffee's gone cold. That man who came last night, I suddenly remember, the man with the coins that needed help and I shut the door. I imagine for a moment that he might be lying on Victoria Road, dead. Was he Jesus, did I fail my test to show compassion to the stranger. Or did I fail in opening the door and inviting the chance that he might stab me and kill my family. Did I fail in not helping him, or in thinking I could help him. I'm lukewarm, I'm waiting to be spit out. I mouthed no, as I shut the door, I remember this now. No. I'm sorry, but no.