Style entirely inspired by Beckett's Vladimir and Estragon
Helping my child
A hallway.
Rain against the windows. A teenager’s bedroom door stays closed. Two parents sit on the floor outside it with mugs of tea growing cold.
‘We should help him.’
‘We’ve been helping him.’
‘No, I mean properly.’
‘Ah. The dramatic version.’
Silence.
‘He seems lost lately.’
‘Teenagers specialise in that.’
‘Not like this.’
‘Every generation says that.’
‘Did your generation stare at ceilings for six hours listening to music about collapse?’
‘Constantly.’
Silence.
‘He doesn’t seem interested in anything anymore.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘What is he interested in?’
A pause. ‘Avoiding questions.’
‘That’s not an interest.’
‘At seventeen it practically is a degree.’
Silence. From inside the room: A drawer opens. Then closes again.
‘Do you think he knows who he is yet?’
‘Do you?’
Silence.
That’s unhelpful.’
‘It’s honest.’
One parent leans back against the wall. ‘I keep wanting to fix it.’
‘Fix what?’
‘Whatever this is.’
‘You mean becoming a person?’
Silence.
‘When I was his age I thought I’d become a marine biologist.’
‘You failed biology.’
‘Exactly. Life corrected me. Maybe that’s what he’s waiting for. Correction.’
‘Or permission.’
Silence.
‘Permission for what?’
‘To not know yet.’
A long pause.
‘He keeps changing opinions.’
‘Good.’
‘Good?’
‘Imagine being seventeen and certain.’
‘Some are.’
‘Those are usually the dangerous ones.’
Silence.
‘Last week he wanted to move to Iceland and become a photographer.’
‘Before that he was reading Nietzsche.’
‘Before that he wanted to start a mushroom farm.’
‘An intellectual journey.’
‘A fungal one.’
Silence.
‘Maybe we should guide him more.’
‘Towards what?’
‘Something stable.’
‘Nobody becomes themselves through instructions.’
‘Schools seem optimistic about it.’
Silence. Rain taps harder against the glass.
‘What if he’s drifting?’
‘People drift before they navigate.’
‘That sounded rehearsed.’
‘Bus stop. Thursday.’
A floorboard creaks inside the room.
‘Maybe he needs discipline.’
‘Maybe he needs time.’
‘Time for what?’
‘To notice what actually matters to him instead of grabbing the nearest identity like a life jacket.’
Silence.
‘That’s the frightening part.’
‘What is?’
‘Watching somebody become.’
Neither speaks.
‘When did adults start pretending they understood life?’
‘Around the same time they started buying outdoor furniture.’
Silence.
‘Do you think he talks to anyone about this stuff?’
‘Probably not directly.’
‘Then how does he work it out?’
‘Bits of conversation. Music. Friends. Mistakes. Walking around pretending not to think.’
‘That’s a terrible system.’
‘Humanity has shown remarkable commitment to it.’
Silence. From inside the room: ‘You know I can hear all this.’
The parents close their eyes briefly. ‘We know.’
‘No you don’t. You whisper like opera singers.’
Silence. One parent speaks carefully. ‘Are you alright?’
A pause from behind the door. ‘Depends what that means.’
‘Fair point.’
Silence again.
‘Do you want advice?’ asks one parent.
‘Not really.’
‘Good,’ says the other. ‘We haven’t got any.’
A short laugh from inside the room. The first one in days. The parents look at each other but say nothing. That might frighten it away.
After a while, the teenager speaks again. ‘Do you ever feel like everyone else got instructions?’
A long silence. Then: ‘Constantly.’
Rain continues against the windows. Nobody moves. Nobody solves anything. But nobody leaves either.