BAD LAW - SONDRE LERCHE

SUN - TWO DOOR CINEMA CLUB

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Everything started to fall in place after the wedding. Our honeymoon was spent travelling around Europe, we'd decided if we could survive a whole month just with each other it would work out. We came out a lot stronger after the trip, ready for anything life had to toss our way. I had gotten a job at the local psych ward - only because I was young and would be able to relate to the patients in the ward - and I basked in the glory of it! Being able to help people who have had struggles similar to mine was certainly how I planned to spend my life. The ward was a whole other world, really. When I went to work everyday, it's like I stepped out of reality and into the world of these teenagers. Most patients I treated ranged between the ages of fourteen to twenty-three. And they all had their own unique set of problems, each one with their own share of misery to endure. All the same, really, hard to crack at first - they walk in, figuring if they just shut up I'll quit - but then I don't. It starts off with me introducing myself, and then with me saying something like this: "I know, therapy sucks. Trust me, I don't believe in this whole talking about your feelings stuff. But I do believe in helping people get better, because we've all got something we suffer from and I'm here solely to try my best to help." They'd probably roll their eyes then, "look, I also know you're thinking. "Who the hell does this bloke think he is? He has no idea what I'm going through!" well, you'd be surprized, because this 'bloke' suffers from schizophrenia, so yeah I see and hear things that aren't there, I also have anxiety and mild depression. And that's the main reason I'm here, not because I'm a therapist or psychiatrist, but because I actually know what you're going through - and to be totally cliché it does get better, and that's why you're in here - to get better. So, if you'll be a doll, and let me do my job it would be superb." It worked most of the times, most of them were pretty easy to help, some a little more challenging but nonetheless I enjoyed it.

Rose and I had been thinking about having children. We weren't seriously considering it, because we did have Drew, but I knew Rose. She wanted her own children, which came from inside her or something. Drew was her child, but he was never really her child - if that makes sense. We were pretty young when we started thinking about it - twenty-six is pretty young still - but I guess it all makes sense at the end. The main concern was the fact that my schizophrenia could be genetically passed on to our off springs, and that kept me awake at night. Rose had to deal with my little night terrors about the future child having schizophrenia. Until we finally decided to decently research the odds of it, Drew had gotten lucky - obviously not having the disorder but the next child maybe wouldn't be as lucky as him. After doing more research than my brain could handle, asking countless doctors, psychiatrists, just about anyone I could think of, I narrowed it down. The chance was small, immensely small - but I'm living proof that it is there.

"Well, I mean - let's look at it theoretically - what if he or she has it? I'm living with it, I'm sure he or she can as well." I said, practically reasoning with myself, overanalysing as usual.

"You're overanalysing, I'm twenty-seven this year, in three years I'm thirty - meaning I'm over my 'prime time' for child bearing," she replied, and I think it surprised me just a bit.

"True," I reasoned, "I'm just scared of the risks, what if our future daughter or son has this life threatening thing that won't make them normal? All I really want for this child, if it's even happening, is to be normal, you know. Not have a repeat of what I am."

"Why not? Harry, you've got to stop being this insecure twenty-seven year old, you are successful, and in my opinion a highly functioning sociopath, why would it be so bad if your child had it as well?" Rose asked, and finally I gave in.

"You know what? Screw the bloody risks! How do you French say it - oh yes! - C'est la vie!" I exclaimed, half excited about the whole affair.

"Harry, c'est la vie means that's life." She giggled softly, and I cursed myself for not brushing up on my French.

"Right," I nodded, trying to hide my humiliation, "I was looking for the phrase that meant you only live once, or something in that line."

"Close enough," she shrugged closer to me.

"Then, I think it's only right to end the night with- C'est la vie, mon chérie."

I kissed her and despite the fact that the orchestra was at it again, it was perfect. That moment I think was the crescendo in my life, when all my ebonies and ivories - made harmonies and my life became a symphony. Like a checklist, everything fell into place after that.

Yes, Rose and I did try for what we wanted, and like very little things in life it came easy. She woke up one morning, feeling particularly disgusting, proceeding to empty the contents of her stomach into the toilet. It was then when my suspicions were raised, she weed on the stick and the results were, well 'faint' worthy. Both her and I were practically jumping with joy; Drew found it overly annoying that both his parents were so loud at an early hour like this. For a teenager he took the news pretty well, no 'I hate this!' or 'unfair' came from his mouth, just this massive grin that didn't seem to fade.

"I've always wanted a tiny companion." He said.

"Isn't that why we got Minty?" I asked in reply.

"Dad," he gave me a look of exasperation, "I've always wanted a small companion with the capability to speak - and! Not eat all my sketch books."

"Drew," I said, laughing, and he groaned.

"Andrew, my name is Andrew," he replied.

"Andrew," I corrected, he was at the point where Drew was no longer adequate and Andrew - in his eyes - was going to be more popular with the opposing gender, "a little brother or sister is going to be precisely that."

A small giggle emerged from the kitchen, where Rose was swaying along to the soft music coming from the speaker.

"You guys ruin everything," he said, deflation lacing his voice.

The summer consisted of pregnancy books, books of names and hours of interviews. Drew had graduated from secondary school and was set to attend high school in the fall. Though getting him into the school of his choice, deemed almost impossible. It was a 'special' school, rather academy, which focused more on the performing and creative arts. It was perfect - since all Drew wanted to do was draw - the only problem was that to even be considered to get in; you'd have to literally camp outside of the office for two days. You'd also have to live within walking distance of the school, which unfortunately we did not. After actually camping outside the building for two days along with a bunch of other seemingly desperate parents, I was finally let in, resembling something from the walking dead because someone - rather the bloody champ in the tent next door, who snores louder than an air horn being blown in my ear - we sat in the waiting room, for the admissions administrator to interrogate us. Another three hours and at least ten crying, overly emotional teenagers later the slim door of broken dreams creaked open. Out stepped a sleek woman, with a toffee-nosed smirk glued to her face.

"Harry and Andrew Holt?" It was extremely nerve racking, looking at this historic woman, with skin paler than sheets, hair resembling snow, and eyes as grey as the skies in winter.

"Which one of you is Andrew Miles Holt?" She asked, and slowly Drew raised his trembling hand.

"Mr Holt," she looked to me, and I had never been more frightened, "I hope Andrew here knows we do not accept 'mutes' into our system." She practically spat the word out.

"Of course." I said, and looked to Drew. With pleading blue orbs, and wide, dark irises, he looked at me, I tried my best to look a bit reassuring, and then the interrogation commenced.

"How does Andrew's grades look?"

"Does he have a history of sickness?"

"Is he capable of handling himself under vast amounts of stress?"

After an hour of deep interrogation, she lowered her spectacles, and simpered mordantly.

"Mr Holt, I don't think Andrew is fit for us."

"Pardon my audacity, Mrs Clarke," I said, a little flabbergasted by this woman and her false authority, "but are you out of your mind?"

"I do not believe you are in position to be questioning my sanity, Mr Holt." She replied, and my vision literally went red. I was not going to be told what to do by some white haired, sadistic witch!"Of course!" I laughed, bitterly, "my apologies, Mrs Clarke. I'm of course not in any position to be questioning your sanity, because right, right, I'm schizophrenic."

"Mr Holt," she matched the tone of aggravation that laced my voice, "I have had an excruciating day, do not test me."

"Mon Dieu! You have had a long day, my sincerest apologies, Mrs Clarke, please! Enlighten me on your terrible day because I have spent two days camping outside of this academy, which was absolutely abhorrent by the way, considering anyone who lives in Britain knows that summer rain and pot bellied men with nasal-congestion do not mix well! So please, ma'am, tell me about your terrible day, because I would love to hear."

Evidently after my wig-out the woman had us removed from the premises, and threatened to press charges, to which I bluntly responded 'there's no case!'

Drew was pretty devastated the first couple hours, moping around my office, singing boulevard of broken dreams under his breath, until he realized what had happened on the way home.

"Dad, please tell me you did not sass a woman older than time itself?" he asked, laughing still.

"Sorry to disappoint, but in blunt, teenage slang I think I slayed an elderly witch." I replied and Drew almost fell out of the car with laughter.

Two days afterward, we got a call from a woman claiming to be the headmistress, said she'd love for Drew to attend and sincerely apologized for the witch in admissions' behaviour. Drew was over the moon and demanded we celebrate the colossal victory over the wicked witch located in admissions office. I just ended up cooking a killer dinner since Rose was pretty tired considering she was about two months into the whole pregnancy affair.

A couple days after the colossal victory Rose went for the ultrasound and bless my free lunch hour, I was standing right next to the woman I was so deeply infatuated with when we looked into her stomach, and heard the little heartbeats of the two little gems. Yes, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Rose Darlings and Harry Holt had hit the ball out of the park! At four months we'd discovered that one of our little gems, was going to be a little stone. It was perfect. Rose's 'hub' (or rather just art room) and my nook merged together to form the study and the room previously used as my nook was going to be the nursery. Next was the shopping, Drew - or rather, Andrew - Rose and I set into town to go do some shopping for the two little gems. The last stop of the 'shopping trip of the year' ended at a store called 'Babies 'R Us'. Rose and Drew rocked it in the toys section whilst next door I had discovered the most adorable clothing store. An hour and four shopping bags filled with little garments for our little gems later, I met Rose and Drew in front of our original starting position. Drew found it impetuous - or at least that's the word he used - while Rose just stood there, giving silly-faced, grinning Harry Holt a look of comical defeat.

At five months, Rose's hormones started raging. And through my research I'd learned that at least 90% of men expecting a baby, experience at least one symptom of pregnancy. I thought it was absolutely absurd when I first read it and Rose and I laughed for a couple minutes. That night of the quiche, we weren't laughing because I shared her crazy-cravings. She woke up one night, at about three in the morning, rather, practically begging for quiche Lorraine. At first I was too tired to even lift my head off the pillow, but then the whole 'pregnancy symptom' theory kicked in, and I wanted it just as much as she did. So, at three in the morning, Rose and I set out on Mission Impossible: Finding quiche Lorraine at three in the morning! Eventually after an hour of driving around, we found this 24-hour-place about 20 minutes from the apartment, which sold literally anything. Rose didn't mind that it was cold and tasted like cardboard - she just wanted some quiche. Literally two minutes later, she was throwing the door open and projectile vomiting this quiche out onto the pavement - not to mention crying. I just sat behind her, humming a soothing tone and tracing small patterns on her back until she eventually felt better. We went home and she slept almost the entire day. That night, her strange cravings had gone from quiche Lorraine to pickles, the conversation went something like this:

me:[staring off into the distance]

her: i want an *expletive* pickle.

me: get one.

her: there are none.

me: damn.

her:[annoyed] i still want a pickle.

me: i'll get you a pickle.

her:[happily smiling] thanks.

I drove to the local grocery store to tend to her pickle needs, only to be confronted upon arrival at home that she deeply craved a custard slice.

"Those are two very different things, love." I said, and she looked at me as if I had just committed the biggest felony ever.

"Your point?" I drove her to the bakery and got the custard filled pastry for the woman I loved in all her pregnant eminence.

By the seven-month mark, we were doing labour-drills. We had finished the nursery for our little gems and the rest of our free time was now spent looking up baby names. Rose and I had an agreement, I named the little boy and she the little girl and I thought Jude Winston would do lovely - Jude being my father's second name. Rose stuck by her French roots, and went for the name Aubella Marié and we both smiled in adoration because it had all come together. Rose was married to me, I was her husband, and I was the happiest man alive. All that struggling in high school, struggling to find each other, struggling to love each other, now doesn't seem that bad anymore - because it all paid off, we were there, and we were in love, and that was all I ever needed. I just needed Rosemarié Darlings to love me, and I would be complete. I had spent my whole life looking for the kind of love I saw in those romantic movies my mum was always watching and I had found it. It wasn't just the petty kind, where you think you're in love, her love was the overwhelming kind.