Up on Cloud Nine

Eye Contact

 Millie could feel the car rattling as they chugged through Skipsea- which was the nearest town to her home. She smiled as she pressed her nose firmly against the glass of the car door windows, and observed the huddles of tourists making their way to the beach.

Her face was still bruised from where Maverick had hit her, it still felt tender, raw. She had not fully processed Maverick’s actions yet but she had decided that she could no longer trust Maverick, he wasn’t a nice boy.

She replayed the moment when Maverick’s knuckles had made contact with her face. He had screamed, ‘I hate you, I hate you,’ which lead Millie to form the conclusion that Maverick didn’t like her very much. After she had woken up it had taken her long time to calm down. Even now she was still trying to calm down; just thinking about the incident was making her legs begin to quaver. She presumed that this was why her father was making her see Polly again.

Millie didn’t like Polly very much. Polly was her physiatrist. She ran a small practice up in Skipsea that Millie had been going to for 5 years and 3 months. Polly, was a stocky woman who wore too much red lipstick. Her voice was high pitched, it wasn’t very soothing, and Millie liked to spend as little time as possible inside the small, stuffy practice room.

As she breathed onto the window, the glass fogged up a little. She quickly used her sleeve to wipe away the condensation. When the window was clean, she chose a small family to watch as they made their way up the pavement. The little boy was holding his father’s hand; he had blue bucket and a yellow spade and had swimming trunks with different coloured fishes on them. The mother laced her arm around the father and carried a small girl on her hip. The little girl was laughing whilst pulling her mother’s hair. Millie cocked her head and watched them for a while longer until they became but specks on the horizon.

‘Dad,’ her voice wavered as she tried it out hesitantly.

‘Yes sweetheart,’ her father replied, he drummed his fingers on his car wheel rapidly.

‘Did you just see that family outside?’

He mumbled something in response that Millie guessed was a yes. ‘Were they happy?’ She asked eagerly.

Her father’s response seemed pained, ‘yes Millie, I think they were,’ he continued to drum his fingers more loudly onto the steering wheel.

‘That family,’ Millie replied, oblivious to his increasing discomfort on the subject, ‘are like us, a mummy, a daddy and two children. An older brother and a younger sister.’ She paused as if unclear, and then continued, ‘Dad, what is happy?’

Her Dad took a deep intake of breath. ‘That’s a difficult question, Millie,’ he replied uncertainly, ‘I suppose being happy is just feeling content.’ He gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles drained of colour through the effort. He sighed before adding crossly, ‘I don’t know Millie! Why do you always ask me questions I don’t know the answer to?’

He paused and hung his head dejectedly, 'sorry Millie I-.' he never finished his sentence. Millie lent back into the car seat, and twirled a lock of hair around her thumb.

‘Dad,’ Millie asked quietly, ‘Are we happy?’

Millie’s question hung in the air ominously. Her Dad increased his pressure on the acceleration peddle. She could hear strange sounds being emitted from his direction, at first she thought he was crying, but she quickly ruled that thought from her mind. There was nothing to cry about, she had just asked him a question.

Her Dad began to fiddle with the radio for a few minutes before turning on Radio Yorkshire. He loved it and laughed frequently at the current commentator who called himself DJ Shawn. Millie didn’t see what was so funny about his supposed ‘jokes’ however she liked his soft, calming northern voice- it reminded her of her mother’s.