The Workbench

The one thing that’s taken so much time away from this family might just bring them closer than ever

- RACHEL NEL

I BOUNCE into the house, after­ noon sunshine trailing in after me. Without greeting my mother, I swing my backpack onto the floor and ask: “Where’s Dad?”

Her red lips immediately vanish into a thin line of irritation. “Hello to you too.”

She turns her cheek towards me. I dutifully brush my lips against her cool, dry skin. I’m enveloped in the floral fra­grance which follows her like a shadow wherever she goes. It’s the only softness about her. “Hello, Mom.”

She sighs, nodding curtly towards the garage. “He’s in there, as usual.”

She takes another breath as if she wants to add something. I don’t give her the op­portunity; I’m out of there like a shot.

As I approach the garage, the monotonous, high pitched keening of the electric saw grows louder. I push the door open. Knocking won’t help – he won’t hear it above the noise. But even if the saw had been switched off and there had been silence, he wouldn’t have heard me knocking anyway. Whenever he’s at work in here, he’s a million miles away from our suburban address.

While he’s still oblivious to my pres­ence, I stand in the door, just watching him. His tall, reed thin stature is slightly bent over the saw as it carves away at the piece of wood clamped down on his workbench. His face is intent with focus on the task at hand, yet it’s relaxed too.

Whenever Mom goes at him, his jaw clenches. That’s the only outward sign that he even hears her. The rest of his face remains deadpan and he stays silent while her voice, increasingly shrill with her mounting frustration, punctuates the air.