The Nixie in the Fridge

“Mum?” I heard the quaver in his voice, which I knew Michael would hate me for recognising. The pause after he addressed me, also said a lot. He did not want to begin this conversation. Neither did I.

“What’s up?” I looked up, and up, from my crocheting, to my eldest son’s face. He towered over me, his height a gift from his father. I observed the stubble on his cheeks, gold with grey flecks. He must not have shaved this morning.

Yes, he certainly looked worried. I must have done something he considered abnormal, bizarre, or unstable. Since Joe, his dad, died, Michael had been pushing me to move into care. It sounded like he thought he finally had proof.

Michael perched, his body all tense, on the chair opposite me. Not Joe’s chair, Michael would never sit there. The other one. Where he could look directly at me. He was, as always, tidily dressed. Even his jeans had creases in them.

“Mum, there’s a doll in the fridge.”

I took a breath before nodding. The air did not want to leave my lungs, but I forced it out. I held up my handiwork. “Yes, and this should just about fit him.” The crocheting was a doll-sized jacket out of orange cotton. “And, please, Michael, Korone is a Nixie, not a doll. There’s a big difference. For one thing, he’s alive.”

Michael slumped forward. His posture made him look paunchy. The years were adding bulk to his frame. He hated not being in charge of the conversation. And he hated having to ask, “Okay, Mum, why do you have a Nixie, whatever that is, in your fridge?”

I knew he wanted to whip his fancy phone out and call the dementia ward, but he was willing to humour me. He loved me enough to tread gently. I always will be his mum, after all.

I needed to come up with a coherent, even if not credible, answer. The next few minutes were going to challenge us both. Was the child I brought up to love fanciful stories still alive within my responsible, adult son? His own children seemed too poised to let their imaginations run wild.

“The Nixie, and his name is Korone, is staying in my fridge because his homeland is much, much colder than here. The heat was killing him.”

A look, a frown? No, there weren’t words to describe the physical reaction that flashed across Michael’s face but I knew the emotion; desire. Even though he expected to hear nonsense, he wanted to engage in what I have to say. That was the magic in the stories. My little boy had not been completely vanquished.

He took a breath, exhaled without difficulty, then grinned as he leaned back in the chair. Oh, he looked so much like a younger version of Joe that it hurt me.

“Tell me, Mum, how the Nixie got here, far from his normal cold climate?”

There is a proper protocol for storytelling and Michael was comfortable with using it. Asking the question is the correct way to begin.

“Okay, as I said, Korone comes from a really cold land. Maybe Siberia, Alaska or even the Auckland Islands.”

“Can’t he tell you?”

“Humans name places. He’s a Nixie, a water sprite. He lived by a river all his life. Never travelled anywhere.”

Michael’s grin softened. He was simply allowing the story to unfold, as he had as a child. “He’s travelled a long way, now.”

“Yes. And the journey almost killed him.” I bent forward to unwind some more cotton and felt my bra cut against my ribcage. I knew I needed to go and get a new one that fitted properly.

“You see, a huge storm sent a flood down his river and he was washed out to sea. Salt water is hard on Nixies but they can survive it. The salt burnt his skin though.”

“That must have been an adventure and a half, Mum.”

I nodded. “No doubt. But he hasn’t told me much yet.”

Michael raised his eyebrows, questioning. The mannerism was an exact replica of Joe’s. The ache in my heart flared up. Joe would have sat and listened too. And Michael would have hated it if I ever compared the two of them.

“So, did the tides wash him up, ever so conveniently, on our beach?” Adult Michael thought he could control the direction of the tale.

“Haha. Not so easy, Michael. He was caught up in a fishing net. The nylon ropes cut him badly. He did have his reed-cutting knife with him but it’s only two centimetres long. It was soon blunted.”

“I didn’t see a knife?” Michael glanced over to the kitchen door.

“No. I told him he didn’t need it here. I’ve put it away for when he’s ready to head home again.”

“Oh, okay. So, did he meet a shark on his journey here?”

“Quite possibly, but he hasn’t told me about that episode yet. He’s been very unwell. He’s only just beginning to recover from his ordeal.”

Michael was enjoying the tale but we both knew why I was telling it. We were stalling. At the moment we were indulging in a mutually satisfying interaction. At the finish he was going to want to do something about his poor mother who suffered bouts of dementia, put dolls in her fridge and had twice, recently, needed help after a fall.

“Can you tell me the next part of the Nixie’s adventure?” Indeed, Michael was leaning forward to catch my words.

“He got free of the net but the undertow of the boat caught him and tossed him about.”

Michael nodded solemnly. He knew  quite a bit about boats. He used to take Joe out fishing in his launch.

“A fisherman spotted Korone bobbing in the water and scooped him up. He got put in a bucket along with other bits of trash picked up out of the sea. The bucket didn’t have a lid. Rain fell that night and revived him. He decided, as soon as the boat docked, he was going to make his escape.”

“Wait, Mum. How did he, Korone, know what a boat even was?”

“He lived in a river. There were boats going up and down it. Hmmm. He can’t have come from the Auckland Islands then. Somewhere, probably to the north, also inhabited by humans.”

“Okay.”

My explanation was flimsy; I acknowledged that with a grimace. Michael chose not to challenge its validity.  It wass only a minor detail.

“But his plan was foiled anyway. Seagulls gathered around the boat as it came into dock. One daring bird swooped in.”

“No, Mum. Just no.” Michael interrupted.

I laughed. “No. It didn’t snatch him up. He’s too big. But it did knock him back into the water. The shore, yes, our shore was close. Nixies are, as water sprites, fabulous swimmers.

“A wave threw him up onto the beach. He landed in a pile of kelp, which he was able to hold onto when the wave receded.”

“Then you rescued him.” Michael made his words a statement, with a light dressing of contempt. He hated clichéd endings. And impossible ones.

I was unable to walk as far as the beach and I no longer had my driver’s licence.

“No, Michael. I believe a black cat did that.”

“Queenie?” Oh, he had not expecting that twist.

“I guess so. She put him under the old camelia where the kittens were.”

“I didn’t know she was still around.”

Michael had trapped the feral cat and found her kittens. The little ones all got rehomed. The black cat we called Queenie was too wild though, so after she was spayed, she was released back into her territory. I always left a little bowl of food out for her.

“Mind you, I knew nothing about this. Korone has only told me little snippets. The lawn-mowing man found him.”

“He could be feeding you a whole pile of lies.”

“This is true,” I laughed but the noise was forced. “Poor Korone could have been mauled by the lawnmower.”

“So, Mum, it’s a fascinating tale, and I’ve enjoyed it. But can you answer this? If the district nurse visits and sees a doll in the fridge, what’s she going to think?”

“Same as you, I suppose. Poor dear is losing her marbles.”

Tears welled up in my eyes. I asked the question. “Do you want to put me in a home?”

“Mum, stop it.” Michael lifted his butt from the chair but did not stretch to full standing. He leaned towards me. “We’ve talked about this before. When Dad was sick, remember? Not a rest home. You don’t need that. A private apartment, but you’ve got care on call. You can take Dad’s chair.” Michael gazed at the empty seat and straightened his body.

“Will you still visit?” I had heard so many terrible tales, but the house was empty without Joe.

“There is no one else who can tell stories like you can, Mum. I want to hear them all. That means I have to look after you the best I can for as long as I can.”

I had to have the final say. “Korone is coming with me.”

Michael laughed. “Of course.”