Flat-Packed
As Ava reached the top of the escalator, she could see coloured balls through a glass window and IKEA crèche workers, bright and efficient. Her son pulled on her arm, twisting and wriggling and whining at her with shrill insistence. Ava’s face ached with exhaustion and her skin felt taut and thin. Even at the age of four he still resisted sleep, fighting the veil of darkness with a ferocity and persistence that confounded her. Nights were long and tortured and daytime was an endless arc of tears and tantrums, his little body weary and wired and Ava’s patience stretched into nothingness.
Two children were playing in the crèche; a fleshy girl wearing sparkly shoes who was stabbing a piece of paper with a pencil and a boy with long hair and long legs who was leaping in and out of the ball pit. The light from the television flickered on the mezzanine level, and she could just make out some pale faces lined up on the beanbags. She felt her son’s hand tighten.
‘It won’t be for long,’ she said. ‘And look, they’re playing Nemo on the television.’
‘I don’t like Nemo.’
The attendant at the counter greeted her with crisp efficiency, and Ava disentangled herself from her son and pushed him ahead. Her hand was firmly on his back and his sneakers squeaked against the polished floor. Ava nudged him past the counter. In one smooth movement the attendant, whose smile looked too big for her face, snapped the barrier shut behind him and stamped his hand with a number. Ava filled out the paperwork, ignoring his throaty sobs.
‘You will be fine. If you stopped complaining for a minute you might even have fun.’ She patted him on the head, turned from him a little too quickly and with a click-click of her heels she was gone.
Ava stepped into the warmth and light of the store and felt momentarily giddy as she took in the display rooms constructed like dolls’ houses for grown-ups. An ottoman and a cupboard and a table, white upon white upon beech. Cushions covered in brightly covered fabric. Carpets in stripes and spots. Velour. Micro-fibre. Macro-fibre. She ran her hand along the back of a couch and it felt so soft she wanted to bury her face in it, lie down and lose herself in sleep.
The shoppers around her moved as if in a trance, following the path through the store, their pencils and notepaper in hand, moving forwards, always forwards, as if there was no way back. Perky sales staff bustled amongst the bookcases and bookends, arranging displays and smiling at their reflections in the glossy surfaces.
Ava moved slowly at first, but soon she was grabbing at items and stuffing them in her bag, not always knowing exactly what she would do with them, but liking the texture or shape. A clock in the shape of a ball. A tower of coloured cups. A pillow that looked and felt like a sleeping cat. She closed her eyes and stroked it and she could almost hear it purring. Other things were plain and practical, but at such an absurdly low price that she couldn’t resist. Coat-hangers and a bottle-brush and a box to store photos in. She didn’t need a photo storage box but this box was $2.99 and it was black and bold. In a voice which sounded strangely like her mother it was saying, ‘You won’t find it cheaper’. Anyway, it was in her bag now, and once it was in the bag, that was that.
Ava walked up and down the aisles of the kitchen storage area, running her finger along cutlery trays and spice containers. The rubbish bins purred on smooth rollers and the dish racks were piled up in a pyramid of white plastic. There were secrets being whispered in this quiet corner of the store and she was listening. She didn’t actually enjoy cooking, but she was thrilled by the thought of clean, eager utensils lined up in blissful symmetry and plates stacked in neat ceramic towers. There was something life affirming about a kitchen where gleaming pots hung from hooks and wooden spoons were separated from bottle-openers. In this bright, light space it all seemed so attainable, and yet she knew that once she was home she would crumble and fold under the weight of chaos and disorder.
Ava felt heavy thinking of the muddle of her house. Boxes of papers were stacked in her living room and toys snaked across the carpets. Books overflowed off her bookshelf on to the floor and washing was draped awkwardly across the drying rack, bras and knickers and T-shirts huddled unhappily together. Her Tupperware drawer was a writhing mass of mismatched lids and bases that exploded when she opened it. They had a life of their own, the lids dancing away to make new homes elsewhere when she turned her back.
It seemed to her that outside these walls there was discord everywhere you looked. It was only a few weeks ago that she read in the newspaper about that poor Indian student who was attacked while walking home from the library. There was a picture of his study notes and books all scattered on the pavement. She had rushed right out and ordered a Rogan Josh and rice pilaf from her local Indian take away and showed her sympathy in the only way she knew how. With every mouthful of the succulent, peppery curry she felt herself swell with feelings of pity.
Ava continued on through the store, randomly picking up items which seduced her with their simplicity. Families of multi-sized serving bowls nestled inside one another. Ice-trays that created ice in the shape of bulging mollusc shells. She was drawn to the brightly- coloured utensils in the same way as her son was lured by trays of pastel-coloured finger buns at Bakers Delight. Ava couldn’t recall how many times she had bribed him with the sugary treats while she did the grocery shopping. He sat wedged in the front seat of the trolley, silently stuffing pieces of soft bun into his mouth, while she raced around Coles, desperately trying to get through her shopping list before he had finished.
She took off her shoes to walk up and down on a large, striped rug which was prickly on her feet. Her toenails were still indigo, although slightly chipped, from a pedicure she had had weeks ago. Ava’s feet ached from her perky, pointy shoes, but she couldn’t stand those flat, comfortable shoes favoured by so many women. She had resisted the uniform of practical clothing commonly paraded by mothers. Ava cringed when she saw a dishevelled woman pushing a pram in her saggy grey track-suit pants and trainers.
As she walked past the children’s furniture, she noticed a door leading off to the side, away from the main shopping highway. A temporary sign saying ‘New Products’ had been erected above the doorway. Ava peered through the door and saw what looked like dolls lined up in bassinets, but, as she walked closer, she saw that they were moving and making soft, gurgling sounds. She stared at them in amazement. Then, with disbelief, she read the notice:
Living, breathing babies
Do not cry. Sleep for a minimum of 10 hours every night.
Aisle 56, Section 104
Ava reached out and touched one of the little creatures and sure enough it was warm and soft. She put her pinkie into its tiny hand and it wrapped its fingers around hers.
She walked on past the babies and came to the toddler section. Smiling, chatting children sat on tiny chairs waving at customers as they came past. Ava moved forward so she could see the sign:
Toddlers
Sharing and caring. No tears. Good sleepers and toilet trained.
Aisle 58, Section 17
She leaned towards one of the little boys and he smiled back at her and said in a smooth, melodic voice, ‘ 'You’re pretty’. Ava blushed a little. He was neat and clean and brimming with silky happiness.
‘Thank you, little man,’ she replied. Ava felt delirious with excitement and horror. When did IKEA start selling children? She rifled madly through her catalogue but found nothing. She looked at the other shoppers, but no one seemed to be showing any sign of surprise. They were calmly filing past and occasionally touching or prodding the IKEA children as if they were checking plump fruit to see if it was ripe. She moved on, flustered and uneasy.
The self-serve area was humming. Boxes were stacked to the ceiling, trolleys were being pushed and pulled. Flat-packed. Foldable. Stackable. Ava navigated her way to the chair aisle to pick up a desk chair, which she slid on to her trolley. She loaded some storage boxes and a bedside cupboard, and then she found herself walking nonchalantly down Aisle 58. As she neared Section 17 she was prickling with anticipation. The boxes were piled high and each was one was marked ‘Boy’ or ‘Girl’.
‘I can’t,’ she whispered, but, even as she spoke, her arms were reaching out for a ‘Boy’ box and slipping it briskly on to her trolley.
Ava paid for her purchases at the self-serve aisle, preferring the anonymity of the scanner to an eager assistant with teeth that were too white. The automatic check-out reassured her with its sharp edges and cool, calm instructions and she smiled at it, running the scanner carefully over her purchases until she heard the familiar beep. She slipped her credit card into the slot and entered her pin number, eagerly waiting for confirmation that she had successfully completed the transaction. With distinction, even. Ava liked to see the receipt sliding out of the machine. She always felt as if she had won some kind of prize.
Reaching into her handbag, she found her crèche receipt, which was bright in the fluorescent light. Ava held it for a moment, the paper rough in her hands. She read the pick-up time, which was stamped on it in faded, purple ink. Then, as if the receipt was an old piece of orange peel, she flicked it into a gleaming rubbish bin and eased her trolley towards the lift.