My Book

by Alam, Donna

  ‘I suppose you think I should be nice because she’s said I don’t need to go into work for a while.’ Oh, that did not come out nice.

  ‘Why don’t you and go for a nice stroll around the hospital grounds, eh?’ Some might call it a stroll. Others an intervention. ‘And if we pass the psychiatric ward, maybe we should pop in?’

  Another evening, this time I’ve wedged one of the chairs at the side of the bed and I’m lying half on and half off of the mattress, my foot pressed to the chair making sure I don’t roll off the edge.

  ‘Scooch over.’ No response. ‘No? Fine. Be a bed hog. Make it difficult for me. Do you want to hear this bedtime story or not?’

  No answer.

  One day.

  With some difficultly, I pull the book open, balancing it on my open palm.

  ‘Week thirteen. What's up, baby? That’s what the book says, not me,’ I begin. ‘It’s all in the intonation. Keep up. So, babe is now as a lemon, which is pretty subjective, don’t you think? Some lemons are huge and some are no bigger than a satsuma. Weird,’ I mutter. ‘Anyway; babe’s head is now about half the size of her crown-to-rump length, so still a little alien looking. What a horrible thing to write. Our baby does not look like ET! Harry Haribo is beautiful, isn’t he?

  ‘At thirteen weeks, your babe is beginning to form bones in her arms and legs. Isn’t that cool? Oh, listen to this next part, James; because he now has more movement, he might be able to get his thumb into his mouth. How cute is that?

  ‘Babe is also developing vocal chords, the first step to Harry complaining. But because sound can’t travel through your uterus, you won’t be able to hear any sounds or cries just yet. Yet? I didn’t know that was a thing. Can you imagine; Oi, Mum, eat more of those biscuits. I’d freak!

  ‘Your thirteen week pregnancy body. You’re just a week away from the second trimester, and should be feeling pretty good. The person who wrote this has obviously never been pregnant. Most early pregnancy symptoms will be behind you soon, but some mums suffer nausea and fatigue into the fourth and fifth months. That’s not very reassuring. Also, you might be faced with some of the following symptoms; bloating, constipation, headaches and breast tenderness, and vaginal discharge. God, James, I’m so sorry. This isn’t a very good bedtime story, is it?’

  I close the book and drop it to the chair behind me, pressing my ear to his chest. And I just lie there in the quiet, listening to his breathing for a while, willing him to open his eyes.

  ‘James. I need you to wake up. I can’t do this on my own.’

  No answer.

  I’d loved him. Held him as best as I could. Stoked the skin available to me. Whispered words of love in his ear, and other stuff . . .

  I’d talked to him constantly, so much so that sometimes, I was hoarse at the end of the day. I’d told stupid jokes, goaded him, read Cosmo and even started The Iliad at his dad’s suggestion. I’d sang, and I hate singing. Sprayed my perfume around the room.

  I’d begged and I’d pleaded. I’m promised and I’d wept.

  And still no answer.

  40

  James

  It’s the strangest of sensations. I’m here and yet I’m not.

  Time is meaningless, days unmarked. And I’m just floating on air. At first, I put the sensation down to being dead. There was nothing beyond and awareness that there were thoughts in my head. I was comfortably numb, I suppose.

  But then I heard her voice. And I realised I hadn’t gone anywhere.

  I wasn’t here. And I wasn’t there. But some place in between.

  But I’m still floating. Floating on air.

  She calms me. Her voice. Her presence. Her love.

  But there’s something missing.

  And I can’t put my finger out

  I think I’d cry if I could.

  ‘I’m just going to take your blood pressure, love.’

  A kindly voice. And familiar. One of my favourites, if she’s not in the room.

  Pressure on my arm expanding. The beeb of a machine.

  But I’m still floating.

  And waiting for her.

  And missing something I can’t quantify.

  ‘Morning, lovely man.’

  The press of her lips against my cheeks.

  The mechanical susurration of the blinds opening. Light, my head filled with white.

  I remember when she called me GO. D withheld.

  I remember the craving of her and the feel of her underneath me.

  A don’t remember many other things. But I feel the now. When there’s no one else around, I feel her tears against my skin. Her quiet sobs echoing through me. Sadness. So much sadness. And I can’t even wrap her in my arms.

  ‘Your dad’s coming in soon. He’s bringing a new book. I don’t know how you posh boys survived school with all that dreary Greek stuff.’

  She starts to hum. She once accused me of being unable to carry a tune in a bucket. I wonder if she’s heard herself lately?

  Nails on a chalkboard.

  But I love her.

  Even though she farts when she thinks no one can hear her.

  Floating. Still floating.

  Still missing something.

  The door swishes. Voices are hushed.

  A snuffle. A mewl. A scent I can’t define.

  Is it sweet? Musky? Why does it remind me of sunshine and innocence.

  A protest. A hitch in a breath. Another. And another. And then a wail.

  ‘Wa-wa-Waaa!’

  Like a wave, the realisation smacks me in the face.

  The thing that I’m missing.

  ‘Wake up.’ Her voice waivers, the sob and hitch no less pitiful.

  ‘Wa-wa-Waaa! Wa-wa-Waaa!’

  ‘Wake up, James. Open your eyes for our child.’

  Maybe that was a wave. Because I can’t breath. I think I’m drowning.

  The little bundle is lifted away. A flurry of voices. The squeak of rubber shoes, my hair being pushed from my face.

  ‘Don’t you dare—don’t you dare take that back! I saw your eyes flicker. Open them, goddammit!’

  And there she was.

  ‘Did—’ I cough, my head fit to explode. And, fuck me, my ribs feel like they’re crushing me.

  Faces. Voices. None of them hers. They swim in and out of focus, prodding and poking and questions and lights.

  ‘Miranda. Where’s our baby?’

  Epilogue

  James

  ‘Is that a fire engine?’

  My words are thick and woolly as I try to lift my head from the pillow but find I can’t. It’s like someone filled it with sand and then glued it to my head.

  ‘That,’ Miranda mumbles from somewhere on the other side of the bed, ‘is your son.’

  I groan like I’m in pain, because I am. Or maybe I’m just pained by our child’s lung capacity. He was born five days after his due date and I’m certain this is the reason he has the kind of volume he has. Babies aren’t supposed to be this loud, surely.

  I manage to successfully push myself up onto one elbow as I rub sleep from my eyes. ‘How many times were you up with him last night?’

  ‘More than you. And last time only twenty minutes ago.’ I see where this is going as she pulls the pillow over her head, snuggling down under the bedding.

  ‘Darling, I don’t know whether you recall, but I’ve recently had a traumatic brain injury.’

  Due to the pile of covers, I’m not quite sure what she says but I’m certain it wasn’t pleasant.

  ‘Ouch, my head.’

  I realise my mistake a beat too late as she whips off the pillow, and glares over at me. She looks like Medusa’s crazier but hotter cousin, and the resemblance ends at her hair because the rest of her is utterly beautiful. As she inhales a deep breath, maybe as a precursor to join in with our son’s wailing, I can’t help how my eyes dip to the strap of her tiny nightdress as it slips from her smooth shoulder. Fabric clings to the swell of her breasts as one nipple pokes
above the fabric, like a puppy intent on escape.

  And then I remember she’s glaring like she’d happily deliver me another brain bleed.

  ‘You had a car crash? Well, I squeezed a human out of my vagina last month. That was hardly fun.’

  ‘I know. I was there. You nearly broke my hand.’ For a girl, she has a freakishly strong grip. ‘And I thought it was a particularly nice touch when you yelled you’d decided you never wanted to try fisting.’

  ‘It. Was. The. Drugs!’

  ‘The ones they wouldn’t give me, you mean.’ As I mutter, I slide my legs out of bed and make my way into the nursery.

  ‘I wonder if we can get Lisa to swap our son for sweet baby William.’

  ‘I heard that,’ she grumbles as I make my way into the adjoining room. ‘And if you remember,’ she calls louder, ‘he cried in your arms, too.’

  But that day is a vague memory to me, though I still recall most distinctly the weight of the child laid in the crook of my arm. A plan devised by my beautiful Miranda, enlisting the help of the paramedic that saved me on the roadside, before delivering William later that day.

  Just amazing.

  As for my recovery, I’m one of the lucky ones. I’ve no memory of the accident itself, which is surely a blessing, and the after effects have been few. I tire a little more easily, and when I’m tired, I find my stutter returns. Which is apparently adorable. I suffer the odd headache and my leg sometimes aches. But the most life altering aspect of the whole experience is that I’m sometimes overcome by a strangeness, an overwhelming of feelings, which comes from being utterly loved.

  ‘Come here, you.’ I lean into the crib, lifting my son onto my chest, where he quietens almost immediately. ‘You know I didn’t mean it.’ I press my lips to his fair downy head. ‘I wouldn’t swap my Thomas for a hundred babies or more.’ He’s named for my father, and at the insistence of Miranda. The pair are inordinately fond of each other. I can’t say the same for my father-in-law, though Miranda’s mother is a delightful woman. And the kind of grandmother who will drop everything just for baby cuddles.

  ‘Is that because you’d have to get out of bed ninety-nine times more?’

  I turn at the sound of her soft voice, sleep deprivation now put to one side for us both. Despite both struggling to get out of bed, and despite the promises we continually make about alternating the early morning ritual, it just hasn’t worked out that way. When he’s up, so are we. We’re both so enamoured by our little bundle of screams. And this has become our favourite part of the day.

  Our morning love-in.

  As she crosses the space between us, her hips swaying unconsciously, she twists the wild tangle of her hair to one side.

  ‘Morning, lovely baby.’ Up onto her toes, she kisses his head, taking a deep inhale of his sweet, musky head. ‘Mummy loves you.’ Then it’s my turn as she tilts her chin offering me her lips. ‘Morning, lovely Batman.’ As I lower my head to hers, her hand connects to my rump with a slap. ‘I love you. And as much as I love seeing you in your novelty boxers, I can’t wait until you can sleep naked again.’

  ‘I can sleep naked now,’ I protest. ‘I just can’t sleep naked with you.’

  ‘You’d better not be sleeping naked with anyone else,’ she purrs, pulling the elastic of my boxer shorts away from my waist.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Just making sure it’s all good under the hood. The Batcave hood. You know, for next month,’ she adds meaningfully.

  ‘You know it works. Yesterday you—’

  ‘Ah-ah, not in front of the child!’ she singsongs. ‘Mum’s coming over later this morning. Maybe we can sneak off for a little afternoon delight.’

  ‘Will hasn’t given us the go ahead yet,’ I remind her.

  Four weeks. Two more to go.

  Not that I’m counting or anything. Not that I have it marked on the calendar of my phone. Nor have I asked Miranda’s mother to babysit that afternoon. And I certainly haven’t booked a suite at the Dorchester to mark the occasion.

  Or have I . . .

  I’ll never tell.

  ‘Do you think this is how he gets his kicks?’ I chuckle at her thoughtful expression.

  ‘I wouldn’t like to ask. He’d only charge me three hundred pounds just to have the conversation.’

  ‘Want to break the rules a little?’ she purrs. ‘I’m game if you are.’

  ‘You’re a temptress.’ I dip my head as though to kiss her, changing course at the last minute to press my lips to her neck. ‘And a rebel.’

  ‘What are rules for if not to be broken.’ I shift the baby between us, making space for her under my other arm. ‘Just ask the young girl who bagged herself a gorgeous older man with the kind of bedroom skills that—’

  Thomas snuffles, then he makes the kind of noise that sounds like a detonation.

  Miranda pulls away as she physically gags. ‘No. No. I can’t deal with that this morning. Oh!’ she holds up her hands as though to ward the smell away. ‘It’s oozing out of the legs of his onesie.’

  ‘I did the last change,’ I counter, holding him out now at arm’s length, though it does nothing to help the noxious smell, but adds another level to the senses as a yellow blooming stain spread across the legs of his tiny blue pyjamas.

  ‘No you didn’t. I was up five times with him—I changed him then!’

  ‘But he couldn’t have made this kind of a mess because I had to practically bathe him at two in the morning. No, this change is definitely yours.’

  ‘Please, James, I can’t. I’ll be ill. I’ll do anything.’

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Almost anything,’ she counters.

  ‘Well,’ I reply, taking her hand as I lay Thomas down on his changing table. ‘There’s only one thing that will persuade me to clean that child’s bottom, and that’s if you’ll agree to be my wife.’

  She sets off laughing. Laughing like I’ve just told the funniest joke of the century.

  ‘This is doing nothing for my confidence,’ I grumble, beginning to pull the snaps of his pyjamas before having, purely logistical, second thoughts. I pull the tub of wipes from the lower shelf, flipping the lid as her laughter still. Because there, on top of the wipes purported to be good for delicate bottoms is a note in Miranda’s hand. And it reads:

  Roses are red

  Violets are blue

  I’d really love

  To marry you.

  What do you say?

  And I say,

  ‘Yes.’

  About the Author

  Hailing from the North East of England, Donna is a bit of a Bedouin at heart, moving houses and continents more times than she cares to recall.

  When not bashing away at a keyboard, Donna can usually be found with a good book in her hand, hiding from her family and responsibilities.

  She likes her wine and humour dry, her mojitos sweet, and her language salty.

  Untitled

  Acknowledgements?