The Aftermath

by Gail Schimmel

  As Mackenzie gets into the car, she’s talking about the baby. Not that there’s anything unusual about that – she’s pretty much obsessed with the baby, so it’s lucky I’ve made my peace.

  ‘How will Julia know when it’s time for the baby to come out?’ she asks.

  ‘Well,’ I say, ‘she’ll feel really sore, and she’ll know.’

  ‘What if she thinks she needs a poo? That can be really sore.’

  ‘When I started to have you, I was pretty sure you weren’t a poo.’

  ‘Of course I’m not a poo, Mummy!’ says Mackenzie. ‘I’m nothing like a poo.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘What if Julia’s alone and she’s sore?’ says Mackenzie after a while – I presume spent thinking how un-poo-like she is.

  ‘She’ll phone someone.’

  ‘Daddy?’

  ‘I guess. Or her mum. She has a really helpful mum.’

  ‘I know,’ says Mackenzie. ‘I know her mum. She’s a bit weird. But really helpful.’

  ‘And then Daddy or Helen will take Julia to hospital to have the baby,’ I explain.

  Mackenzie thinks a bit more. ‘She should choose her mum.’

  I smile. ‘Daddy will want to be there. He loved it when you were born.’

  For a moment I feel the loss. I think I will always feel the loss.

  ‘Anyway,’ I say to distract myself, ‘you can usually tell when a lady is going to have the baby. She gets a bit nutty sometimes, and cleans everything, and pretends she can’t feel any pain and . . .’ I stop midsentence, thinking about the messages I got from Julia this morning. Thinking about that last missed call. That ‘No’ that I heard, which now that I think about it, sounded pained.

  We’re nearly home, but I don’t want to wait. I grab my phone from the console and throw it to Mackenzie in the back.

  ‘Phone Julia,’ I say. ‘Ask her if she’s okay.’ Mackenzie is thrilled with the responsibility.

  I wait.

  ‘She’s not answering,’ says Mackenzie. ‘It goes to mailvoice.’

  ‘Voicemail,’ I say reflexively. But I’m worried. I pull over. ‘Give me the phone.’

  ‘No, but I can—’

  ‘Give it!’

  I dial Julia’s number but it goes to voicemail again.

  We’re two minutes from home, so I decide to drop Mackenzie there and go straight to Julia to reassure myself.

  ‘Phone Daddy,’ I tell Mackenzie as I drive.

  ‘Mailvoice,’ says Mackenzie with a sigh, as if she never expected anything different from her father. Then again, why did I?

  Once Mackenzie is safely at home with Thandi, who looks faintly disapproving when I tell her where I’m going, I decide to take the risk of driving and phoning. I try Daniel again, and leave a message. I don’t know what else I can do. I don’t have Julia’s mum’s number – why would I? – so all I can do is wait until I get there. There’s probably nothing to worry about; Julia’s probably distracted herself repainting the walls or something.

  At Julia’s mother’s house, I ring the bell at the gate. Nothing happens. I ring again.

  I can’t get in any other way. The house has high walls and electric fencing – this is Joburg after all, and I am not a professional housebreaker.

  ‘Julia!’ I scream. Peering through the gate, I can see Julia’s car. She is home. I pick up my phone and try Daniel again.

  Now I’m worried for real.

  Daniel

  The first time I saw Claire’s number, I ignored it. Claire never phones me with nice things any more, like she used to. She used to be such a fun, spontaneous person – supper dates and weekends away and calls just to tell me she missed me. Now it’s all boring stuff, like I must pay her money or pick Mackenzie up or have Mackenzie for the weekend. It’s like she’s had a personality change. Inexplicable.

  Then I start thinking how little I understand her. Or Julia, for that matter. And how I never know which way the wind will blow with those two, and what will happen next. And it occurs to me that maybe Claire is finally coming around, and that she has in fact phoned to tell me we can get back together. Which would be great – the best thing for everyone. We would all be so happy.

  I pick up my phone and I’m about to phone Claire back when it rings again, and it’s her. My instinct was right. She must want me back – badly.

  ‘Babe?’ I answer.

  Recently she’s shouted at me when I call her ‘babe’, but this time she doesn’t, which I take as a good sign.

  ‘I’m outside the house and nobody’s answering the bell—’ she starts.

  ‘Babe, I’m at the office. Not the house. Actually, I don’t live in a house at all.’ Poor woman, driven mad by her need to be with me.

  ‘Not your house, you idiot,’ she says. ‘Julia’s house. Well, her mum’s house. Helen’s house.’

  This is not going the way I expected. I’m not entirely sure, but Claire sounds quite hostile.

  ‘You sound quite hostile,’ I say.

  ‘Now listen carefully, Daniel. I think Julia might be in labour. I need you to phone her mum and tell her to get home as soon as possible, so we can get in.’

  ‘Shouldn’t she go to the hospital?’ I ask, reasonably I think. Claire had Mackenzie in a hospital and Julia hasn’t said anything about wanting a home birth. Although nobody tells me anything these days. ‘Or does she want a home birth?’ I ask, to show I’m thinking about her needs. Claire likes that sort of thing.

  ‘Daniel,’ says Claire, ‘for once in your life, just once, listen. I think Julia is in the house, in labour. I can’t get in. Phone Helen and tell her. Or send me her number. Can you do that?’

  ‘Why don’t I just come and help?’

  ‘Do you have the keys?’

  ‘No. Why would I have the keys?’

  ‘Then phone Helen first, and then come. Can you do that?’ She sounds very patronising, to be honest.

  I sigh. ‘Sure. There’s no need to be so rude about it.’

  ‘Just. Fucking. Do. It,’ says Claire, and rings off.

  Honestly, I’m sure she didn’t have such a foul mouth when we lived together. It’s not very attractive, to tell the truth.

  With a sigh, I dial Helen’s number, even though she scares me.

  Helen

  At first, I have no idea what Daniel wants. He seems to be complaining about women being incomprehensible – but I know that I’m very distressed and it might be that I’m not understanding properly.

  Eventually, I manage to understand one sentence.

  ‘. . . so I said I would tell you,’ he says.

  ‘Tell me what exactly, Daniel?’

  ‘To go to your house to let Claire in because she has this idea that Julia’s in labour.’

  ‘Claire thinks that . . .’ I think about all the manic messages I received this morning, and the nagging feeling I’ve had all day. The talk of naming the baby after Braxton Hicks. She could be in labour, but then why hasn’t she phoned? Still, better safe than sorry.

  ‘I’ll meet you at the house,’ I tell Daniel. ‘And call the hospital to tell them to expect her, just in case.’

  ‘What hospital?’ says Daniel.

  For a moment I wonder if perhaps Daniel is slightly stupid.

  ‘The same bloody hospital you went to for the scans.’ Then I reconsider. ‘Never mind, I’ll call them. You just come to the house, okay?’

  Daniel is still speaking when I hang up – but I have better things to do, more important things. Part of me wants to run in and tell Mike that maybe the baby is being born. Another part thinks, What’s the point? He can’t hear me.

  But I’ve been telling Mike stuff for almost my whole life. Who cares if he can’t hear me? I run back into the home, into his room.

  ‘The baby could be coming!’ I say, and then I leave.

  Julia needs me.

  Julia

  The cramps are so bad, and suddenly I feel wetness seeping down my leg. I sit down on my moth
er’s bed. I know I should phone someone for help, but my phone is still under the bed, out of reach, and every time I summon the energy to stand up and try to get it, there’s another cramp. My mother has a landline next to her bed, but I don’t know anyone’s phone number, not even Daniel’s, which is ridiculous when you think about it.

  Finally, I summon a number from my memory – my mum’s work number that I used as a child. I’m pretty sure it hasn’t changed. I dial, and someone who isn’t my mother answers.

  ‘I need to speak to Helen,’ I say. ‘It’s her daughter, Julia.’

  ‘Julia, sweetie,’ says this strange woman, like she knows me. ‘It’s your mum’s afternoon off.’

  Damn it. She’s gone to meet that coma woman, I remember now.

  ‘D’you have her mobile number?’ I ask. I can feel another contraction coming.

  ‘Her mobile number, sweetie?’ The woman sounds like I’ve asked for a kidney. Before I can yell at her, she says, ‘Wait, Dr Marigold wants to speak to you.’

  My whole belly is tight and sore, and I grip the phone. In the background, I hear the doorbell ring.

  ‘Julia, it’s Ewan.’

  ‘I’m in labour,’ I squeak. ‘I want my mummy.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At the house. No one’s here. I want my mummy.’

  ‘I’m coming, Julia. And I’ll find her.’

  I drop the phone as the contraction fully kicks in.

  As the contraction passes, the doorbell rings again. I need to get there, I need to get help. I take a deep breath, and stand up. It’s fine, no pain. I walk slowly, scared that if I rush I’ll trigger another contraction. But I get to the front door before another contraction starts, and I just have time to reach for the buzzer that opens the gate, before that one gets me. As it passes, there’s a banging on the door. I open it, and there, unbelievably, is Claire.

  ‘Julia,’ she says, and opens her arms. I fall into them.

  ‘I’m in labour,’ I say. ‘I don’t know what to do. I phoned my mum’s work. They’ll find her.’

  ‘We need to get you to the hospital,’ says Claire, in her matter-of-fact way. ‘Where’s your bag?’

  ‘I unpacked it,’ I say. ‘It was all wrong.’ I know that this would never have happened to Claire, but I don’t care any more – there’s another contraction, and I double over. ‘It’s coming now, Claire,’ I yell. ‘I can feel something down there.’

  ‘I guess we’re too late for the hospital,’ says Claire, as I try to breathe through my pain. ‘Don’t worry Julia, I’m here.’

  ‘Claire,’ I say, gripping her hand. ‘I’m sorry about Daniel. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.’ I start to cry. It’s like these words have been waiting to come out for months. Much like the baby.

  ‘Don’t think about that now. Let’s concentrate on this baby,’ says Claire, helping me back to my mother’s room. ‘It’s all okay.’

  It could be five minutes later, it could be an hour – I don’t know – Claire has been talking me through the contractions, and seems to have been carrying out several phone calls at once – to my mother, to my doctor, and to Daniel – when the door to the bedroom bursts open. My mother and Ewan come through the door first.

  ‘Don’t push yet!’ is what Ewan is saying.

  ’I’m here, baby,’ says my mother, who never calls me baby.

  I focus on Ewan.

  ‘I have to push,’ I say through gritted teeth.

  He rushes past me into my mother’s en suite, and I hear the sound of handwashing. I presume this because my mother suddenly yells, ‘Clean hands,’ and runs in after him.

  When he comes out, he says, ‘Julia, you know I’m a doctor, right?’

  ‘Is this really time for small talk?’ I ask.

  ‘I thought I’d just mention it before I put my hand inside you,’ he says.

  ‘Go for it!’ I shout, but only because a contraction’s just hit.

  Ewan examines me, and then turns to my mother. ‘We’re not getting her to a hospital. You’re going to have to help.’

  Something happens to my mother. She smiles, and then – I swear I am not making this up – her eyes fill with tears, and then she suddenly becomes a nurse. You can see it happen. She hasn’t been a nurse for years; she’s been a receptionist. But now I can see it. I can see the super-efficient nurse she must’ve been. Before I can tell her how glad I am that she’s my mum, there’s a towel on the bed and a basin of steaming water next to it, and Claire is sitting next to me feeding me ice chips. (Where the hell did she get ice chips? Being Claire, she probably has a little ice-chip maker in her car for when she finds people in labour.) Really, I’m pretty sure this is how it would have been in a hospital.

  And then I’m pushing and pushing, and Ewan is saying, ‘He’s crowning,’ and my mother is standing with a towel ready for the baby, and Daniel arrives.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he says, and vomits on the carpet. Nobody even turns to look at him, because the baby is here.

  Helen

  I don’t know at what point in the drama of Julia’s delivery I noticed the photo of Jack sticking out from under my bed. Jack holding Julia.

  For a moment I wondered, How on earth did it get out of the box? And how did Julia end up in my room anyway? But then she let out a piercing shriek, and I quickly pushed the photo under the bed with my toe, and carried on helping deliver my grandson.

  In movies when there’s a highly dramatic home delivery, once the baby is delivered, everyone steps back and smiles and all is well. Well, I don’t know what that’s all about, because once this baby was delivered, we got even more busy. We put him straight onto Julia’s chest, and admittedly she did get all cross-eyed with hormones and start crying – but Ewan and I had a placenta to deliver, a cord to cut, and a mess to clean up. We also had a baby to check for birth defects.

  We offered Daniel the chance to cut the cord, but he started heaving again, and Claire laughed and said, ‘Not a chance,’ and so I got to do it – cut the cord between my daughter and grandbaby. And it would have been strangely moving except that Daniel vomited again, and all I could think of was how much vomit I was going to have to clean out of the carpet, not to mention how much blood was in my bed.

  But finally, it was calm. Ewan declared himself happy with the baby, and he and Claire took themselves off to the kitchen to make tea for everyone. Daniel had managed to rally now that the baby was wiped down and Julia’s nether regions were safely under the blankets. He held the baby and declared him a fine chap, and kissed Julia on the head and said, ‘Everything’s going to be okay,’ and beamed like he had done something awfully clever.

  Julia wiped away his kiss and said it was my turn to hold the baby.

  And suddenly, my grandson was in my arms.

  I don’t know if it’s because I’d just seen the photo, but he looks exactly like Jack. I feel like I’ve been hurled back through time, and my own son is in my arms. My son who had such a short time with me. And now, here is this boy. This boy who is tied to me by blood. And I can’t even process the waves of love I feel. I don’t know who they are for – this boy now or that boy then. And I don’t know if it matters.

  ‘So,’ booms Daniel’s voice, as if from another galaxy, ‘what are we going to call this little chap, Julia?’

  I turn to look at her.

  ‘I’ve always known what I would call a little boy,’ says Julia. ‘My whole life, it’s been like I’ve been waiting for a baby boy. His name is Jack.’ I look up at her and she’s looking at me, not Daniel.

  ‘Mummy,’ she says, ‘who’s in the photo I found under the bed?’

  I hug Baby Jack to my body, and I go and sit right next to Julia on the bed.

  ‘Daniel,’ I say, ‘could you leave us for a few minutes? There’s something I need to tell Julia.’

  And, thank goodness, Daniel leaves, planting a kiss on the baby’s head. And I am alone with Julia, and, finally, I start to speak.

  PART
4

  MARCH

  Dear Mike,

  Our grandson is six months old today – but I feel like it’s really my own anniversary. My anniversary of being me again.

  It feels strange to write to you – knowing you’ll never read this. Accepting, finally, that you’re never coming back to me. That in all the ways that matter, you died with Jack.

  It’s a strange thing – I never used to remember anything bad about our years together before the accident. When I was depressed and suicidal and believed that my only peace lay in both our deaths, I painted the past rose-coloured. But since I’ve accepted the truth, I’m remembering the bad things too. The way you slurped your tea; the way you drank milk from the bottle; the way you left the toilet seat up; the way you never, ever put a towel in the wash basket; the way you always blamed me when we got lost. And you had a temper sometimes, and you were grumpy for whole days when we lost the rugby. These memories make me miss you more, not less. They make you feel more whole in my memory. But yes, they also allow me to let go of you. To love another imperfect man.

  I should tell you about the baby first, though. Oh, Mike – the baby is magnificent. He is funny and cuddly and warm and giggly and perfect. When I look after him, I can lie for hours just watching him. And when I make him laugh, it’s like all the angels in heaven are laughing. I bury my face in his stomach and blow raspberries, like you used to do for our Jack – and he chuckles and laughs his baby laugh and time flows together and I am you and this baby is that baby and it all suddenly makes sense. Because life goes on, Mike. For too long, I didn’t get that. But it really does. And I have so many years to make up for, and so many mistakes to make up to Julia.

  Julia.

  When I told Julia about Jack’s death, about the brother she had forgotten, she was angry and sad and incredulous. But mostly she was relieved. I don’t know how I thought she would have forgotten him in her bones. I don’t know what I was thinking, to be honest. But for Julia, the story of Jack made everything fall into place. Sometimes she looks at me, and then at Baby Jack, and her eyes fill with tears and she says, ‘How did you bear it, Mum?’ And I explain that, of course, I didn’t. And because I didn’t, I failed her. I failed her completely. But she has her own Jack now, and I think she understands. She can’t imagine losing him, and neither can I.