by Emma Murray
I want to thank Maria properly for taking care of Anna so I tell him to walk ahead and I’ll follow on. David gives me a nod, and walks away, Anna trotting happily beside him shovelling E numbers into her mouth as fast as her sticky hands can manage. I turn to Maria, who is still standing in the doorway wrestling Bea’s lipstick from Harry’s pudgy hands. Eventually he lets go, and gives her a kick before running off upstairs.
I thank her profusely for looking after Anna, and she waves her hands in a ‘she’s no bother gesture,’ which is a standard response from someone who is being paid to look after small children. Still, she looks tired and I comment that she must have had her hands full over the last week.
She wipes a strand of hair from her face, crosses her arms, and says, ‘Well, today it’s not the kids who are the problem. It’s—’ And then she stops dead.
‘What is it?’ I say, because Maria isn’t the type to look ruffled.
‘Let’s just say Bea has a visitor,’ she says, raising her eyes skyward. ‘They’ve just gone out for dinner.’
Judging by her frustration, I’m guessing Bea’s mother, Arianna, is in town. I’m not surprised Maria is irritated by having the ultimate Organic fussing over every bite of food Harry eats. But when I say this to Maria, she shakes her head.
‘No, it’s not Arianna,’ she sighs. But before she can tell me anything else, Harry comes barrelling through the door holding one of those shit polystyrene toy aeroplanes that well-meaning parents give out in party bags, and heads straight towards the garden gate. I get there first, successfully blocking his innate intention to kill himself. Maria lifts him up battering-ram style and gives me an apologetic smile.
I thank her again and walk home slowly, thinking about Bea’s mysterious guest, but mostly wondering how I’m going to face David when I get in.
22
It is 10 p.m. Thanks to the sugar rush from ‘Daddy’s sweets’, Anna has gone to bed late. After the trauma of the last twelve hours, I am exhausted and think about cutting my talk with David short, particularly as we appear to keep going around in circles.
‘It’s still a betrayal,’ I say.
‘It’s not!’ he says, shaking his head vehemently. ‘I just didn’t mention it because I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go through with it.’
‘You could have talked to me about it!’ I said, and I feel my voice getting a bit wobbly. ‘I’m your wife!’
He puts his head in his hands and stays like that for a bit. I watch him – the man who used to tell me everything – and wonder if we will ever be that way again.
David was telling the truth. He hasn’t been shagging anyone else, but he has been hiding something: his search for his biological mother.
He got in touch with Joss a couple of months ago after rediscovering her business card in his wallet. As she works for the government in the field of missing persons, he thought she would be able to help him track down his biological mother. It was Joss he was texting. Joss with all her kisses and hearts (‘She’s an emoji freak, Saoirse. She thinks it’s ironic’). Joss who he had been meeting while I was away. I still can’t believe it. Joss – my disdainful flatmate, who I haven’t thought about in years – knows more about my husband’s movements than I do.
This morning, Joss texted David to tell him she was pretty sure she had some information about his biological mother. She was on her way to meet David to pass on what she knew when some total scumbag decided to blow himself up right outside David’s building. The impact of the explosion knocked her backwards, but she was still conscious when David found her moments later. He rode with her in the ambulance when she passed out, and stayed by her bedside until I arrived.
‘All these years, David, you’ve never mentioned a thing about finding your biological mother. Why now? Why not five years ago, when you had that conversation with Joss?’
David raises his head and says, ‘At the time I was just curious about how it all worked. I wasn’t sure if I would ever go through with it, so I didn’t see the point in talking about it. But over the last few months, I have just felt so out of control. Work is crazy, we’re struggling financially, and Anna doesn’t even have a decent school to go to. I know this sounds nuts, but I thought that maybe if I found my real mother, I would feel more grounded; that things would make more sense.’
His face is so filled with anguish that I can’t help but feel terribly sad for him. I feel the same as he, and probably have done so for longer; I just manifest it in a different way. When he feels out of control, his compulsive behaviour kicks in. It makes sense to him – ensuring his home, his sanctuary, is neat and clean gives him peace and a level of control that he doesn’t have over other aspects of his life. Whereas when I feel out of control, I want to shout and scream and throw things.
So I tell him all this, and he asks how we are going to manage it, and I like the way he says ‘we’ because it might mean we have a future together if we both want it.
‘You need to start telling me things,’ I say, feeling teary. ‘I can’t have secrets between us. I mean, finding out that you’ve been searching for your biological mother is a huge thing to keep from me.’
He wraps his arms around me and says, ‘I’m so sorry,’ over and over again until I begin to feel calm again and a wave of exhaustion rushes over me.
‘I miss us, David,’ I say, into his shoulder.
And he tells me he misses us too.
‘I love you,’ I say, drawing back for a moment. ‘But you’re so fucking hard to live with! Sometimes I feel that you don’t see me any more. That I’m just a person that fucks up everything domestic in your life, as though I’m just a really shit maid that you can’t fire.’
‘I know!’ he says, raising his hands helplessly. ‘I know I’ve been getting worse. Sometimes, I don’t even know I’m doing it. And I’m sorry for taking it out on you.’
While I am relieved he recognises that his behaviour is unacceptable, I still can’t let go of everything I have put up with over the last few years. ‘I just don’t get why the cutlery has to be arranged “just so” in the drawer, or the shoes lined up in perfect symmetry or…’ and once I start I can’t seem to stop.
When I finally finish, David replies, ‘I know you think I’m petty and these things don’t matter… but they matter to me. And I know it sounds stupid but every time you don’t wash a dish properly or leave old vegetables in the fridge it makes me think you don’t care about me.’
I grab a tissue and blow my nose, all the time trying to take this in. My husband thinks that I don’t care about him if I don’t clean out the fridge regularly. And much as every part of me wants to fight it, I have this uncomfortable feeling that there are things that make me think he doesn’t care about me either, which could be considered just as petty.
‘Technology,’ I say, continuing where I left off.
He looks at me, forehead creased.
‘You’re always on your smartphone or your laptop or work phone or iPad… I can’t go into one room in our house without something whirring or flashing or buzzing,’ I say, my stomach tight with frustration.
He nods in a patient way before saying, ‘I get it, but you know I have to work in the evenings.’
I tell him I know that, but surely there needs to be some sort of cut-off time? A time where we both abandon technology to actually spend some time together? And before he can say anything, I say, ‘Remember when we used to shout at the TV together? We never do that any more. I know it sounds silly but I miss shouting at the TV with you.’
‘I miss that too,’ he says, and gives me another hug.
I return it, finally feeling we are getting somewhere. It’s been a long time since we really listened to each other.
We end up agreeing that no matter what, we will meet in the living room at 9 p.m., technology-free and spend some time together – whether it’s watching TV or listening to music.
Then David says we should go away for the night, just the two of us, a
nd I tell him I love the idea apart from one tiny problem: we can’t afford to pay someone for a whole night’s babysitting. He thinks for a moment and his response makes my heart stop.
‘We could ask my mother,’ he says. ‘She really should spend more time with Anna.’
Rose.
Rose, who I abused over the phone in Ireland when I thought David was dead.
FUCK.
Evidently David sees the look of horror on my face, and asks me what’s wrong.
I say, ‘Nothing!’ as cheerfully as I can. ‘Rose! Great idea!’
Sod her – I’m not letting her ruin this. I’ll confess another time.
David gives me a serious look and then asks if I can do something for him.
Eager to change the subject, I give a firm nod.
‘Is there any chance you could even try to arrange the cutlery in the dishwasher the proper way?’
My stomach drops. In some respects, I’d be happier ’fessing up about Rose. I really want to meet him halfway on this but I feel the familiar irritation rise. I try to keep my voice controlled and say, ‘David, I have successfully run the dishwasher plenty of times without arranging the cutlery in the right way. I just don’t understand why you think it makes any difference.’
Now it’s his turn to mask his irritation, and I appreciate the effort.
‘It’s just that it wouldn’t be in the dishwasher instructions if it didn’t make sense to arrange them that way,’ he says in a quiet, measured voice.
I can’t help myself.
‘Jesus, David, who the fuck reads the dishwasher instructions?’
He gives me a sad look and turns away and I burn with resentment, but I can’t give up now. We’ve come too far.
I take a deep breath and apologise for losing it.
‘If it means that much to you, I will have a look at the instructions and follow the guide,’ I say, every word hurting as I utter it.
His face lights up. It’s as though I’ve just announced I’m about to give him an unexpected blow job.
‘Can I talk you through the instructions?’ he says, with an enthusiasm I haven’t seen in months.
‘If it turns you on!’ I say, jokingly.
Jesus, I hope this stuff doesn’t turn him on.
Then we smile at each other, and a sense of warmth and relief rushes over me. We have a long way to go but it’s an overwhelming sensation when you realise you’re still in love with your husband.
‘So,’ he says, through a yawn. ‘How was Ireland?’
So I tell him all about my reunion with Jen, and meeting Dee, and my mother’s views on The Cube, and my progress with the pitch. But I leave out the part about Ryan because, let’s face it, some things are just not worth sharing.
He laughs when I tell him about Kitty and Frank, and them bullying me into almost succumbing to hypothermia, and expresses mock horror when I tell him how they finally succeeded in getting me into the sea.
‘I’ll be taking you in the sea with me next time!’ I say, and I laugh when he answers, ‘No fucking way.’
Then I tell him about Mum’s birthday and her trip to London at the end of the month, and before I can raise the subject of having a party for her, he suggests it first.
‘It’s about time we had a good knees-up!’ he says, and I smile at him, pleased to see a glimpse of the old David back.
But despite the lighter atmosphere, there is something I need to ask David that’s been preying on my mind.
‘Are you going to meet your real mother?’ I say.
He rubs his eyes with both hands, and tells me he doesn’t know yet. ‘I think I need more time,’ he says.
I agree that sounds like a good idea, and when we both start yawning we agree to call it a night. David calls the hospital to check on Joss and she’s much better: slight concussion but she’ll be allowed out tomorrow.
While David’s on to the hospital, I call my mother. I have already texted her, not to mention Jen and Dee, and Rose (reluctantly) to let them know that David is alive and well, but I know my mother will need more than just a few lines on a small screen to keep her going. She answers on the first ring.
‘Hey, Mum!’ I say. ‘Do you know who’s not dead?’
‘Jesus, Mary and Holy Saint Joseph, wouldn’t you think you’d have called earlier?’ she says crossly.
‘Sure, I sent you a text!’ I say, indignantly.
‘Well, a text doesn’t give me the whole picture,’ she says. ‘I have been plagued all day by the Facebook with people wanting to know exactly what happened to you and David, and don’t get me started on the Instagram. And I haven’t been able to tell them a thing!’
So that’s why she’s so annoyed. She’s in the spotlight without a story to tell. I signal to David that I might be some time, and he mouths back, ‘Your mother?’ and I nod. With a pang of envy I watch him as he settles down on the couch in front of the news. Knowing my mother, it’ll be a while before I get to join him.
After a good hour of ‘What? It wasn’t Jordan-the-slut in the hospital? Now, remind me who’s Joss?’ followed by much crowing: ‘See? I TOLD you David wasn’t having an affair…’, I finally manage to get her off the phone by yawning in such a way that even she can’t ignore it. I go into the living room to complain to David about the unnecessary length of the call, but the muffled sounds of a podcast tells me that he has retreated to the downstairs bathroom. I contemplate waiting until he comes out, but I’m not quite sure I have it in me to wait the requisite forty minutes.
With heavy steps, I climb the stairs, dragging my suitcase behind me. When I get to our bedroom, I throw the suitcase on the bed and unzip it quickly. Just as I’m pulling out my toiletries bag, a plastic bag containing two small boxes drops out. I pick up the first box. It is made of flimsy cheap pink cardboard, decorated in yellow flowers. It has the words ‘Marital Miracle’ written on the top. I burst out laughing. My mother must have sneaked the boxes into my suitcase before I left for London.
I open it and spill the contents out onto the bed. Sure enough, there is a small white sheet of paper, like the ones you might use to jot down a shopping list, a small pair of nail scissors and a tiny pebble. My eye drifts towards a folded piece of yellow paper, which I imagine is another one of my mother’s attempts at a haiku. And tickled as I am by such nonsense, I find myself reluctant to open it. The last time I had seen one of these I believed my marriage had fallen apart.
Telling myself not to be so silly, I reach for the folded paper and open it. It says:
He waits for your love
He wants to be your husband
Let him, Saoirse. Please.
I rub the tears away with the back of my hand, and try to stem the tickling feeling in my nose. Despite everything that has happened I know deep down that David loves me. Now all I have to do now is let him. Quietly, I put the boxes away in the drawer of my bedside table. Maybe I will give David his box one day (blue with no flowers – very gender specific) but tonight, I need to sleep away the trauma of the last twenty-four hours.
I brush my teeth, get into my nightdress, climb into bed and try to keep my eyes open until David joins me. If this was a movie, we’d probably be having ‘make-up sex’ now, but nothing could be further from my mind. Besides, we’re married. With a child.
Five minutes later David climbs into bed beside me, childishly triumphant about his bathroom experience. He kisses me good night and we say our ‘I love yous’ and then turn over, our backs to each other, wriggling as far away from each other as possible for fear we might touch during the night – just the way we like it.
23
The next day, David receives an email telling him to work from home for the next few days until the anti-terror squad has swept the area for explosive devices. I hate this. Now every time he goes to work I’m going to worry that he won’t be coming home again. Still, on the plus side, as things have quietened down on the work front he is spending more time with Anna (who is now his bigge
st fan), which gives me more time to focus on finishing my pitch. But before I start work, there’s something I need to do first. I grab my phone and message Rosalind, asking her if she can meet for a coffee today. If I have any chance of writing a book about motherhood, I have to stop being such a hypocrite and try to be a supporter of other mums rather than a silent observer. My phone pings almost immediately. She suggests our local coffee shop (the one where the entrance is permanently obstructed by prams and buggies) and we agree to meet there in twenty minutes. I ask David, who is plugging away at this laptop, if he can keep an eye on Anna for a bit, and he looks uncertain.
‘She’s on her iPad,’ I say, and his face immediately brightens, secure in the knowledge that he’s not going to be disturbed for at least an hour.
On the walk to the coffee shop, I think back to how nervous I felt when I first contacted Rosalind, but now I’m actually meeting her, I feel totally calm. Mind you, given the trauma of yesterday’s events, I’m not sure if anything would rattle me now.
The smell of coffee hits me several yards from the café itself. The café occupies the lower half of a terraced house that looks exactly the same as mine, which I like because it breaks up the uniformity of the stifling rows and rows of identical houses.
As I squeeze myself past one double buggy and two triple buggies, I see Rosalind is already there (I recognise her from her Facebook photo), sitting at a small table by the window. She gets up to greet me (she must know me from my photo too), and gives me a little wave. Rosalind is tall and very thin, with long, loose limbs that look as though she has yet to grow into them. Her slight figure is clothed in a loose-fitting V-necked green-and-blue speckled shirt tucked into dark blue skinny jeans. Although it is twenty-eight degrees outside, she wears a cream knitted woollen cardigan over the shirt. She has black curly hair tied up in a barely contained bun and her blue eyes are encircled by big, round black-framed glasses.
