Little Disasters

by Sarah Vaughan

  So Jess has always been prone to shutting him out when she’s distressed and that’s never been particularly perturbing – until now, when the stakes are suddenly so horribly high. Their baby daughter is in hospital with a skull fracture that the police think is so suspicious they’ve interviewed the boys and arranged for them to stay at Mel’s for the night. And Jess has not merely turned frosty but is behaving in a way that unsettles him deeply. For the first time in their fifteen years together, he’d say she is being cagey. As if there is something she is trying to hide.

  Take her reaction when she came down this afternoon to discover that the police were about to question the boys. It wasn’t just her distress that they would have to go through this. It was her fear when DC Rustin told her she couldn’t be present: almost as if she was terrified they would betray her in some way.

  ‘Remember I love you. Remember that, won’t you?’ she had told Frankie, fiercely kissing the top of his head. And then she whispered something. Perhaps it was only Ed – so attuned to her body language – who picked up on it. But Frankie gave just the tiniest inclination of his head.

  He hasn’t been able to shake that suspicion away, and so here he is, in the cool of the night, ready to hack into her laptop and justifying that decision because in the light of what’s happened, Jess’s behaviour seems, if not callous, then certainly odd.

  Of course, his sense that he doesn’t know her is partly his fault. He’s hardly at home in the week, and weekends are consumed with the boys’ sport, with further work, with the occasional run or rugby match. There has never been the time or, if he is honest, he never has the emotional energy to try and consider how Jess has changed or how he might improve things. Sunday night comes around too fast, and another week flits past: a week of leaving the house at 5.30 a.m. and not being back until 9 p.m. Of existing, rather than living. Taking her for granted, because that’s what happens by this stage of your relationship, when you’re this busy, isn’t it? Isn’t that part of the deal?

  But her detachment is more than resentment on her part, some petty unwillingness to share things with him. She’s keeping something back from him because she’s scared, he knows her sufficiently well to see that.

  Take how she behaved when she rang him from the hospital last night.

  ‘They’re keeping her in for observation,’ she’d said and made no mention of further tests. Crucially, she hadn’t mentioned that they’d discovered Betsey had banged her head; that it had been scanned and found to be a skull fracture. OK, she was preoccupied, but it was the first thing he would have told her. He had even asked if they suspected concussion, given that she’d been sick.

  ‘Did they give any indication of what they’re looking for? They must have said something?’

  But: ‘No,’ she had replied, and her voice was firm and definite. ‘They haven’t said anything specific at all.’

  She’d behaved oddly earlier on Friday, as well, before the accident happened. He’d surprised her by coming home from work at lunchtime. Perhaps he should have rung her but he’d wanted to be spontaneous; had hoped to smooth things over after Thursday night’s argument. Maybe – and here he realises he got this completely wrong because this never happened these days – they might even go to bed?

  Jess had been absorbed by something on her laptop; had been so distracted she didn’t seem to notice Betsey, who was whimpering, upstairs, where she’d been put for her nap. When he’d walked into the kitchen, she’d snapped the lid shut, and had looked – there was no other description for it – guilty.

  ‘Are you spying on me?’ Her posture was ramrod straight like a child hiding something behind her back.

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  He’d been carrying roses, wrapped in crisp brown paper and raffia ribbon, and they suddenly seemed inappropriate, and he, intrusive, like a guest who turns up at a dinner party on the wrong date.

  Their argument – the terrible argument from the previous night – had flared up again and he had forgotten about the expression on her face, the swift closure of the laptop, until he lay in bed this evening and started obsessing about all the ways in which she has been defensive or evasive in the past thirty-six hours.

  He had thought of Betsey too, of course. He’d only managed to get to the hospital after the boys went to Mel’s. Had seen the pressure bandage wrapped around her head, in brutal contrast to her paper-thin eyelids. He’d been frightened of what might lie beneath.

  ‘It’s all right. You can touch her,’ the registrar on call – not Liz but a young woman called Dr Hussain – had said, and he had placed his right palm gently on Betsey’s back. His hand was so large it had almost spanned the width of her, little finger and thumb touching each side. He was aware of how vulnerable she was and how easy it would be to damage her tiny body. Her torso was warm, though, and this grounded him: reminded him that this wasn’t some alien child, but his baby. His breath had juddered, almost in a sob.

  He feels like crying now. You’re supposed to protect your children, aren’t you? And fathers, well, they’re allowed to be almost overprotective of their daughters. But he hadn’t been there for her: something had happened, and he’d been in a pub with colleagues, avoiding coming home. Guilt, bemusement, anger: they all churn away at him, but he refuses to give into them – or rather he’s going to funnel his guilt and his rage and use it coldly and clinically to work out what is going on.

  Because, as he ran over everything that had happened during that painful, discombobulating day – the police interview; the social worker’s request that the children stay with Mel; his hospital visit; Jess’s behaviour – he kept homing in on his wife’s furtive expression when she snapped shut her laptop: that potent combination of guilt and fear. And, as he lay in the dark, his thoughts circling around that point, he realised how little he knew about what the woman lying beside him did for fifteen hours a day.

  And he wondered what it was that she wanted to hide.

  *

  And so here he is. Password – kitfrankbets3 - typed in; her virtual fingerprints exposed, or ready to be pored over. He feels like a hacker unearthing dirty secrets as he imagines what he’ll find: a gambling addiction? A clandestine chat room? Surely not something as innocuous as porn?

  His stomach cramps. Let there be an innocent explanation. An ex-boyfriend she’s looked up; a birthday present for him that’s a surprise; an extortionate pair of shoes she covets and has bought? Seen through the prism of the last thirty-six hours, he will laugh with relief if it’s anything as harmless as that.

  The password’s worked, and her recent searches cascade in a rapid flickering. She’s logged out without closing all the pages and the first that comes up is a parenting site. Netmummies: organic weaning for fussy eaters. Perhaps she was just embarrassed at being caught looking at this: she, who knows how to mother with her eyes shut; an experienced parent who’s had three kids?

  Maybe she merely doubted herself. Given their row on Thursday night, maybe he’d crushed her confidence. Christ, he hadn’t meant to. He’d been fumbling towards the realisation – expressed cack-handedly – that the extra baby might have tipped the balance. That she wasn’t enjoying motherhood as much as when they just had the two boys. But would a lapse in confidence really mean she was embarrassed at being caught looking for recipes like this?

  Her search history: that’s what he needs. He pulls down the History bar. The latest page was opened at 4.03 p.m. on Friday but he had come home and surprised her earlier. It was shortly before 1.30 p.m.: he remembers hearing the time stated on the radio as he came in.

  He clicks on Show Full History. There’s butternut squash recipes, an online internet shop, then reams of Netmummies pages: ‘How to deal with a crying baby’; ‘How to deal with an unsettled baby’; ‘Can a baby still have colic at ten months?’

  Can they? He pauses to skim this page. He had no idea she searched for things like this. Is this where she goes for advice and support? Didn’t she used
to ask Liz or Mel, or even Charlotte, at the stage where Charlotte allowed some chink in her parenting armour? (He can’t remember Jess confiding in his old friend, whom Jess has never found particularly empathetic, but presumably she could have done.) She hasn’t mentioned any new mum friends, unless he wasn’t listening properly (always a possibility). Perhaps she’s lonely? That must be it. And he – cretinously – has only made things worse.

  He carries on scrolling, heart lifting slightly at the thought that he’s discovered her secret: that now that he understands her sense of isolation he can make things better. And then it dips. There are more pages, the ones she glanced at in the early afternoon, after he left abruptly to return to the office, even more Netmummies threads: ‘I think my husband wants to leave me’. ‘My husband thinks I’m incompetent’. Christ! That was straight after their argument.

  And then he finds it. A line she typed into Google at 1.27 p.m., just before he came into the house; a line that makes his heart constrict into a fist that punches hard, a quick one-two, against his ribs.

  Here it is. The thing that embarrassed her. That she didn’t want him reading:

  ‘Why do I want to harm my baby girl?’

  JESS

  Monday 13 March, 2017

  Ten

  The first time Jess imagines hurting Betsey she has been home from hospital for three days. Ed is back at work. Paternity leave isn’t really recognised in the City and there is a crucial merger. She doesn’t mind, does she? The boys are at school, and it will be lovely for her to have some time with Betsey on her own.

  Of course not, she murmurs. She is up and into her jeans already, a loose linen shirt and undone button the only signs her tummy is still sore. She’s sleep deprived and fragile; the horror of the birth nudging at the edges of her brain. But Ed doesn’t need to hear this. ‘No point both of us looking after a tiny baby,’ she reassures him. ‘Besides’ – and here she half-laughingly trots out their familiar line – ‘we need you to earn some money. Now go on: get back to work.’

  But getting three children up and ready to go out for school is harder than she imagined. Kit and Frankie are excited, Frankie bouncing off the walls at the thought of showing off their new sister, or maybe it’s the realisation that he’ll have to fight two siblings for her attention that’s making him belt out the latest Taylor Swift and gurn at the baby, his face pushed into hers.

  She’d forgotten she could feel so bone-achingly tired: this tiny baby, who wanted to be fed at one, three, and five, throughout the night, had drained her of all her energy. Perhaps she hadn’t been given enough blood? She hates thinking about the transfusion, though she owes her life to that anonymous B negative donor.

  It might help if she puts the baby down, but she doesn’t want Betsey out of sight, doesn’t want the boys to play with her like a dolly: she’s already had to talk to Frankie about not being rough. She doesn’t want to alienate him; she needs him to bond with, not resent, this new sister who’s usurped his place as the youngest sibling, but she doesn’t quite trust him. And so she carries the baby everywhere, remembering how to pick up a mug at the same time, or some dirty washing, to pull open curtains or close a door; managing to organise and tidy and maintain the order that is in danger of slipping from her grasp.

  ‘Muuuuuummm,’ Kit calls up the stairs from the hall. ‘Where’s the butter?’

  She had asked him to make breakfast: had hoped that at nine he might be able to manage this, but he has already called for bagels, a knife and milk.

  ‘Just a minute. I’m coming down,’ she says as she reaches the top of the stairs, her right hand on the bannister – hold on tight – her left carrying the baby. But suddenly she can’t move: she is rigid with fear.

  The stairs are slats of golden oak with gaps in between: slivers of warmth suspended between the wall and the frosted glass bannisters. A feature staircase: something she hadn’t considered a risk to young children when they moved in, two years ago, because both boys could navigate the stairs safely and she hadn’t imagined having another child. Now, they tip towards her, the March light tilting them upwards, and she sees herself dropping Betsey and watching as she bumps down each step. Bang. Bang. Bang. Her baby’s delicate skull bashes against each slat, until she comes to rest, her body bent, her head like a deflating football. The stairwell is eerily quiet: after the initial shriek, there is no sound.

  The vision intensifies, and changes: now, she drops her because she stumbles, her foot slipping on the first, shiny step, both arms reaching for the bannisters as Betsey slips from her grasp. Now, she throws her, hurling the baby viciously down the stairs. The vision consumes her as she stands there, swaying. Utterly incapable of putting one foot in front of another, of moving onto the first step.

  ‘Muuuuuuum.’ Kit is peering up at her now. ‘Are you OK, Mum? Are you coming?’

  His voice brings her back to the real world.

  ‘Yes, just a minute.’

  Somehow, she shuffles back from the top of the stairs and sits on the floor, still clutching Bets. Removing her socks, to give herself more traction, she inches back towards the staircase until her feet are dangling down. Shaking, she turns around and, like a toddler, navigates the stairs backwards, left hand clutching the bannister, right clinging to this mewling child. Later, she leaves Betsey on a play mat downstairs and counts the steps, then practises the manoeuvre without her: thirteen, fourteen, fifteen steps back down to safety. For a few months, she rations how frequently she carries her baby: not risking bringing her up and down too much.

  She starts to see danger everywhere. Ed insists on having a knife block with a few wickedly sharp blades scabbarded inside. She has always worried that the boys might climb up and use them against one another, but now she fears using them against her girl. Dicing beef, she leaves a Sabatier on the chopping board to answer the door. Returning, she sees herself picking it up to drive it through Bets, who sits benignly in a bouncy chair. Just a neat, vicious strike, and her three-month-old’s white Babygro turns crimson, blood pooling on the floor.

  She reruns the scene as an accident: sees herself stumbling over the bouncer and plunging the knife straight into Betsey’s tender crown, or her eyes, or her heart. A freak occurrence – but isn’t that what most accidents are? She takes precautions: the knives hidden in a kitchen drawer, padded with tea towels, each one individually swaddled. But she can never guarantee Betsey’s safety because the greatest threat to her baby is her.

  There is danger posed by a kettle of boiling water. If she pours it into a mug, she risks the water tipping: gushing onto the floor and scalding her girl. She can’t put the bouncer or a Bumbo chair close to her on a surface because Bets might wriggle to touch the kettle, or grab a rogue knife. The copper implements and steel pans that hang from a ceiling rack are a constant source of anxiety. She sees them falling, no flying across the room like child-seeking missiles. And so she skirts around them, constantly aware they could bludgeon her baby’s head.

  She keeps quiet about this, of course. Covers her tracks. Makes sure that the knives are back in their block and the heaviest saucepans, which she unhooks from the rack at the start of the day, are hanging back up again before Ed gets home. The boys don’t question her behaviour: she has always been particular. A visit from a friend – Liz or Mel, and just the once Charlotte – means putting Bets in a different room as she moves the knives and puts the saucepans back up, then repeating the process once they’ve gone. She can’t relax when Liz makes an impromptu visit, and is hyper-conscious of the potentially fatal implements and their proximity to her baby girl.

  Eventually, she tries to raise this with Mel.

  They have been for a walk with the younger boys and have had to cross a relatively busy road. Mel holds onto Connor and Frankie’s hands, and runs them through the Green Cross Code – ‘left, right, left; then we’ll walk, not run’ – leaving Jess free to push the Bugaboo. There is a gap in the traffic and the others cross but Jess remains rooted o
n the spot, not breathing and growing increasingly light-headed. All she can see is herself pushing Betsey into the path of a speeding car.

  ‘Aren’t you coming?’ Mel on the other side of the road, looks bemused.

  ‘It’s not safe.’

  ‘It’s perfectly safe.’ Mel frowns and looks mildly irritated. They wait a full three minutes until the traffic lights change further up the road, then Mel darts across and pushes the pram.

  ‘I thought a car would come racing towards her.’ Jess can’t convey her paralysing terror, her utter conviction that if she steps off the pavement, she will kill her own child. She feels rather stupid. ‘Have you ever felt like that?’

  ‘Nope. I know my Green Cross Code – look left, look right, look left again. “Charlie says . . .”’ and she mimicks the adenoidal cat of the 1980s children’s advert for safe road crossing. ‘No?’

  Jess hasn’t a clue what she is talking about. How can she admit that she imagines dropping Bets, or stabbing and scalding her? That she sees danger around every corner; a potential murderer in the driving seat of each car?

  ‘Probably just sleep deprivation,’ Mel suggests, as they continue towards the park. She gestures to Betsey. ‘How long a stretch does she go for now?’

  ‘Four hours on a good night – between ten and two.’

  ‘And then you’re up again at five?’

  Jess nods, bleakly.

  ‘Well, there you are. Sleep deprivation’s a form of torture: they use it in SAS training. God, I thought I was going completely loopy after Connor was born.’

  ‘Really?’ She can’t remember Mel being anything other than her usual, pragmatic self. She’s certainly never mentioned having intrusive thoughts, or disturbing visions. She hesitates, then risks asking: ‘What do you mean by loopy, exactly?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Ratty. Absent-minded. I once lost the car in Tesco’s car park, don’t you remember?’ She laughs at the memory. ‘Wandered around, unable to find it, for half an hour.’