The Cactus
Page 33
From time to time Nell twitches or snuffles. I expect she imagines she’s back in her cocoon. I don’t think she wanted to leave; I can already tell that she and I are alike. It’s odd—since she was born, matters of certainty and uncertainty have swapped places. I was convinced I’d know exactly how to handle the practical side of caring for a baby: how to change her nappy, how to hold her when she’s feeding, how to bathe her, but I admit I feel inexperienced and clumsy. Conversely, I was very far from convinced that I could love my daughter straightaway. I’m amazed, now, that I ever doubted it. I’m beginning to understand how my mother must have felt when she held her own baby for the first time; how Aunt Sylvia must have felt when she gave me away.
My aunt (I can’t call her anything else yet) said she spent a week with me in Rhyl before my mother and father came to claim me. She couldn’t fail to have bonded with me over the course of those few days. I know she would have been taken aback when she first felt the solid corporeality of the living creature she’d produced, and then been amazed that her own body could bring into being something so remarkable, so perfect. She would have looked at the world afresh and wondered what magic there was in it that could cause such a thing to exist. I can see it all perfectly in my mind, Aunt Sylvia with her new baby: she lets my fingers close around one of her own and is shocked at the strength of my grip, so tight it seems as if I never want to let her go; she looks into my eyes and can’t bear to be the first to look away; she holds me close to her skin while she feeds me; she rocks me in her arms when I’m fretful, listening to my breathing deepen and slow; she whispers secret thoughts to me, thoughts she’d be embarrassed to share with anyone else; she watches my chest rising and falling as I sleep, my almost-translucent eyelids flickering, and wonders whether I’m dreaming. She has dreams of her own, about who I’ll grow into, how I’ll look, walk, talk. Will I be like her? Or like my father?
Knowing all that Aunt Sylvia must have felt, it’s hard to comprehend how she managed to hand me over. She was only seventeen years old; twenty-eight years younger than I am now. Even with my own strength and resilience, my years of experience and my knowledge of how time heals most things in the end, I couldn’t bear to give up my baby. How much harder would it have been for someone so young? I can see her kissing the top of my head, passing me over to my mother, then feeling the negative weight, the absence. She wouldn’t just be going back to life before the baby; there would now be a child-shaped hole. Why didn’t she say “no” when the idea was put forward? Why didn’t she refuse to hand me over when they came for me? I thought, when I first discovered the truth, that it was because she cared more about herself and her own future than she did about mine, but now I think I was wrong. I think it was because she wanted the very best for her daughter; more than she believed she, herself, could provide.
It’s no wonder, now that I come to think of it, that Aunt Sylvia used to call at our house so often. I know she enjoyed spending time in my mother’s company, but her desire to see me—to watch me growing and changing—must have been just as important, if not more so. The simple fact is, I’m nothing like her. I hope she hasn’t been disappointed; I hope she understands and forgives my lack of ease with life. It’s not just genes that create a person, after all. I expect there were numerous times when she wanted to tell me she was my mother. But it would have been difficult for her to do that when she’d made a promise to her sister. And how do you go about telling your niece that she’s your daughter? Where would you start? I ask myself, can I forgive Aunt Sylvia for giving me up, for keeping the secret? Perhaps. I’m not ruling anything in or anything out; I’m going to wait and see. The world seems bigger, louder and more colorful than it did a few weeks ago, a few days ago. At the moment, I’m not entirely sure who I am in relation to it. But that’s fine.
* * *
Rob’s back from the bathroom, stowing his iPad in his canvas shoulder bag, putting on his jacket and gathering up his things. He takes his mobile out of the back pocket of his jeans and checks the time.
“Wish I could stay longer,” he says, “but I suppose I’d better make tracks before the ward sister catches me. It’s ten-past already.”
He leans over and kisses me on the lips.
“Who cares what time it is?” I say. “Stay a bit longer. Pull the curtains round and join me on the bed. No one will even know you’re here. Forget the stupid rules.”
“What, Susan Green saying ‘forget the rules’? That’s not something I ever expected to hear.”
“Just shut up and do it.”
“‘Just shut up and do it’?”
“Just shut up and do it, please.”
“How can I refuse when you ask so nicely?”
He puts down his bag, takes off his jacket and throws it across the back of the chair. I watch from my bed, propped up with pillows, as the curtains slowly close around us.
* * * * *
Acknowledgments
The seed that grew into The Cactus was planted during my creative writing master’s at Manchester Metropolitan University. Many thanks to my fellow “whiskey drinkers”: Angie Williams, Bryn Fazakerley, Paul Forrester-O’Neill, Saiqa Khushnood, Steven Mepham and Liz Middleton. Their friendship, encouragement and first-class reading skills enabled the seed to germinate and push through to the light.
Plants thrive best when tended. I’m hugely grateful to Jane Finigan for being such a champion of The Cactus; her support and expert guidance have been invaluable. Thanks also to Juliet Mahoney and everyone at Lutyens & Rubinstein for nurturing this book, particularly while Jane was on her own journey into new-motherhood. David Forrer at Inkwell Management has been another steadfast champion, for which I’m very grateful.
Many thanks to Erika Imranyi at Park Row Books in the United States and Lisa Highton at Two Roads in the UK for adding The Cactus to their collections, and for their faith, enthusiasm and fantastic editorial input. All plants benefit from being in the ideal location, and from a little pruning and training. Thanks also to Natalie Hallak and the rest of the team at Park Row for their hard work and diligence, which have allowed this book to settle so well into its new home.
None of this would have been possible without the support of my family and friends, who are soil, water and light. Special thanks to my dear friend, Beth Roberts—my daily inspiration—who gave me the courage to take my first step onto new ground and the determination to keep going through those rocky patches. Finally, love and gratitude to Simon—my first reader—and to Gabriel and Felix, for their endless patience and understanding while I was busy cultivating The Cactus.
ISBN-13: 9781488078729
The Cactus
Copyright © 2018 by Sarah Haywood
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