by Ilsa Evans
‘Well, they were a tad over six pounds each. Which is apparently very good for twins.’
‘I’ll say!’
‘Listen, how did CJ like the Barbie we got her for her birthday?’
‘Loved it. She’s added it to her collection.’
‘And did you get the subjects you wanted last week?’
‘Yep, sure did,’ I reply as one of the pink-swathed bundles starts to mewl in that certain way peculiar only to very, very new babies. ‘Oh! She’s awake, can I hold her?’
‘Sure.’ Diane gets up and hobbles over to the trolley. She picks up the bundle carefully and hands it over to me. I nestle it cautiously in my arms and peer down at the little face. She has got a generous crop of hair and is all wrinkled up with the effort of making those shrill little sounds. She is also very, very red . . . almost puce, in fact.
‘She’s beautiful,’ I say to Diane as I gaze down at the little red face and button nose. ‘Absolutely gorgeous.’
‘Yes,’ replies the proud mother with a self-satisfied smirk.
‘Do you know, I’m almost feeling clucky.’ I rock the bundle within my arms and it mews appreciatively. ‘What is it about babies that does it to you?’
‘I don’t know.’ Diane leans over and gazes adoringly at her daughter. ‘But it’s not too late, you know. You can always have another one.’
‘Immaculate conception is so last century,’ I comment. ‘Besides, it is too late. Between Ben and CJ, I would have loved another child or maybe even two, but now – no.’
‘Yeah,’ says Diane, looking at me sympathetically. ‘Life’s like that, I suppose.’
‘Besides,’ I add thoughtfully, ‘I don’t think I could go through all those night feeds and nappies again. I’m too into me now.’
‘Well, I’ll lend you a baby whenever you feel clucky and you can get over it that way, how’s that?’ asks Diane as the baby within my arms begins to whimper. ‘Then again, I don’t think she likes that idea.’
‘It’s all right, it’s all right,’ I whisper in a singsong voice, and the baby gradually stops her crying and settles in for another sleep without even opening her eyes. ‘Look, Diane! I did it! She’s asleep!’
‘That’s Robin,’ Diane whispers back as she touches her daughter’s rubescent face gently with one finger.
‘Robin? Actually, I like that. Where did you get it from?’
‘Well, David was singing her that song – you know, the one about the red robin and the bopping along. So I asked him why he was singing that. Because he’d never sung it to the boys, you see. And he said it was because she had such a red face, which she sort of does, and then we both just looked at each other and said, “Robin! That’s it!” So now she’s Robin.’
‘Well, I like it.’ I look down at Robin who, although seriously cute, does have an extremely red face. I hope she outgrows it.
‘Yes, it really suits her.’
‘What about the other one? Has she got a name too?’
‘Yep, she’s Regan.’
‘I like that, too . . . but wasn’t Regan the possessed girl in The Exorcist? The one who was really a demon and whose head swivelled around and had green vomit and all that?’
‘Could be.’ Diane has a rather sheepish look on her face.
‘Don’t tell me you actually named her after her!’
‘Okay.’
We sit in silence for a few minutes.
‘All right, do tell me then.’
‘Well, it isn’t really like we named her after her. It’s more that we named Robin and were trying to think of another girl’s name that went with Robin. And that’s when the baby, who was in Evan’s lap, suddenly sort of twisted her head straight around and vomited right down his jeans. And one of the boys said that that was exactly like in the The Exorcist, and another one, I think it was Michael, said okay, let’s call her Regan! And they all laughed because they thought they’d made a joke, but David just grinned at me because, well, she is a Regan – just look at her!’
I obediently lean over, trying not to disturb Robin while I peer at her sleeping sister. Well, one thing is for sure, Regan has a much better colour. Whereas her sister’s skin is a ruddy red, Regan’s is that uniform pale pink shade found on particularly beautiful roses. While I am gazing at her, suddenly the baby’s slate-grey eyes flick open and she stares levelly back at me for a few seconds with absolutely no change at all in her facial expression. Then she closes her eyes again just as abruptly and goes back to sleep – I think. I keep looking at her for a few moments in surprise because that was really weird, and a trifle unsettling, then I turn back to Diane, who is still smiling at me but in a more questioning way.
‘Well, yes,’ I say rather shakily, ‘she is a Regan, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, she is. And it’s really got nothing to do with the damn exorcist, has it?’
In a pig’s ear, it hasn’t. Because what has shaken me is not that I think this child is heading straight for possession in a demonic sense, but that I recognised something when she opened those gimlet eyes and gazed straight at me. Something that has followed me all the days of my life, that can strike unerringly straight to my soul, and which I have never found the inner strength, the courage, or the fortitude to stand up to. Something I last ran into only half an hour ago in the hospital car park. Little Regan, young as she is, already has the distinct, unmistakable look of my mother. And that’s why Regan is such an appropriate name, because my mother knows all about possession, and she is very, very good at it.
I look at Diane to see whether she has noticed the uncanny resemblance, but she is now gazing lovingly at both her daughters in turn. Ah, love is blind. Well, I daren’t tell her. Why sully her happiness? But on the other hand, all sullying aside, surely she’s noticed?
‘So. Diane. Who do you think they take after?’
‘Oh, really!’ she replies dismissively. ‘I thought you of all people wouldn’t ask such a silly question. I mean, they’re only tiny babies, they don’t look like anyone yet.’
‘Sure they do. Just look at Robin – she looks exactly like a tomato I’ve got at home.’
‘Ha bloody ha. Don’t listen to your aunt, darling, she’s a bitch.’
‘So, what about Regan?’
‘What about Regan?’ Diane looks at me narrowly.
‘Oh, nothing . . . except – do you think she looks like anyone?’
‘No. I. Don’t.’
‘Oh.’ I look at Diane curiously, and she looks implacably back. Well, that’s it. Proof positive that she knows. And now she knows that I know. And she knows that I know that she knows that I know. And so on. But perhaps it might not be as bad as it seems. After all, knowledge is power and this could actually end the age-old debate of nature vs nurture. With care and a good upbringing, and twenty-four hour surveillance, and perhaps a bit of therapy, Regan need not necessarily be doomed to being my mother reborn, but could be bigger, better . . . and more noticeably human.
‘Have you got everything for CJ’s party?’
‘Yes, even the cake.’ I recognise a change of subject when I see it so I decide to play along. I also shift Robin gently over to my other side. For such a little thing she is definitely a dead weight.
‘Tell her happy birthday and give her my love.’
‘I’ll do more than that, I’ll bring her in tomorrow. Actually, I’ll bring them all in. They’re dying to see the girls.’
‘That’ll be nice.’
‘And I’ll bring some presents. I haven’t had time to get anything yet. Do you need anything in particular?’
‘No, not really. I think we’ve covered everything so why not an outfit each? That way you can have some fun choosing. You should see what they have available for babies now!’
‘Okay, that sounds good. We’ll do that. Listen, when do you get out? Seeing as the babies were such healthy weights.’
‘Well, we’re being monitored but, if everything goes smoothly, we should be home by Saturday
at the latest. And I know what you’re thinking. I’ve already had it from Mum. Yes, we’ll be at the wedding – wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
‘Great! Safety in numbers and all that.’ I shift Robin around again but this time she scrunches up her little red face and starts to mew plaintively. ‘Oh! What have I done?’
‘Nothing. It’s about time for their feed, that’s all.’
‘In that case, perhaps I’ll leave you with it.’
‘You can stay, you know. I’ll be discreet if it bothers you.’
‘As if I care!’ I say airily, but the truth is that even the sight of my own breasts has done nothing for me for a number of years. ‘However, I do have a ton of things to get done for the party so I’d better get going.’
‘Well, okay, if you must.’ Diane reaches over to take the still mewling Robin from my arms. I pass the baby over and then do some quick arm exercises to get the circulation back. I am way out of practice in this.
‘But I’ll be in again tomorrow. I’ll bring the kids.’
‘I’ll look forward to it.’ Diane has already shrugged down her dressing-gown and begun to unbutton the floral nightie beneath. ‘Here you are, sweetheart.’
Sweetheart latches on and begins to suckle noiselessly. At that moment Regan also wakes and begins to emit an undulating, keening sound totally different from her sister’s squawks. My gaze is unwillingly drawn over to her crib and I shake my head in wonder. She really, really does look like a little version of my mother. All she needs now is a blue rinse put through that abundant head of hair and an array of crocheted twin-sets to alternate throughout the week. They even have about the same number of wrinkles. As if she senses my undivided attention, Regan reopens her slate eyes and raises the crescendo of her cries while she clenches and unclenches her tiny fists in growing fury. I look over at Diane, who is beginning to look somewhat harassed. I am about to open my mouth and volunteer to do something with Regan when a casually dressed nurse bustles in, sweeps the wailing child up with one arm and delivers her neatly to her mother’s bosom.
‘There you are, Diane. Can you manage them both now or do you need some help attaching?’
‘I think I need some help,’ Diane mumbles as she tries to adjust her armful of babies. Robin’s little rosebud mouth promptly plops off her chosen nipple and after a few seconds suckling at the air, she begins her mewling again. Regan hasn’t even stopped hers. The nurse begins to competently arrange babies, one to each breast, before opening Robin’s mouth with a finger placed firmly on either side and plunging her face straight down onto a nipple. Diane flinches and I watch in absolute fascination. But when it is Regan’s turn I decide that I can live without the image of my favourite sister breastfeeding a miniature version of our mother – some things really are above and beyond the call.
TUESDAY
5.00 pm
‘. . . Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you!
Happy birthday, dear CJ! Happy birthday to you!’
With the encouragement of twelve of her peers clapping out of sync, CJ leans forwards and spits liberally over the beautiful pink fairy-doll with the silver wand (I don’t actually blame her, it’s what I’ve felt like doing ever since I saw it). She succeeds in drowning just four of the candles so she draws in a deep breath and has another go. This time she manages to extinguish not only the candles, but also any chance her father had of filming her. He pulls his sleeve down over his hand and uses it to wipe the lens of the video camera. It’s not my video camera, which can’t be found at present, but the one he brought himself.
‘I think I’ll pass on the birthday cake.’ He grins at me ruefully. I smile tightly back and, kicking some balloons out of the way, head into the kitchen to fetch a knife and some paper plates. It’s too damn hot for this – so much for the mid-afternoon cool change I was promised. Although, thankfully, I must admit that so far I cannot fault Keith’s behaviour. He has single-handedly organised both pin the tail on the donkey and musical chairs with the minimum of damage to my property, and has even volunteered to supervise pass the parcel straight after the Cutting Of The Cake.
I elbow my way back through the throng of pink fairies crowded eagerly around the table and put down the plates near the cake. I notice that the rest of the party food has just about disappeared. All that is left are a few puddles of congealing tomato sauce, a couple of smashed meringues and the dried-out crusts from fifty-odd triangles of fairy bread. Oh, and the healthy platter that is laden with unsullied carrot sticks, celery and sultanas. All of which are quickly wilting in the heat – like me. These aren’t fairies, they’re sugar-craving winged parasites. But the natives are getting restless so I pass the knife reluctantly to my daughter.
‘Here you go, CJ, but be very careful.’
‘If you touch the bottom you have to kiss the nearest boy, CJ!’
‘Yeah, you do! You do!’
‘I don’t care. I’ll kiss my Daddy.’ With that CJ slices neatly through the soggy pink fairy cake and deliberately thuds the knife audibly onto the plate beneath. I take over the cake cutting as she throws herself on her father with abandon and kisses him soundly on the cheek. I pass paper plates of cake out to each of the party guests and usher them firmly outside onto the verandah to eat. I took the precaution of chaining Murphy way down at the end of the yard so that there’d be little chance he could rob any unwitting fairy of her innocence. But I must say, little girl parties are much easier than little boy parties. Hardly any rough stuff, no breakages (of possessions or bones) and, generally speaking, they do what they are told.
Keith stands at the sliding door and aims his video camera at the children while they eat, chat and merrily fling their food around the yard. I watch him surreptitiously. He is dressed rather formally in a pair of black slacks and grey short-sleeved shirt (by comparison I look positively casual in a pair of jeans and natural cotton sleeveless vest – my lemon shift has been relegated to the back of the wardrobe) and he actually looks rather good. Keith has always been a compulsive exerciser, and the dividends are certainly paying off. Even at forty-seven, he still carries not one ounce of extra fat on his rather stocky, muscular frame. His hair, which has always been a dullish black, has developed wings of steel grey over each ear which give him a rather distinguished look, especially as he has recently grown a well-manicured beard to match. I used to think of him as my pocket dynamo, not simply because of his shortish stature but because of his eyes, which are deep-set, dark and passionate. I remember that there was once a time when I would melt under the full force of his fervent gaze. Now I just think that he looks like a rather intense Ned Kelly, except that his beard is more trimmed. He turns and catches me looking at him so I quickly break eye contact and head back to the kitchen.
I suppose you could say that he is ageing gracefully. Physically, at least. It’s probably because he has given up drinking to excess at every opportunity – I believe that can make a world of difference. I know that it could have made the world of difference to our marriage, anyway. Most of the arguments and fights and casual abuse happened while he was either drunk, well on the way to being drunk, or recovering from being drunk. Like, I can remember one memorable occasion when, after consuming the better part of a bottle of scotch, he suddenly decided to take a then ten-week-old CJ on a drive to visit his parents. I tried reasoning, and then screaming, and then nonstop ranting and raving, but there was nothing I could do short of having a tug-of-war with him over the baby. He marched determinedly out to the car and strapped her into the capsule with me shrieking at him like a fishwife. It might sound all very undignified but dignity counts for next to nothing in situations like these. All the rules and regulations that we are taught with which to govern our behaviour towards others are useless when the person you are dealing with cannot be reasoned with. Because behaving in a civilised manner holds an assumption of mutual reasonableness. And if this assumption is not met, the rules simply do not work.
In desperation, I clam
bered into the back seat next to CJ and wrapped my arms around the capsule. Keith tried pushing me, pulling me and dragging me out but, because of the awkward positioning, couldn’t make me budge. After a stand-off that lasted for almost an hour, he stormed inside the house and I waited for a while before shakily unstrapping the baby, taking her inside and tucking her securely back in her cot. Keith was stretched out across our bed snoring loudly, Benjamin and Sam were stretched out across their beds crying softly . . . and the neighbours just kept themselves to themselves.
I shake myself out of my reverie and load some dishes into the sink. Sometimes I have to remind myself that it really is over. I can hear the fairies flitting back inside for their game of pass the parcel, so I start to collect armfuls of discarded wrapping paper and shove it into an empty garbage bag. I grab a pen and scribble what I can remember of who gave what on the appropriate card, and then stack them neatly on the table. Under ordinary circumstances, I would be out in the lounge-room listening to the children squeal each time the music stopped, helping them fling shredded newspaper over their shoulders, and ensuring that each child got at least one chance of unwrapping a sheet. But with Keith out there, I simply don’t feel like it. I don’t want to play happy families. He is here because CJ wanted it so much, but I don’t need to make it out to be more than it is – for her sake as well as my own.
The squeals increase in pitch as the hidden prize comes closer. Finally, the music stops for the last time, the squeals reach a level that the uninitiated would think impossible, and the last sheet of newspaper is flung skyward. By this time I have edged out from the kitchen and am standing in the doorway watching with a smile on my face.
‘Caitlin! You got it!’
‘Caitlin! What is it?’
‘Just a minute.’ Caitlin tears the wrapping off the gift and holds up a colourful bubble-making kit for inspection.
‘Oh! Caitlin!’
‘C’n we play with it now?’
‘I’ve got one of those at home.’
