Small Blessings

by Emily Brewin

  A flash of panic shoots through her and she fights the urge to lash out. If he thinks she’s going to wile days away playing nurse, he’s got another thing coming. The specialist said stress would hinder their chances of falling pregnant.

  The skin on the back of her neck prickles. ‘Why don’t you and Mateo move in?’

  Marcus snorts from the kitchen while Lachlan stares open-mouthed at her. ‘You know Mateo can’t stand the weather in Melbourne.’

  She exhales loudly.

  ‘Plus, I have a career to think of.’

  Marcus sets a red tray with three steaming mugs on the glass-topped coffee table between them. ‘He’s got a point.’

  She turns on him. ‘Excuse me?’

  He sinks back into the vinyl chair and reaches for a mug. ‘It’ll give you an excuse to get out of the house.’

  Lachlan sucks in his cheeks.

  She can’t believe Marcus is taking his side. She glares at him.

  Marcus sips his tea and says nothing.

  A groan floats down the hallway, making them start.

  Isobel pictures her father helping her mother down a small cup of morphine and suddenly the flimsy walls separating them aren’t nearly enough. It fills her with fury.

  ‘I am not going to risk our chances,’ she continues, louder this time.

  Marcus puts his tea down and adjusts his shirt collar. ‘Our chances,’ he says slowly, ‘are slim.’

  Lachlan actually squirms in his seat. But she doesn’t care.

  ‘That’s not what they told me.’

  Marcus doesn’t answer but stares straight ahead.

  The room, with its doilies and dusty old furniture, binds her up. She glances at Lachlan. He holds his hands up in resignation.

  There’s another groan followed by a murmur before her father walks into the room again. He looks older than before. His shoulders stoop and his big workman’s hands hang heavily at his sides. He considers them with an air of despondency.

  On top of Marcus’s accusations and Lachlan’s silence, the sight of him is too much.

  ‘Go and see her,’ her father commands. ‘It’s the least you can bloody well do.’

  She and Lachlan get up obediently, as if he’s ordered them to eat the tucker their mother’s cooked—with a bit of respect.

  Her mother dozes, the shape of a crescent moon beneath the sheets. The bedroom has barely changed since Isobel left home decades before. The same lace curtains flutter at the window and the mother-of-pearl brush sits neatly on the dresser as always.

  She recalls the soft push of it through her hair and her mother’s presence on the seat behind her. She has an urge to pick the brush up, to hold it to her nose, but of course she doesn’t.

  ‘Night, Ma.’ Lachlan kisses her gently on the temple before leaving again.

  Isobel could follow but she’s fixed to the spot, each halting breath from her mother stitching her neatly to the ground beside the bed. There’s a lingering silence before Marcus’s voice floats down the hall, asking Lachlan about his latest production. Another breath then her mother’s eyes flutter open. Like her skin they are beginning to yellow. She reaches out from beneath the sheets to take Isobel’s hand.

  ‘Look at you, love,’ she says so that the past rushes into the room.

  Isobel is five, eight, twelve and all the years in between. Her mother is singing while she scrubs the kitchen sink with vinegar, a bright blue scarf keeping her curls in check, her bottom wriggling to ‘Jailhouse Rock’ or ‘I Can’t Stop Loving You’ or whatever song is spinning on the record player.

  Isobel imitates her, shakes her narrow hips and rolls her shoulders to the beat. Sun shines in the kitchen window, lighting the room like a stage. She moves through it, with a hop and a skip, so that her mother stops scrubbing and takes her hand. They are dancing. Waving their arms wildly, twisting and turning and jiggling, her mother holding her tight so there’s no chance she’ll fall.

  ‘Look at you, love,’ she calls out in laughter. ‘Look at you.’

  And for a moment it’s as if the sun streaming through the window is shining just for Isobel.

  Rosie

  HIS NEW THING is matchstick creatures. He’s made one hundred and fifteen of them, or so he tells her, and wants to reach a thousand. They lurk in the corners of their flat and dangle from light shades, half animal, half something from deep inside his imagination. They’re bent into awkward poses and have paper claws and sharp little teeth.

  They remind her a bit of the Chinese carving Maureen bought from the Asian grocery store for her when she was a kid. It was a tiny wooden palace surrounded by trees, inside a glass box. At night she imagined shrinking so she could climb inside and make it a home, away from Vera and the big hairy blokes she brought back from the pub.

  Cup of tea in hand, she watches Petey carefully constructing his creatures and is knocked for six with love for him. It’s like being hit, not socked, but hard enough to remind her how lucky she is. She takes the time to enjoy the way the light cuts through their grimy lounge room window, brightening the soft baby curves of his face that are already sharpening. It gives her a high, watching his clever fingers assemble the matchstick creations.

  She has to stop herself from pushing back the chair, scooping him up and breathing him in, as if he were part of her again. She remembers what it was like, his soft kicking inside her.

  At the refuge, she rocked in bed at night to soothe him, imagined him bobbing like a fish in the ocean until Bea told her to stop her ‘infernal moving’. It made the bloody mattress squeak.

  She still rocks him sometimes if he’s frightened or tired, or when things get too much. It happens less often these days, the world overwhelming him. He’s coping better as he gets older, and it eases the guilt a bit, of him being this way.

  Labour was even worse than the others said it would be. They loved scaring her with stories of contractions that ripped your guts out and births that left you with stitches from your arse end to nowhere. Shelley, a baggy woman with bad regrowth, said she had to wear ice-filled condoms in her undies for six months after her first kid.

  ‘The first’s the hardest,’ she grinned over dinner one night. ‘Like shitting a watermelon.’

  Rosie shoved another forkful of shepherd’s pie into her mouth to show it didn’t bother her. She wasn’t going to let anyone ruin the moment. She was content for the first time in as long as she could remember.

  Her body was hers again, and this time it had secrets, like the faint brown track that ran from her tits to her belly button. A linea nigra, the nurse said. She liked the sound of it.

  It was hers again and it felt stronger than before, as if invisible scar tissue had hardened over her wounds. Her body healed. The bruises faded and the red pinpricks up her arm got less angry. Her face fleshed out and her hair grew back thick and wiry, so Bea cut it into a semi-mullet. Rosie didn’t care.

  ‘Tell me when it’s moving,’ Bea squawked at her half-a-dozen times a day. ‘I want to feel.’

  ‘Now.’ She gave in every now and then, cringing inwardly at the touch of someone else’s hands on her body.

  Then, in a burst of fire that started as a slow burn, he arrived.

  ‘They’ll give ya drugs at the hospital,’ Shelley persisted. ‘Ask for the epidural. It’s the best. You don’t feel a flamin’ thing.’

  Rosie closed her eyes and breathed. There was no point telling the others she wanted to feel everything, because for so long she’d felt nothing at all.

  They waved her off when the ambulance came, a ragged bunch of women and their squealing children.

  At the hospital, Bea was her birth partner. She told her to breathe.

  Rosie wanted to tell her to get stuffed. The birth suite was a streak of yellow and the nurses buzzed in the background as the pain came and went. She focused on it, welcomed it, and told herself it was as it should be.

  ‘Fuuuuuuuuuuck,’ she screamed when her muscles tensed to push.

 
; Bea held her hand.

  Everything burnt, from the tips of her fingers to her core, until she thought she might burst into flames. She pushed as hard as she could for what felt like forever, but it wasn’t enough.

  ‘Stop!’ one of the nurses yelled from below. ‘You have to stop, sweetheart.’

  Rosie glared down at her, red-faced and furious.

  ‘Heart rate’s dropped.’

  Then she was on her back, watching Bea run beside the trolley until big double doors slapped her away. In theatre there was beeping and shouting and faces darting all around. She tried to fight it but suddenly realised she wasn’t going to win this one. And the huff went out of her.

  ‘What about my baby?’

  ‘He needs to come out.’ A doctor in a mask appeared from the din.

  For a blind moment she imagined life without the child inside her and knew it was impossible. Every nerve in her body said to punch and kick and bite her way free. If she lost him, there’d be nothing.

  Suddenly she saw herself on that filthy warehouse floor again, Joel standing over her, telling her she’s useless with each ringing hit.

  Isobel

  ISOBEL WINDS THE DUSKY PINK SCARF around her neck and examines herself in the mirror. It’s the silk one Marcus bought her on their honeymoon in Venice, a soft cobwebby thing that does nothing to keep out the cold. Over the years it has stayed folded neatly in its elaborate gold cardboard box at the back of their walk-in, coming out only for special occasions like this one.

  ‘Hmm.’ She purses her lips in the mirror in a way that disguises the fine lines etched into her mouth and pins her hair into place. The scarf brightens the skin on her face. She should wear it more often. It’s time to make a move away from black, now she isn’t in the office.

  It’s hard to recall the last time she met Marcus at work, let alone surprised him. He’s always liked surprises, especially ones that involved beautiful underwear. Early on she took pleasure in the way he undressed her, urgently, with the delight of a child unwrapping a sweet. These days they wear cotton pyjamas to bed.

  She calls him from the street out the front of his office block. The phone rings for a while then goes to voicemail. ‘Hi. It’s me. I’m downstairs. Um …’ She hangs up, moving aside as an elderly woman hobbles past with a walking stick. The woman is bent like a coathanger and is much older than her mother. The realisation that her mother will never be this woman’s age hits her out of nowhere.

  She keeps materialising at moments least expected: while Isobel orders Buddha tea at the café on Brunswick Street or tries on espadrilles at her favourite shoe store on Flinders Lane. It’s like being ambushed. She clicks her tongue and calls Marcus again. This time there’s nothing.

  ‘Damn it.’ The silk scarf blows into her face and sticks annoyingly to her glossy lips as she steps into the rotating door.

  She takes the lift to the fifth floor and walks out into the office lobby. It’s been refurbished since last time and the glary metallic surfaces are offensive.

  ‘I’m here to see Marcus,’ she says to the new receptionist. ‘I’m his wife.’ The woman gestures to a seat, but Isobel decides to stand.

  Glancing down at herself, she wonders if the receptionist can tell. Her body runs a perfectly flat line from below her breasts to her feet. Usually she’s glad for it, the hard-won result of so many hours spent at the gym. But today it would be nice if it hinted at her secret, showed some sign that she and Marcus would be parents soon.

  She touches the scarf.

  ‘Isobel,’ Marcus announces her name as he would a business associate’s. For an awkward second, she thinks he might shake her hand.

  He glances at the scarf. ‘Is something wrong?’

  She waits for a kiss, for him to make some public display of their connection. He doesn’t.

  The receptionist observes them, with her sharp bob and black eyeliner.

  ‘They’ve redone the lobby.’ Isobel pats the too-white sofa.

  ‘Yeah,’ Marcus says, a little distracted. ‘Audra’s touch. Nice, don’t you think?’

  She raises an eyebrow. Audra, the Lithuanian drafter, had popped over to their house a few months ago to pick up some paperwork. She breezed down the hall into the house, all leg, making sweeping judgements on their choice of soft furnishings.

  ‘Audra used to be an interior designer,’ Marcus had said, standing at the young woman’s side. ‘She’s worked all over Europe.’

  Isobel had bit her tongue to stop herself from asking why Audra had decided to become a lowly drafter then, and offered her some Perrier with ice and lime instead.

  ‘They’re very … plush,’ Isobel says, taking her hand off the sofa. ‘Got a moment?’ The excitement she felt at approaching the building was slowly dissolving and the scarf was beginning to irritate. He hasn’t even mentioned it.

  Marcus glances back at the glass walls beyond the reception desk. Isobel can just make out the back of a woman’s head at his desk, chestnut-coloured hair that may or may not be familiar.

  Bernard flashes into mind, a whole segment of her life Marcus doesn’t know about. It amazes her how much and how little they know each other. And how easy it got to hide things over the years.

  She didn’t get the chance to tell Bernard about the abortion. He received a phone call from Malcolm and had to leave the Vietnamese restaurant in a hurry. She’s grateful now, with this new pregnancy confirmed. The past is the past, after all.

  ‘I’m in a meeting.’ Marcus adjusts a mustard-coloured tie she doesn’t recognise, then runs fingers through his hair. The sight of his wedding ring is reassuring.

  She takes a chance and reaches for his hand. ‘It’ll just take a moment.’

  ‘Let’s go downstairs then.’ He retrieves his hand and shoves it self-consciously in his pocket.

  ‘Tell her I’ll be back in a minute, Lena,’ he says to the receptionist as they walk to the lift.

  The pleasant flutter in her chest returns as they approach the ground floor. By the time they sit down on one of the lobby lounges she can barely contain it. This moment will be memorable, something they can draw out and re-examine together in years to come, like a treasure.

  Marcus checks his watch. ‘I’ve got to be back in five.’

  A group of men and women with briefcases stride past, chatting amongst themselves. It feels like an age since she was one of them. And for the first time, she doesn’t miss it.

  ‘I’m pregnant!’

  Marcus stops examining his watch.

  ‘The clinic called this morning. The implantation was successful.’

  His nostrils flare slightly as he stares at her.

  ‘I should notice the first signs soon. Morning sickness, tender breasts, that sort of thing.’ She laughs. She can’t help it. ‘I think I knew all along. Things have felt different.’ It’s hard to explain, the flighty excitement she gets high in her chest and the way the world appears sharper, finely focused, as if she’s seeing it anew.

  ‘The nurse recommended I take a pregnancy multivitamin. But I’ll talk to Will first.’

  His gaze falters.

  ‘My naturopath.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘The one on High Street.’

  He scratches his head, the warmth of his leg shifting as silence sets in.

  She frowns. ‘This is good news, Marcus.’

  He pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘I just wasn’t expecting it.’

  ‘I told you,’ she answers playfully, ‘that we’d be fine.’

  He looks at her again and this time she’s afraid of what she sees.

  ‘I’m glad you’re happy.’

  She waits for more, a smile perhaps or squeeze of her hand.

  He glances again at his watch. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised. You always get what you want.’

  She sucks her bottom lip. He’s shocked, that’s all. He’ll come around.

  ‘We got what we wanted,’ she corrects him.

  He nods slowly. ‘I’d better get back.’ He
stands up then adds, ‘Nice scarf,’ quietly as an afterthought, and she realises he doesn’t remember it at all.

  Rosie

  SHE SHUFFLES NOTES between her hands then counts coins carefully onto the bench one at a time. They feel slightly greasy and make a clang as they hit the counter.

  Petey watches from the kitchen table nearby where he’s eating a peanut butter sandwich with the crusts cut off. He nibbles around the edges so each triangle gets smaller and smaller. A gang of matchstick creatures sits gingerly on the edge of his plate, peering at his crumbs.

  She scribbles, adds up the numbers on the scrap of paper she keeps with the money and smiles at her son. ‘How’d you like to go on a holiday, mate?’

  Rain lashes at the kitchen window and it’s easy to imagine they’re all alone in their tower in the sky. The heater ticks satisfactorily and Robert Smith sings about love cats on the CD player. It’s Petey’s favourite and his head bobs to the music. He likes Britney Spears too but there’s only so much she can take.

  ‘Yeaaahhhhh!’ he shouts.

  She grins. Things are finally looking up. It won’t be long till TAFE’s done, and Skye’s hassling her to apply for uni. Rosie hasn’t told her she’s already looking but can do without the pressure.

  ‘You’ll get the marks, easy.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she’d mumbled, even though inside she’s abuzz.

  Maths and biology are all right but sometimes English is hard. It’s not black and white like the other subjects, the rules aren’t as clear. Sometimes she has to say what she thinks, out loud. When her classmates discuss A Passage to India she keeps quiet, not wanting to make a dick of herself when they’re all so sure. When Danny forces a comment from her the whole class stops to listen. Then she has to go to the toilets afterwards, until she stops sweating.

  She stuffs the notes and coins back into the big jar, enjoying the clatter. There’s enough for flights. And if Dulcy keeps giving her Sunday shifts, there’ll be enough for the rest of their trip too.

  Petey nods in time to the music. She can already imagine him in the ocean shallows, kicking water in her direction, turning brown in the sun. Sun. They’ll have to take sunscreen. She’ll grab some from work.