Go to Sleep

by Helen Walsh

  I buy the ready-prepared formula and a brand-new feeding bottle, excuses at the ready. But no questions are asked; of course no questions are asked. All the way back my heart flaps with the deviant thrill of what I’m about to do. I exit the lift and head back to the washroom.

  ‘Bet you never thought he’d be this dark, did you?’ It’s the sleeping beauty from our ward – the black princess. She looks different. She’s dressed from top to toe in black. And even though there’s no one else around, it still takes me a moment to register that it’s me she’s talking to. She laughs wildly now. ‘You lot!’ she gasps. ‘You’re all the same.’

  I’m thrown – completely stumped. I barely murmur a response.

  ‘My lot?’

  ‘All of you . . .’ She comes closer, her eyes all mad and wide, wide open. All I can see is menacing white eyeballs as she looks me up and down. ‘Women like you – you don’t know how fucking racist you are until you’re holding your babies and you’re not feeling what you should be feeling.’ I back away from her. Joe begins to shuffle in his lair. The princess follows me, calmly enunciating every dire syllable. ‘You’re not feeling it, are you? He don’t look nothing like you and you can’t bond with him cos of that.’ I close my eyes and shake my head, wishing her gone, now. But I feel her breath on my face as she strikes her killer blow. ‘Your kid feels like an alien to you, don’t he?’

  ‘You bitch!’

  Crazed, incensed, I lash out at her. My fist connects with the wall, snaps me to. There’s nobody there.

  I rush to Joe, sweep him up close to my bosom, cover his little face with kisses. For a second it seems as though he smiles at me. I kiss him again and this time make a den for him on the foam changing mat, the towel again swaddling him. I sterilise the bottle under the hot tap, scalding the tips of my fingers, and I empty the carton in, unsure how much a new baby might need. I pick Joe up, hold him in the crook of my arm and edge the fake nipple towards his mouth. Part of me is willing him to turn his nose up at it, to reject it in the same way he rejects me; but he takes to it instantly, guzzles greedily and gratefully, slaking the whole dose in minutes. My breasts, solid as stone, well up in jealous torment; they leak runny tears all the way down my stomach.

  Joe is out for the count. I bury the feed bottle deep among the wet paper towels and shuffle him back to the ward. When I release him from the warmth and softness of my arms to his cool, stiff cot, he does not stir. I lie on the bed for a while, studying him through the visor. You’re your daddy’s boy, all right. Beautiful. Trouble. If only you’d sleep. If you’d only sleep, I could love you well.

  * * *

  I turn away, slip down beneath the bedcovers, limp with guilt and exhaustion, but unable to chase away the spectre of my tormentor.

  He don’t look nothing like you.

  Her words drill through me again, clipping at distant misgivings. I should have told Ruben. One day I shall.

  17

  If this were a movie I, sweat still cooling from the raging and purgative sex I have just enjoyed, would already be anxiously awaiting a sign from Ruben, some indication that we’ll be doing this again, soon – and that he wants this as much as I do. If this were a movie there’d be an awkward silence as I hope he’ll ask for my number. But this is no movie. This is Ruben and me and, with that needle-sharp intuition we always had, however briefly, we both know the moment we’re done that this was a vital and necessary purge; this was closure.

  We had barely got through the huge front door of his block before we were dragging and clawing at each other’s clothes. So furious was our need that when he ripped the condom out of its foil, both of us urgently, clumsily rolling it down over his twitching dick, I knew I’d nicked it with my nail getting it on him. But he was in me, lifting me up with two giant hands and pushing me against the wall and I knew there was no way we’d stop.

  So now, afterwards, rather than any will-he, won’t-he moment, it was more a case of recognising the least abrupt moment to make my departure. I kissed him on the lips and turned to make my way out.

  ‘Hey.’

  For the second time in my life I was on the staircase as Ruben summoned me back to take his number. This time I was heading down, not up. This time he wasn’t sure at all as he stood there, acting nonchalant, hoping I’d come back. I wasn’t sure, either. I smiled and took two steps back towards him, stopping short and stretching out to take the scrap of paper. We both had smiles that said ‘maybe we will, maybe we won’t’ and we giggled at the awkwardness of it as I paused, then plunged back down to the big porch door.

  It felt fantastic, walking out into that bitterly cold winter night. I was radiant. The best sex I had ever known; that I would ever know.

  18

  My world, my universe, my every chance of any kind of fruitful future with my sleepless son now depends upon the word of the audiologist, and I can’t decide what I want him to say. If there’s even a minor problem with Joe’s hearing, then it explains everything – and where there are explanations, solutions lie too. But any complications with him, and who knows how long Joe and I might be staying? I can’t stand it any more. I have to get us out of here.

  So I’m lying back, doing my level best to give off a sense of calm, of responsibility – a woman in possession of the facts about her ailing baby and perfectly ready to face up to the challenge. I shall not shrink away from my duties; I shall thrive as Single Mum, Up Against It! I try to read the body language of the various medics huddled around Joe’s cot, discussing him without involving me – but they’re giving nothing away. He could have a sniffle or a terminal disease for all that they seem to care. They just stand there, nodding, nodding, nodding. I want to scream.

  The audiologist doesn’t even stay long enough to deliver his verdict. A midwife sits me up, pats me down and hits me with three pieces of information. I have a perfect, healthy son. There is no illness or malfunction to correct or cure because this is just what they do, babies like Joe. They cry. The third thing she tells me is that I can leave just as soon as anyone can get here to pick me up.

  So, I can go. Simple as that. I thought there’d be more to it, it really is as simple as phoning your dad for a lift home. I’m overjoyed to be getting out but fearful, too. I dress quickly, and like all those women I once pitied in the changing rooms, I negotiate the ritual in such a way as to shield my body from its own shell-shocked gaze. At least it’s a small consolation that there isn’t someone waiting for me back at home, to scrutinise me and offer sentiments of encouragement.

  You’ll soon get your figure back!

  No, my body belongs to one man only now. And oh, how needy he is.

  Jan and Dad come to collect me, all smiles. He straps Joe into the miniature car seat he’s bought – basically, a padded bucket – and goes to carry him away, Jan cooing down at Joe. They hold hands and twinkle at one another, completely excluding me from the happy ensemble. I tap Dad on the shoulder and he grins apologetically. He passes the baby seat to me.

  ‘Let me film this. Let me film my two babies stepping out together into the big, wide world for the first time.’

  A sudden stab of memory. The camera. Where is it? I haven’t seen it since Dad brought it in; and then it hits me. James. He was here.

  Jan misinterprets my hesitation as vanity.

  ‘You’re supposed to look like you’ve done battle, darling! Those women who walk out in their size zero jeans and their faces intact, they look ridiculous.’

  Yeah, and you’d know, with your cheekbones and your boy’s bum. Bet you’ve had your boobs done too, you vain . . . Dad seems to read my thoughts. He shoots me a pleading look.

  ‘Come on, Rache. Jan’s right.’

  He’s willing me to let them in – to let her have a role in all this. I’m trying. I’m trying . . .

  ‘I couldn’t care less about how I look,’ I smile. ‘It’s just that I’ve packed all Joe’s nappies around the camera so it’s protected.’

  Dad buys
this and smiles. Jan shoots me a look, unsure.

  As I make my final journey down the ward there’s none of the usual bonhomie from the other women, none of the ‘Good luck girl! Keep in touch!’ No matter how insincere the platitude, I ache for someone to wish me well. But no, a collective silence descends over the room, burst the second I turn the corner by a gabble of excitable whispering. They’re all glad to see the back of me. Of us. They don’t even wait until I’m out of earshot. Long live the Sisterhood.

  Outside, the sky is wild. But any fledgling sense of liberation is quelled at seed as the cold air slaps Joe awake. He prises his eyes open, gives me a wonky look – and screams and screams and screams. I’m opening and shutting my mouth, but nothing comes out. I can picture precisely how I must look – deranged, bewildered; not coping. Jan comes around the front of the car, takes Joe from my arms and starts laughing – genuine peals of amusement.

  ‘Look at you! Look at this angry little man! My, my.’ She ducks her head down to him. ‘So you think you’re in charge, do you? Well, let me tell you something mister. You’re not!’

  And he stops. He just stops and stares at her and I’m numb, now. I’ll take the silence, thanks; I’m not even jealous.

  We cut down Kingsley Road, and the speed bumps – even with Dad’s careful negotiation of them – deliver a little kick to my womb, a phantom limb lashing out. Joe seems already to have sussed on some primal level that my promise of care and constancy pledged at birth is already out of reach. And then, out of nothing, he starts smiling with his eyes as we navigate the roundabout at Prince’s Park. His mouth makes a tiny ‘O’ and, for the first time, it feels like we’re on the same side. Joe’s history is scattered all over that park, and he knows it.

  *

  I don’t know what to feel, as my front door beckons. Terror, mainly. All I know is that, whether they stay an hour, two hours or whether the pair of them insist on staying the night, no matter what token gestures or offers of help I receive, I’ll be doing this alone. Sooner or later, they’ll be closing that door behind them as they walk away and leave me to it – and it fucking scares me, now. How am I going to do this? How will I stop Joe crying? When will I get some sleep?

  Dad parks as close to my doorstep as possible. I take a deep breath. Just say it, Rachel. Say it! It’s what they want, isn’t it? They want to be a part of all this. I draw myself up as though I’m about to start breathing through labour all over again.

  ‘I was . . . I was wondering . . . if maybe you could come over a couple of days in the next week or so? Just take Joe off my hands for a few hours while I catch up on a few things.’

  Sleep. Catch up on sleep. Why can’t I just own up to it? Please – take the baby so I can get some fucking sleep! Jan gives Dad the briefest of furtive glances. Dad winces, looks out of his window. Jan gives a weary sigh and hits me with it.

  ‘Look. Your dad didn’t want to mention anything while you were . . . until after the birth.’

  ‘Mention what?’

  Her eyes plead with Dad to help her out here. ‘Just . . . something came up, Rachel,’ she says. And without so much as skipping a beat she segues right into it. ‘I’ve been given this unbelievable research opportunity. In Malawi. I was . . . I was kind of hoping that your dad might join me . . . for a couple of weeks. We haven’t been away together in so long.’

  Ha! It all makes sense now! The video camera. Record every beat. Yeah, right, Dad – record every beat you won’t be here to see. Well fine. Do what the fuck you want.

  ‘Well, hang on, Jan . . .’ He places a hand on her thigh and cranes his head round to me. I can see the sides of his slightly-bulging eyeballs. ‘You come first, Rache. You and Junior. If you want me to stay back, I’m here.’

  Could he have phrased it any more strategically? The burden of guilt now squarely on my shoulders, it’s down to me to respond in kind; to be a big girl, in every sense.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Dad. We’ll be fine. To be honest, I’m looking forward to it just being me and Joe. I need to get to know the little tiger. And there’s Faye chomping at the bit to steal a few hours with him.’ Jan nods, a little too enthusiastically. I force a radiant smile. ‘Go! I insist.’

  I lean across and begin trying to release Joe’s chair from its safety belts, biting down the bitter sting of betrayal.

  Dad hits me with a daft wink.

  ‘Well, let’s see. It’s not till next week – and you do seem to be coping bloody well, I must say! Isn’t she, Jan?’ Jan nods her head just that little bit too enthusiastically. ‘Is my little girl just bloody amazing, or what?’

  I want to kill them both. I press myself backwards, deep into my seat, stealing this last moment before I launch myself out of the cocoon of the car and into real life. I touch my stomach, and the slack emptiness brings about a weird grief for the puckish little companion who has kicked and punched inside me for all those weeks and months. He’s sitting right here next to me, his minuscule little fingers furling and unfurling, frowning up at me, his disappointing mother, and it’s so hard for me to comprehend this – that that’s him, right there. Right here. That’s the baby I sang to and read to and made plans with for the future. But what future? This isn’t how it’s meant to be. The stone in my guts sinks deeper, darker, dragging me down. It’s doomed. The whole thing is doomed. And it’s all I deserve.

  19

  As last Christmas approached, it would drift in and out of my thoughts: what if? But in the build-up to the holiday and all the attendant headaches of work, I managed to push the ‘P’ question out to the furthest recesses of my mind. On 23 December I laid hands on a cheque for precisely one hundred pounds from the C&R Foundation, a locally-based charitable foundation for kids, and I whisked James Mac off to town to buy him the new clobber without which he felt unable to attend The Gordon’s Christmas party. It felt good, seeing him that happy. I felt good. I went home, poured myself a big fat glass of red and settled down to It’s A Wonderful Life.

  I’d vaguely told myself I’d make sure, for sure, in the New Year. There was nothing one couldn’t put off until the New Year, and things generally worked themselves out, once Christmas was out of the way. And although my period was late, that wasn’t completely unusual (indeed I went almost the entire first year of sixth form without coming on at all). It was only when the morning sickness started halfway through January that I knew, and at that point I really did know. You just do. I didn’t even bother investing the small fortune on a testing kit to confirm it – there was no doubt whatsoever in my mind, or in my womb. And then of course, after the scare, after it was properly confirmed, I was delighted beyond belief. For the next six weeks I was walking on air, unable to think about anything but my baby. And it just seemed obvious, it seemed right that I didn’t tell Ruben. Not yet, anyway. We’d both made it clear enough that our shag had been just that – cathartic and good and, absolutely, a means to an End. There were no losers; we both walked away fulfilled. I was pretty sure Ruben had no immediate ambitions to be a daddy. As we walked along Hope Street that night back towards his flat, he had told me he was waiting on the result of an interview with a Michelin-starred kitchen down south. And whether he got the job or not, I was disinclined to put his Dad potential to the test by just jumping him with news of impending parenthood. And in truth, those first few weeks of what transpired to be my pregnancy I was more engrossed with a martyred sense of injury at my own dad – hurt and confused by his villainy in intercepting and destroying Ruben’s letters. I’d tackle him about that; but I’d choose my moment.

  As for Ruben himself, I had no clear direction, either moral or altruistic, as to how or when – or if – I’d let him in on the secret. I’d write to him, probably; further down the line, when there was a reliable timetable ahead. In cool, grown-up terms I would inform Ruben that he was to be a father; that I neither hoped for, nor expected anything from him but that if he wanted a role in his child’s upbringing then naturally I – we – would welcome
his involvement. What I would not say is that I – we – would be over the moon if it turned out that this was what he wanted, too.

  The near-miscarriage hit that plan for six. I know I should have told him. I know I have done wrong, here. But I know, too, that Ruben doesn’t want this baby. He doesn’t want to be Joe’s Daddy. I know that.

  20

  Our first night home together. How many months have I ached for this moment? How many times have I played out the beats of this scene in my head: feeding my tiny sidekick to sleep, feeling the helpless suck of his gulps as he drifts away, safe, happy, careless to the world outside. And I would sit and watch him, long, long after he fell into slumber, and stroke his gentle head and kiss his apple-fat cheeks.

  It is nothing like that. I cannot dredge the dread from my soul. I’m not even sad – I am nothing; flat, flattened as I haul myself from the bed and set Joe down in his new crib. As I tiptoe away, wincing as the loose floorboard creaks, cursing myself, cursing everything, strange fragments of ideas gather in the crevasses of my mind. I can’t recognise myself as the thinker of these thoughts, and stub them out before they take form. I cling to the delusion that in time, with sleep, it will come – that gut-tingling star blaze of emotion we’re supposed to feel. For now, I’ll just have to do the best I can. As long as he’s fed and warm and safe, I’m not failing my baby; not yet.

  In our dinky hallway, I notice for the first time the handful of congratulations cards lining the console table. Dad and Jan must have put them up, along with the flowers, already past their best, their greasy stink spreading a message of gloom throughout the flat. I glance at the cards, most of them from women I barely know – Dad’s colleagues, neighbours who saw me being carried out to the ambulance. There’s one from Faye too, more of a plea to meet my new man. She’s saying she came to the hospital twice but each time I was flat out and she didn’t want to wake me. How? When? Did I sleep then? Most of the cards strike a similar note – a little in-joke, a toast raised in sympathy as much as in celebration, now that I’m safely on their side, inaugurated into the cosy fold of the cheerful doomed. I switch the kettle on, make a brew, keep busy, try not to dwell.