Broken Chords

by Carrie Elks

  “I think I might have caught Max's cold. My eyes have been watering all night.” It's a lie, of course, but there's no way I'm going to break down and admit everything in the middle of Rainbow Nursery. Even at my lowest, I have some standards.

  “Oh no, poor you.” She swings Max onto her hip, and miracle of miracles he doesn't start crying. He seems so much better than last night, which is good, because I feel ten times worse. “There's definitely something going round. Make sure you drink lots of fluids.”

  I'm five years older than Holly, but I find myself agreeing as if she's a kindly aunt. “I'll slump in my chair and hope for the best,” I tell her. Today I plan on being a listener. A really good listener. And maybe if I'm lucky, I'll be able to put my problems into perspective. Other people's tragedies tend to have that effect on me.

  By the time I get to work that morning, my limbs feel achy and sore. And though I'm lightheaded, my body feels weighed down, as if I'm trying to wade through a river full of mud. On top of everything else, I'm still on the edge of tears. As much as I try not to, I can't help thinking of Alex and the way he left last night. Our argument replays in my head on a loop, making me question my perceptions and wonder why I was so antagonistic.

  It isn't him. It isn't me. It's us. Somehow we've got into this spiral of shouting first and thinking second. The red mist descends and blinds us both.

  “Lara?” I hear Elaine calling me from her office. She's standing by the door, running a hand through her frizzy grey bob, making it puff up even more than usual. When I catch her eye, her forehead creases like an accordion and I'm thinking don't ask, don't ask, don't ask.

  “Are you okay?”

  Ugh, of course she asks anyway. Of all people, Elaine should know the effect that question has. It melts away the tenuous hold I had on my emotions, allowing them to gush out, drowning me in their wake.

  “I’m fi...” That's all I get out before everything collapses. The next thing I know she's gently guiding me into her office, her arm around my waist. She smells like coffee and roses, and for some reason that makes me cry harder. When she pulls out her chair, I sit down automatically, my head dropping.

  She doesn't ask questions, she doesn't say anything. Instead she leaves the room, leaving me be for five minutes, coming back with a mug of steaming tea. Lifting it with a shaky hand, I let the brown liquid scald my lips. It's sweet, much more so than I'd normally like.

  When I put the mug down, Elaine shoves a handful of crumpled-up tissues at me. The room is silent, save for my sniffs and heavy breathing, and it's beginning to make me feel awkward. Not to mention embarrassed.

  What kind of person breaks down at work? I feel humiliated at my little display, knowing everybody must have seen it. I've always taken pride in my professionalism. In being in control. But now I've managed to blow that out of the water, and let them all know what a wreck I am.

  “I'm so sorry.” I blow my nose loudly. “I don't know what came over me. It's just that Max has been poorly, and neither of us got any sleep so I feel pretty rubbish.” I'm not going to tell her about me and Alex. I have to draw the line somewhere.

  Elaine shoots me a brief smile. “There's no need to apologise. I've seen much worse, you know.”

  “From clients, not staff.”

  “Oh, you'd be surprised at the things that go on around here. A few tears are the tip of the iceberg.” She almost looks disappointed that I've stopped crying. “Anyway, I want you to take a look at this.” She passes me a piece of paper. Printed on the front are ten questions. Four answers per question. I glance at the first:

  1. I have been able to laugh and see the funny side of things.

  Swallowing hard, I look up at Elaine. “This is the Edinburgh test.”

  She nods. “I know.”

  “But that's to help diagnose post natal depression. I haven't got PND.” I try to give it back to her.

  Patiently, she hands me a pen. “Humour me for a moment.”

  Neither of us say a word as I answer the questions one by one. I realise I can't remember the last time I looked forward to things, or felt comfortable and carefree. As I get to the end of the test I hand it back silently to her, knowing I've scored well over the requisite ten that's needed to indicate PND. It feels like a personal failure that she's even considering I might have something wrong. I want to cry all over again, this time because she must think me an unfit mother.

  “I love Max,” I tell her.

  “Of course you do. We both know PND doesn't mean you don't love your baby. All it means is that you need a bit of extra help.” She hands me another tissue, noticing I've managed to use the first bunch she gave me. “Anyway, this isn't a diagnosis, only an indicator. What I want you to do is go and see your doctor now, and then take the rest of the day off.”

  I roll my lip between my teeth, worrying, fretting. “I won't get in on short notice.”

  “I'll call them. You go out and ask Janine to cancel your appointments, and I'll speak with your doctor. Then maybe you can pick up Max and spend the day together.”

  The thought of more time with Max does perk me up. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. You look like the walking dead, there's no way I'm letting you near any of our clients.”

  For the first time today, a ghost of a smile passes over my lips. “Thank you.”

  11

  It's almost lunchtime when I walk out of the doctor's surgery, clutching a leaflet about a local support group and a card for a follow up appointment next week. This one lasted for nearly half an hour—unheard of in my surgery where patients are usually shuffled through like cattle into an abattoir.

  Mild depression is how the doctor described it, with the potential to become more severe if it isn't treated. I sat there as he explained the consequences of non-intervention, finding it hard to believe the person he was describing was me.

  Walking to the bus stop, I'm hit by a feeling of frustration. The streets are full of workers in their lunch hour; people with determined strides, with somewhere to go, things to do. I feel adrift among the sea of them. It's hard to admit that after everything that's happened, perhaps there is a kernel of truth in Alex's accusations.

  So instead of calling my husband, I pick Max up from the nursery, signing him out early. After his sleepless night exhaustion has finally taken its toll, and he naps all the way home.

  We make it there a little after two. As I turn the corner into our road, a van driver presses his horn and the loud, short burst of sound wakes up Max. Even though I can't see his face, I can hear his whine, and see his legs as he kicks them, trying to pull off his socks. Though I hate to think it, I'm fed up that he's woken up so soon, spoiling my plans of us both napping all afternoon, trying to catch up on that elusive, lost sleep.

  Predictably, his cries become louder, reaching a crescendo when we get to the front door. Loud, repetitive screams, followed by noisy gulps as he fights for air. Pulling him out of his buggy, I see his face is angry, nose streaming, eyes wet.

  “Come on, Max.” I hug him close. But I'm tired, so tired, and it's an effort to hold him. I lean on the front door, my eyes closed, while Max empties his lungs, his fists gripping at my shirt, and it isn't simply tiredness anymore, it's fatigue. Draining me of energy, it weakens my muscles, makes my bones feel loose and floppy. It takes all I’ve got to keep standing, let alone hold Max in my arms.

  “Stop crying.” I bite my lip in an effort not to join in. “Shh now, come on.”

  Then the door opens, and David is standing there, looking slightly perplexed. “Did you forget your keys?”

  I shake my head, afraid if I say anything I'll start all over again. Sleep, I really need sleep.

  David takes one look at me, then glances down at Max, whose volume seems to have increased since David opened the door. “Everything okay?”

  Once again, I shake my head, squeezing my lips shut. But in spite of my efforts, the tears squeeze out anyway, and I look down, trying not to l
et him see.

  “Come here.” He leads me inside, pulling the buggy in with his right hand. Then he gently takes Max from me, hushing him softly, bouncing him up and down. “Let's go into my place. I'll make you a brew.”

  Tea; the British cure for everything. Even David's worked it out and he's only been here a few months. Without answering I follow him and Max, leaving the buggy at the bottom of the stairs. Of course, he manages to quieten Max almost immediately, and though I'm glad for the silence I can't help but feel useless.

  “Is he sick?”

  “A cold,” I reply, sitting down. “He didn't sleep much last night.” Then I remember the thin walls. “Oh God, he didn't keep you awake, did he?”

  “Nah, nothing can do that. I heard him crying when I went to sleep and crying when I woke up this morning. I filled in the blanks.” He looks at me. “You have to be exhausted after everything that's happened.”

  He must have heard the row between Alex and me. I add mortification to my list of emotions. “I didn't get much sleep either,” I admit.

  He makes us both a cup of tea, handing me an old, chipped mug with a photograph of a surfer on it. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “I have mild postnatal depression.” It's the first time I've said it to anybody. “At least, that's what the doctor says.” There's a part of me that still thinks he's wrong. That I'm only tired. Angry with my husband, suffering from exhaustion.

  David is silent for a moment. Still holding Max, he nuzzles him gently. “Claire had that.”

  “Your girlfriend?” He hasn't mentioned her name before. Rarely talks about her or his daughter.

  “Yeah. Right from the start it was clear something was wrong. My mum said it was probably the ‘baby blues’, that she'd get better as Mathilda got older, but she didn't, she got worse. Looking back, I should have done something earlier, said something to her. Maybe things might have turned out differently.”

  “How did she get over it?” I lean forward, desperate to know.

  He gives me a sickly sweet smile. “She kicked me out.”

  Oh. Definitely not what I wanted to hear. In the interest of full disclosure, I tell him. “Alex is leaving for three months.”

  “Really? Why?”

  David listens as I recount the whole sorry tale. Some of it he knows, of course. The argument at the festival, the shouting at home. He listens, his face solemn, Max cuddled into his chest, and smiles sadly when I tell him Alex didn't come home last night.

  “I'm sorry, I didn't realise how bad things were.”

  “I'm not sure they were, not really.” I crinkle my forehead, trying to sort through the haze of events in my mind. As stupid as it sounds, I can't quite work out when our bickering turned into full blown arguments. When our insults turned from cheeky into bitchy. “But then he's been offered this tour in the States and he didn't even ask me what I thought, just assumed he was going. No mention of Max or leaving me alone with him. No thoughts that he might miss all the little milestones.”

  “That sucks,” David agrees. “But then I can hardly talk, can I? I'm half a world away from my own kid.”

  “If Claire called tomorrow and said you could see her, would you fly back?”

  “I'd be on the next plane out.”

  That sort of proves my point. Where David would be flying one way, Alex is fleeing in the opposite. It’s as if I don't know him anymore. I sit back, rubbing my face with my hands. “Ugh, I'm so confused. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I wanted a baby, a family. I didn't realise how much things would change.”

  “Nobody does,” David comments quietly, though there's a hint of humour in his voice. “You go around for thirty years thinking the world revolves around you, then suddenly you wake up realising you're pretty insignificant compared to the tiny thing screaming in your arms.”

  “So why doesn't Alex feel that way?”

  “Men are different to women, I think. We compartmentalise a lot better. Even though I think about Mathilda every day, I still function, have a good time. There's a lot of truth in 'out of sight, out of mind', even if I hate to admit it.”

  Max has finally fallen asleep in David's arms. I sit there for a minute and watch them, the man who has lost his own child, and the baby whose father is leaving him.

  “You know, I'm supposed to have all the answers. I help people for a living. It's killing me not to be able to solve my own problems, it's as if I've failed.”

  “Kind of 'physician, heal thyself'?” He grins. “There's a reason why the mechanics always have the worst cars, and why TV chefs eat TV dinners. Just because you do something as a job doesn't mean you can help yourself. Perhaps you should give yourself a break.”

  He's right, I know he is. It's not as if Alex has been helping, either. The breakdown in communication is both our faults, though I'm not sure he'd agree.

  My mouth pulls open into a yawn, one that starts in my jaw and works downwards, tightening the muscles in my chest. “I can't help feeling it would be easier if I wasn't so tired all the time.”

  “Now that I can help with,” David says. “If you bring in the buggy, I can look after this little guy while you take a nap.” He inclines his head in the direction of a door, leading, I assume, to his bedroom. “It's okay, there’re fresh sheets, and I've hidden the porn.”

  “Do men even have offline porn anymore?” I wonder aloud, remembering the dog-eared magazines boys used to smuggle into school. “I mean the pictures don't even move.”

  David gets to his feet, laughing. “Of course. What if there's a power cut? Or the internet gets sabotaged?”

  “What's the apocalypse without a wank stash?” I solemnly get to my feet as well, even though I’m almost grinning from my question. “As long as you've hidden it from view I'll be fine. And thank you.”

  “You're welcome,” he says. “Oh, and Lara?”

  “Yes?”

  “Things will get better. I promise.”

  Maybe he's right. But I can't help feeling they're going to get a hell of a lot worse first.

  * * *

  I'm basking in the lull that comes right after waking, when I'm all relaxed and cosy, the soft duvet keeping me warm. I might even be drooling a bit. Shuffling down the mattress, I curl my legs beneath me, letting my mind drift, until I'm slowly floating back.

  Then I hear voices. Not loud ones, though they're clear enough for me to make out the words. David's first, instantly recognisable, his vowels rounded out with an antipodean twang.

  “She's sleeping, so I said I'd look after Max.”

  “In your bedroom?” Brasher, shorter vowels.

  Alex.

  “Alone in my bedroom, yes. She's exhausted. The baby kept her awake all night.”

  I like that response. It's a shame David doesn't add “as you'd know if you'd actually been here.”

  “So why's she not sleeping in our flat?”

  “Because I said I'd keep an eye on Max while I work. And knowing Lara, if she slept in your place she'd feel guilty about leaving Max here and wouldn't get any rest at all.”

  “Yeah,” I want to add. “Because unlike you, it kills me to leave him.”

  “Well, I'm home now. I'll take them back upstairs with me.”

  “She's still asleep. How about I send her up when she wakes up?” David's suggestion sounds so sensible and non-negotiable, but I can imagine Alex's expression right now. I suppose I should get up, go and be the buffer between them. But I'm too tired to move. The mattress is so soft it's as if I'm wrapped in a cloud.

  “I don't think so.”

  Though I squeeze my eyes shut, there's no way I'm going back to sleep. Silently I beg Alex not to make a scene. Not in front of our lovely, sweet neighbour who managed to stop me from cracking up completely. He’s given me four hours of delicious, mind numbing sleep.

  David's voice comes next. Lower, deeper; a throaty shout-whisper. “I don't know what your problem is with me, but your wife is in a fucking state. I heard her
crying all night, then when she came home at lunchtime she looked like death warmed up.”

  Charming.

  “Now she may be a lovely woman, but I'm not a fucking necrophile. Nor am I interested in her like that. But I am her friend, and I want to help her, and the best way to do that was to let her sleep.”

  “What the fuck do you know about it?”

  “A lot more than you do. I know when someone's reached the end of her tether. I know when a woman's suffering from depression.”

  Oh. I really do need to get up. I push myself to sitting, letting my head fall back against the wall. Bracing myself on the bed, I shuffle out until I'm standing. My legs wobble, but I don't fall down.

  “She's not depressed.”

  “Oh yes, she is. She was diagnosed today. So while you've been off playing Jimi Hendrix, your wife's been crying herself to sleep, blaming herself for everything that's gone wrong.”

  Then there's silence. I walk to the door, curling my fingers around the jamb, pushing it open with a creak. Standing there, leaning on the painted wood, I watch as my husband and my neighbour, alerted by the groaning hinges, both turn to stare at me.

  I don't need a mirror to know how bad I look right now. I can feel the tangles in my hair where it is stuck to my cheek, and the way my eyes sting from almost twenty-four hours of tears. But more than that, I can see it in Alex's expression, the way his eyes widen and his jaw drops.

  “You look like shit.”

  “Thanks,” I croak. And it's weird, because in spite of everything, I actually feel the best I have all day. Not quite human, but pretty close. It's amazing what a few hours of sleep can do. “Where's Max?”

  Alex points to his buggy. “I was going to take him up.” For some reason I bristle at that. I have to remind myself Max is Alex's baby, too. Even if I seem more aware of it than Alex, sometimes.

  “Okay.”

  “You coming?”

  Throughout the conversation, David remains silent. But this time he turns to look at me. “You can stay here if you want.”