by Carrie Elks
“What?”
“Keep an eye on him when we take him home. Make sure his breathing stays normal.”
“You’re coming back home?”
“Of course.” He gives a little laugh. “Where did you think I was going?”
“Back on tour?”
“Seriously? You think I’d leave when Max has been this bad? What kind of guy do you think I am?”
It’s a good question, but not one he necessarily wants to hear the answer to. At least not in front of all these people. So I bite my lip, trying to remind myself where I am.
“Can I have a word?” I ask. “Outside.”
For the first time since I walked in, he looks shifty, a child waiting outside the headmaster’s office. There’s a part of me that wants to start shouting right now, tell him everything we've been through without him. That while he was lording it up with some blonde on his knee, I was watching our son struggling to breathe.
Okay, so maybe not at exactly the same time. But close enough.
We end up walking down the corridor and to the tiny waiting room at the other end of the ward. Thankfully, it’s empty. I sit down on one of the under-stuffed chairs, feeling the springs give way as my bottom presses into the cushions as Alex takes the sofa opposite, wisely placing a table between us.
When I look at him, I wonder how we got to this. How that girl and boy who fell in love ended up sitting here, their child lying sick in a hospital bed, with absolutely nothing to say.
No, that’s not right. There’s plenty to say, I simply don’t know how to say it. My anger feels as if it’s been packaged up neatly and stuffed to the bottom of my chest, something to be dealt with at a later date. If I unwrap it now, as I think I’m going to do, I’m not sure I can contain it. I feel sick, not only from the thought of confrontation, but the knowledge that we’re coming perilously close to hurting one another.
I don’t want to lose him, but we can’t go on like this.
While the thoughts rage in my head, Alex looks at me, his eyes dark and soft. The way he stares reminds me so much of those first few days we spent together, and it’s messing with my mind even more.
“Are you angry at me?” He finally breaks the silence. “For being away when Max got ill?”
Quickly I shake my head. “That’s not why I’m angry.”
“So you are angry?”
“Yes.” I take a deep breath. I can’t let myself explode, not anymore. If I want to be heard I need to say it, not shout it.
“Why?”
I start to count the ways, and I have to close my eyes, to block out that dark stare. The way he’s looking at me is unnerving.
“Because it took you so long to come home. Because you didn’t return my calls. Because I felt like a single parent, watching my child dying without the one person I thought I could rely on.” I bit my lip, trying to stop it from wobbling. “I watched our son turn blue in my arms. He couldn’t breathe. I thought he was dead.”
The small room seems thick with recriminations. For a moment, Alex remains seated. But when my breath hitches, he jumps up and crosses the room, wrapping his arms around me.
I freeze.
“Christ, Lara, I’m sorry. I got here as soon as I could. If they still flew Concorde I would have got on that. Fucking eight hour flights.”
“You got here four days late.” I try to shrug him off. Having his arms around me feels wrong, I can’t stand it. “I left you so many messages.”
“There weren’t that many.”
“And I spoke to Stuart…”
I feel him stiffen. When I pull my head back to look at him he says nothing. His face is blank. I wait for him to say something. To tell me how wrong he was. All I get is silence.
“Why didn’t you call me?” I ask.
His voice is quiet, a whisper. “I only got the message yesterday.”
“You’re lying.” I think of all the voicemails I left. The anguished wait for a call. The long hours of nothingness. “I called you four days ago.”
“Lara, I swear to you I only found out yesterday. I got the first plane home as soon as I heard. I left a message on your phone to tell you I was coming.”
I think of my phone lying at the bottom of my bag, uncharged for the past day. I suppose I could charge it, listen to that call, and let him prove he’s telling the truth. But I’m not sure what the point is. Either way, I was on my own.
I have been for a long time.
“I talked to Stuart. He said you didn’t want to come home, that you didn’t want to talk to me.”
“That’s bullshit!” For the first time, Alex looks furious. “I never said that. He’s a fucking liar.”
My voice is strangely calm. “It doesn’t matter. Not anymore. It’s all symptomatic of the same thing. You weren’t ready to be a father, you told me that yourself. I should have listened to you.”
Alex is kneeling next to me, one hand on the arm of the chair, the other balled into a fist by his side. “That’s not true. I love Max. When I heard… Christ, Lara, I couldn’t think straight. All those hours on the plane, wondering if he was okay. If you were okay…” His voice breaks. “Babe, I’m so sorry.”
I close my eyes, trying to block out the words. All my tears have dried up, and I’m a piece of fruit left out in the sun too long.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It fucking does.” A tear forms in the corner of his eye. It’s too painful to watch. I have to look away, staring instead at a wall full of medical posters.
“Alex, I’m tired, exhausted, as if I haven’t slept for weeks. I want to take Max home and cocoon myself away from the world. Forget any of this happened.” I think of my bed. Of fresh sheets. Of escaping from everything.
“We can do that.”
That’s when I look at him, and I realise he doesn’t have a clue how unhappy I am. How hurt I am, or how angry I am. I’ve coped with everything else, but I can’t cope with this, with him. Not now.
“I don’t want you to come home with us.” I say it while looking at my knees. “It’s all too much. I need some space to work out how I feel.”
“What do you mean?” His brow knits into a frown.
After all these days of waiting, it’s ironic how much I need some space. The thought of Alex coming home, of us being cooped up in the flat together, makes me feel jittery. With the emotional roller coaster of the last few days, I think I might implode.
“Can you stay at your mum’s?” I beg. I hate the way his face crumples when I say it.
“You’re breaking up with me?”
“No! Of course not.” To be honest, I’m not sure what I’m doing. I can barely believe it myself. “I need some time to think things through. You’ve been away so long, and with everything that happened…”
“Then what, Lara? What do you want me to do? To get on my fucking knees and beg? I will if that’s what it takes. I love you. Don’t fucking do this.”
“I love you, too,” I tell him quietly. He looks up at me through thick, dark eyelashes. His eyes glint beneath the light.
“Then why?”
Though it kills me, I keep my gaze firmly locked on his. There’s a lump the size of a rock in my throat. Making my voice husky. Low. “Because I can’t go on like this.”
“Tell me what to do. I’ll do anything.” He reaches out, takes my hand. “Please, tell me.”
I’m finding it hard to breathe. Even when I take a mouthful of air, it fights against me, catching in my throat, refusing to reach my lungs. “Just give me some space.”
* * *
A week later, Max is home and we're living a strange kind of half-life. I've taken unpaid leave from the clinic, promising to return next week, though the thought of it claws at my heart like a hungry animal. I spend my days watching Max improve, smiling when he starts crawling again, clapping the first time he pulls himself up to standing. He holds on to the coffee table, his eyes wide and his plump legs wobbling. The expression on his face i
s hilarious, as if he can't believe he's finally done it.
The next moment, he falls unceremoniously to the floor. Whimpering, he reaches up for me.
“Come here, you clever boy,” I say in a sing-song voice. “That didn't hurt.”
The second time he does it I have my camera ready. I send the video to Alex, my fingers trembling as I bring up his contact details. Every time I think about him I feel sick. I know there's talking to do, decisions to make, though I don't know where to start.
Can I come and see him tonight?
Alex's text makes me feel desperately sad. Should he even have to ask?
Of course. Any time.
I mean it. No matter what happens between Alex and me, Max comes first. He deserves to have both parents doting on him.
I spend the rest of the morning cleaning feverishly, in a way I never did when Alex and I were both staying here. I bathe Max after his tea, dressing him in a fresh onesie, then I brush my hair and fix my make-up.
There's no denying this feels weird. It's a dance millions of ex-wives do every weekend; the passing over of a child, the keeping up of appearances. The desire to show the other person what they're missing.
Except I know Alex is missing us. He texts me all the time, calls me every day. Last night, as I was drifting off to sleep, my phone lit up, showing his name, and I practically snatched it off the bedside table.
“Hey.”
“Lara.”
I've always loved the way he says my name. It sounds like he's smiling. As if I do that to him.
Checking my watch, I climbed out of bed, not wanting to wake Max. He was curled up on his side, three fingers in his mouth. Thankfully the slurping noises had died down.
“You okay?” I sat on the armchair, tucking my legs beneath my bum. “What are you doing up so late?”
“Thinking about you.” His voice was soft; an aural caress. “Missing my family.”
“We miss you, too,” I whispered. It was so dark in the room it was like having my eyes closed. I could picture Alex, lying in his childhood bed, unable to sleep. It made me feel like the worst person in the world. Refusing to let him come home, denying him time with his son. At moments like those, it was hard to remember why he wasn't here.
Then I remembered the tour. The drugs and the photos. There was so much for me to work through—for us to talk about—and having him living here would confuse everything. I was mixed up enough as it was.
“How's Max feeling?” I heard a rustle. Like he was turning over in bed. “Are you managing to get any sleep?”
“Max is fine. The doctor says his lungs are clear.” Apparently miraculous recoveries are the norm when it comes to babies and bronchiolitis. Looking at him now, you'd never believe he was in hospital last week.
I didn't tell Alex I was hardly sleeping at all. Twisting and turning in bed, listening for the sounds of Max's breathing. Second guessing myself over my decisions. I was drowning in a sea of recriminations. “How are you?” I whispered.
Silence. I heard the sound of his breathing, low and long. Could picture his face. Brow drawn down, lips thin. Thinking of a response.
“I'm not good,” he said eventually. “I just...” His voice broke then. I felt it inside, stabbing me like a knife. Tearing me apart. “I want you back. I want Max back. I know you hate me right now—”
“I don't hate you,” I interrupted. I couldn't have him thinking that. “I'm so mixed up I don't know what to do. And I need to concentrate on Max.”
“I know.” He sounded so sad. “But I'm not giving up on us and I won't let you, either. I thought about you and Max every day when I was in the States, I was miserable without you. Even before I heard about his illness I wanted to come home. There has to be a way to make this work.”
Squeezing my eyes shut, I tried to banish the tears. “I hope so.”
“There is,” he said, firmly. “I want my family back.”
* * *
When the door buzzes at six that evening, I sweep Max into my arms and run to open it. Alex is leaning on the door jamb, holding a bunch of flowers in one hand, a teddy in the other. Except this isn't an ordinary teddy; it's wearing a punk outfit, holding a tiny microphone in its paw.
I laugh out loud. “What the hell is that?”
He shrugs, a smile threatening at the corner of his lips. “A present for Max.”
“A fetish teddy. He'll be delighted.” I smile, taking the flowers when he offers them to me. In return he takes Max, swinging him against his chest.
Max lunges for the teddy. “Da da da,” he babbles.
Alex smiles, his whole face lighting up. “Did he say ‘Dad’?”
For some reason, I don't want to tell him it's only a babble. That he's been doing it for days. There's something about Alex's reaction that makes my heart stutter. So I look at him, and he stares right back, and the tension between us brings goose bumps out on my arms.
It takes Max grabbing the teddy and stuffing the microphone in his mouth to dispel it. Shakily, I laugh, trying to calm my racing heartbeat.
“A microphone eater like his daddy. I'm so proud.”
We go inside and I put the kettle in, unable to shake off how surreal it is to be treating Alex like a guest in his own home. When I carry our coffees back in, he's on the floor, Max climbing over him, big grins splitting both their faces. When Alex pulls him in for a kiss, Max opens his mouth and slobbers on his cheek. He hasn't quite got the hang of closing his mouth yet.
It's one of those moments when you want everything to stop, to freeze time so you can appreciate it. Watching them makes my chest hurt, it's so full. Why can't it always be like this?
Max makes a grab for Alex's hair, curling his tiny fist around a chunk, yanking hard enough to make Alex laugh. Gently, he releases Max's hold, kissing his knuckles as if to show him he isn't angry.
It's too painful to watch them. So I sit down and look out of the window, trying to regulate my breath.
“I thought maybe you could have Max for the day on Sunday,” I say, to cut the tension as much as anything else. “I'm sure your mum would like to see him.” Tina popped around two nights ago, but I pretended to be exhausted. She was asking way too many questions about Alex and me.
Alex sits up, cradling Max to his chest. “You're not coming for lunch?” He looks hurt.
I have to remind myself to breathe. “I can't.” I practically choke on my words.
“Why not?” He frowns. “Everybody wants to see you.”
“Because I can't pretend that everything's okay.” There's no way I can go back into our old routine.
“Then tell me what's wrong. Tell me what to do to make it better. This is killing me.”
Lowering my head into my hands, I can feel my voice shaking. “It's everything. The way you put the band above everything else. The way you lied about smoking. The fact you forgot to sort out your phone before you went. How we hardly talked when you did get around to calling.” I blow out a big breath and my voice lowers. “I waited for you to call me for four days when Max was ill. You didn't even bother.”
I can't bring myself to tell him about the photo, even though I know I should. It still makes me feel sick to think about. I don't want to hear his explanations, his excuses; I'm not ready for them.
“Stuart didn't tell me,” he explains quietly. “I spoke to him yesterday. They knew I'd leave as soon as I heard so they didn't say anything. It's only when I listened to your message that I found out.”
My stomach churns harder. “What?” I drop my hands, looking up at him with red rimmed eyes. “He didn't tell you I called? He didn't tell you about Max?”
Slowly, he shakes his head.
“But I talked to him, he said you weren't coming back. He said you didn't want to talk to me.”
This time, his eyes narrow. “You believed him? You really thought I wouldn't come home?”
His question shocks me. Did I really think so little of Alex that I believed Stuart's lies? That
sounds awful. From the way he's staring at me, I can tell he agrees.
“Why did he lie?”
“He wanted us to finish the tour. He was going to tell me when we made it to New York.”
I laugh bitterly. “That was good of him.”
“I said the same thing, but with a lot more swearing.” Alex kisses the top of Max's head. “If something had happened to Max...”
My heart hammers in my chest. I hate that I doubted him. “It didn't,” I say, thickly. “Thank God.”
Max is starting to get tired; I can tell from the way he keeps shuffling on Alex's lap. He's fighting it, but the exhaustion is winning. Alex settles him on his legs, letting him snuggle in close. “Are we ever going to get back to what we were?”
It's the big question, and I wish I knew the answer to it. Instead, I take a shaky breath and try to summon up some courage. “I hope so.”
22
The next day I wheel Max into the doctor’s surgery, taking a seat on one of the orange plastic chairs in the waiting room. Max is holding a cardboard book, eating it more than reading it, and I pull it away from his mouth, panicking about all the germs he could catch here. Ten minutes pass before we’re called in, though it seems like longer, and Max becomes bored, kicking at his chair, wailing to be let out.
I carry him into the doctor’s office. Doctor Jensen glances up at me when I walk in, his pale grey eyes taking us both in, and he nods at the chair next to his desk.
“How’s Max doing?”
“His breathing seems much better, and he’s eating well,” I tell him. “If we could just get him to sleep through the night my life would be complete.” I smile at him, letting him know what a relief it is to know that Max can thrive again. After the fear of the past few days, it’s a welcome respite.
“Bring him over to the couch and I’ll examine him.”
Max, of course, has other ideas. I have to hold him down while the doctor listens to his chest with a stethoscope, then attempts to look inside his airways to see if everything’s okay. Max protests at being held still, his arms flailing, his legs kicking, and he manages to hit the doctor right on the groin.
