Odd Socks

by Ilsa Evans

  ‘Has Bronte thought of any names?’

  ‘Not that she told me.’ I carefully look both ways before ushering Mum over the road and towards the hospital entrance. ‘But then, we didn’t get much of a chance to chat this morning.’

  ‘Oh, that is a shame.’ Mum shakes her head ruefully. ‘You know, honey, you really should take the time to talk with Bronte more. One of these days you’re going to turn around and she’ll be all grown-up and gone. And then it’ll be too late.’

  ‘Given the fact she spent the morning giving birth on my lounge-room carpet,’ I say as I precede Mum through the automatic doors and into the hospital foyer, ‘I’d reckon she’s pretty grown-up already, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Nothing of the sort,’ replies Mum blithely, ‘because being grown-up and having babies are not necessarily mutually inclusive, you know.’

  I turn and give her an astounded look because, well, sometimes she floors me. Just when I think I’ve got her pigeonholed, she comes out with something incredibly insightful. We continue in silence to the elevators, where there is a considerable crowd waiting, and I press the ‘up’ button. Glancing around me, I realise there must be a baby boom at the moment. Everybody seems either to be laden with wrapped gifts and stuffed toys or carrying a blue and/or pink balloon announcing the gender of whatever it is they are going to see.

  ‘Oh!’ Mum is staring raptly at the various balloons. ‘We should have gotten Bronte a balloon!’

  ‘Not necessary,’ I comment, batting one away that was floating dangerously near my face. ‘I think she knows what the baby is by now.’

  ‘No, we have to! Come on!’

  ‘What, is it some type of rule?’ I ask as the metallic elevator doors finally slither open. ‘Will we get fined or something?’

  ‘Probably,’ says one heavily jowled grandfather type as he passes me laden with both a pink and a blue balloon. ‘Although odds are the fine’d be cheaper.’

  ‘Don’t be such a spoilsport, Bob,’ remonstrates his wife. ‘If it was up to you, we’d only be giving a card.’

  ‘Damn right,’ says Bob grumpily as he enters the elevator, ‘and then we could’ve just posted it.’

  ‘Come on, Teresa.’ Mum pulls at my arm as I try to follow Bob into the elevator. ‘Let’s go and get her a balloon.’

  ‘Mum, she doesn’t need a balloon!’

  ‘She does so. This isn’t something that happens every day, you know.’

  ‘Well, thank god for that,’ I say as I wearily watch the elevator doors close with me on the wrong side. ‘Otherwise my carpet would be more red than it is green.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me you’d changed your carpet!’ Mum sets off towards the gift shop at a brisk trot. ‘You never tell me anything! Although I must say I’m quite pleased. I never did like that other colour. Always reminded me of mildew.’

  After an interminable fifteen minutes spent watching Mum minutely examine every single balloon before making her choice (pink with ‘It’s a girl!’ printed cheerfully across it), we head back towards the elevators, where yet another crowd has gathered. Funnily enough, they look exactly the same as the earlier lot. Same gifts, same stuffed toys, same balloons.

  This time the elevator arrives fairly quickly and we all crowd in, and then crowd out again at the maternity floor. Everyone else seems to know exactly where they are going. We have to ask at the desk and are directed by a rather harassed nurse to the third room on the left. Accordingly, with Mum’s damn balloon floating into my face every few seconds, we wander over to the third room on the left and poke our heads around the door. There are two beds in the room with the one closest to us, by the door, taken up by a bird of a female – tiny, bony and with hair like pale grey-brown feathers. She glances apprehensively at us and then, as she realises we aren’t here for her, resumes looking totally miserable once more. I give her a sympathetic smile and turn my attention past the television set suspended from the centre of the ceiling to the bed on the other side of the room. And there’s Bronte, dressed in a pair of pink-striped flannelette pyjamas, sitting cross-legged with her long blonde hair loose around her shoulders. She looks clean, and fresh, and radiant. She is also surrounded by presents – and a multitude of pink balloons bearing the words ‘It’s a girl!’

  ‘Mum! It’s about time!’

  ‘I was unavoidably detained –’ I glance pointedly at my mother – ‘but better late than never. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Fine. And you’ve brought Gran!’

  ‘Hello, honey.’ Mum bustles over, drops her gift on the bed and delivers a firm kiss to Bronte’s cheek. ‘And congratulations! Where is the little darling?’

  ‘Nick’s just taken her for a walk. They should be back in a minute or so.’ Bronte picks up the gift and rattles it. ‘The baby monitor! Thank you so much, it’s going to come in, like, really handy. And just see what everyone else has brought me, Gran! It’s fantastic!’

  ‘Oh, show me!’ Mum sits down on the edge of the bed and immediately lets go of her balloon, which floats neglectedly up to the ceiling and bobs gently along towards a corner. ‘Look, Teresa! The size of these little shoes! Aren’t they just precious!’

  ‘Yep, precious,’ I comment as I settle myself into an extremely uncomfortable green vinyl armchair. ‘Show me more. Please.’

  ‘Well, here’s a little twin-set. And just look at this dear mobile! Oh, and what a simply adorable little teddy!’

  ‘Gran, she was being sarcastic,’ Bronte says knowledgeably. ‘Mum can’t stand babies and baby stuff – you should know that by now.’

  ‘It’s not that I can’t stand them,’ I protest defensively, ‘it’s just that I don’t find them as fascinating as everybody else seems to.’

  ‘Oh, Teresa,’ sighs my mother pityingly, ‘you are a duffer.’

  ‘No, she’s not.’

  This last is said in a deep monotone, just like the donkey Eeyore, out of Winnie-the-Pooh. I turn with astonishment to the little bird in the other bed but, despite having just participated in our conversation, she’s staring straight ahead and refusing to make eye contact. I look back at Bronte and raise my eyebrows questioningly.

  ‘Don’t worry about her,’ explains Bronte in a stage whisper. ‘She’s a bit, like, odd. Just had baby number eight – can you believe it?’

  ‘Eight!’ I repeat with horror. ‘Eight!’

  ‘Eight!’ says Mum, with a pitying glance at the bed.

  ‘Eight,’ sighs Eeyore plaintively, without taking her eyes off the wall.

  ‘Anyway,’ I continue after a few minutes, when it becomes obvious that that conversation isn’t going anywhere, ‘I’d like to know what you were doing at my place this morning, Bronte. I mean, what on earth were you thinking of, driving around in bloody labour?’

  ‘Oh, you won’t believe it,’ says Bronte, slapping her hand to her head. ‘How stupid was I!’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I encourage her, ‘tell me.’

  ‘Well, I was just off to bed after Nick headed to work at midnight and –’

  ‘I thought Nicholas was at university,’ Mum says, confused. ‘Nobody ever tells me anything. Did you know your mother changed her carpet, Bronte? I didn’t.’

  ‘Mum, Nick is at university. He’s just got a job working a couple of nights at one of those twenty-four hour service stations. And I haven’t changed my – oh, never mind. Go on, Bronte.’

  ‘Also, he’s put in for some extra shifts because it’s semester break, Gran. Anyway, Merrill and her boyfriend were both out, so I was all alone. I was just heading off to bed and I started feeling really queer. Like, really queer. And I made myself some herbal tea but it just got worse. There weren’t any contractions or anything, I just felt so yuck. So I thought I’d come home for the night. And maybe you’d know what was going on.’

  ‘You’d have been better off coming to my place, honey,’ Mum whispers to Bronte conspiratorially before grimacing and then rolling her eyes theatrically. ‘Your mother wouldn�
��t know the first thing about childbirth. Drugged to the hilt, she was. You could hear her singing from the car park. Rather embarrassing. Your poor grandfather refused to get out of the car.’

  ‘Hello? I’m right here,’ I comment.

  ‘The same song, over and over. Something about a mountain, I think it was.’

  ‘But why didn’t you ring, Bronte?’ I ask reasonably, deciding to ignore my mother’s little jaunt down memory lane. ‘Then at least I’d have known you were coming.’

  ‘And she’s never been able to hold a tune. Never.’

  ‘I didn’t want to wake you up.’ Bronte looks at me earnestly. ‘Like, it was the middle of the night, you know.’

  ‘Thoughtful girl,’ comments Mum with a nod, forgetting all about my singing abilities whilst she looks at Bronte approvingly.

  ‘But you were going to wake me up when you got there!’

  ‘Oh. Yeah,’ says Bronte, frowning. ‘You’re right. I didn’t think of that.’

  ‘Hmm,’ adds Mum thoughtfully, with an identical frown. ‘Hmm. Yes, I see.’

  ‘Flaming hell.’ I look at them both and, not for the first time, marvel at the power of genetics. No wonder they get on so well together.

  ‘Anyway,’ continues Bronte, ‘on the way, I started having some pains so I pulled over and tried to ring Nick but his mobile was off or something. Then I thought they’re probably only those Hexton Bricks ones –’

  ‘Braxton Hicks,’ I interrupt.

  ‘Who?’ asks Bronte, looking confused.

  ‘Braxton Hicks,’ I repeat. ‘That’s what they’re called.’

  ‘Oh, Mum,’ says Bronte, rolling her eyes, ‘an awful lot has changed since you had me. Like, everything’s been updated.’

  ‘She’s right, honey,’ agrees Mum, with a sage nod in Bronte’s direction. ‘I mean, we didn’t have any of those when I was having you two. Each generation has it easier.’

  ‘Humph,’ says Eeyore glumly.

  ‘Well, as I was saying, I thought they were just those Hexton Bricks things,’ continues Bronte, with a challenging glance in my direction, ‘but by the time I got home – I mean your place, Mum – I was starting to get really worried. So I let myself in and tried Nick again but still couldn’t get through. Then I was going to go up and get you but they started getting really bad so I thought I’d sit on the couch and just yell out to you, you know. So I go, like, ‘Mum, Mum!’ And you didn’t come but then they were so bad I lay down on the floor. Because I thought it’d make them better, but they just got worse, and then I couldn’t get up again. And, like, I didn’t think you’d ever come.’

  ‘But I did,’ I finish smugly, ‘and saved the day.’

  ‘Yeah, eventually,’ says Bronte with an accusing glance at me, ‘but it sure took you ages.’

  ‘Well, excuse me for sleeping,’ I comment sarcastically.

  ‘Oh, it’s not your fault, honey,’ chimes in Mum, ‘so don’t go feeling responsible. All’s well that ends well.’

  ‘And wait till you see her!’ Bronte’s face lights up and she forgets all about my dereliction of duty. ‘You just wait! Even you, Mum, you’re going to love her!’

  Right on cue, a Perspex cradle wedged in a metal trolley is wheeled squeakily through the doorway. It’s being pushed by the proud father, looking tall, blonde and masculine as usual. Nick and Bronte make an incredibly well-suited couple in a visual sense, like a romantic version of Viking heroes straight from the folds of Norway – or whatever it is that Norway has.

  ‘Mil, great to see you!’ says Nick cheerfully, parking the trolley haphazardly by the bed. ‘I hear you were something of a lifesaver this morning!’

  ‘You could say so, I suppose,’ I say humbly, gratified that at last someone seems to think so. ‘But I’m sure Bronte would have managed without me.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Nick bends over to pick up the silent, bunny-rugged occupant of the trolley and pass it carefully over to Bronte’s eager arms. ‘You were great, admit it.’

  ‘He’s right. You were, you know, Mum.’ Bronte drops a kiss into the folds of the bunny-rug. ‘It might have taken you ages but, like, I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’

  ‘Why, thank you, Bronte,’ I reply, feeling rather touched. ‘I’m just glad I was there.’

  ‘Let me see . . .’ Mum edges up the bed closer to Bronte and turns back a corner of the bunny-rug. ‘Oh, oh, oh! Aren’t you simply precious! Hello, you little darling!’

  ‘Do you want to see, Mum?’ Bronte tilts the bundle slightly so I can glimpse the baby’s face. ‘Here you are, sweetie, here’s your grandmother.’

  ‘Yech,’ I comment shortly as I lean over for a closer look.

  ‘Charming!’ says Bronte, pulling the baby back and giving me a hurt look.

  ‘Not the baby,’ I protest, ‘the grandmother bit – I’m not sure I’m ready.’

  ‘Well, you ain’t got too much choice,’ Nick says with a smile as he sits down on the bed and puts his arm around Bronte. ‘So what’s it to be? Gran, Nan, Grandma, or do you want to go all modern and stick with Terry?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ I roll my eyes and grimace. ‘But I think I’ve got a bit of time to decide, don’t you? After all, I can’t see her talking for a few days at least.’

  ‘Oh, honey! It’ll take longer than that!’ laughs Mum, shaking her head at my stupidity. ‘Babies don’t start talking for months and months!’

  ‘Aargh,’ groans Eeyore, rolling over and burying herself beneath her blankets.

  ‘And don’t forget whose genes she has,’ says Nick, ignoring the other bed’s occupant as he drops a kiss on his daughter’s forehead, ‘so you’ll have to make up your mind quickly, Mil.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll get onto it tonight.’ I ignore the ‘Mil’ bit, as I’ve learnt to over the past few months. After they moved in together, Nick decided that calling me Terry was no longer appropriate and rechristened me ‘Mil’, which stands for mother-in-law – despite the fact they aren’t yet married and, indeed, haven’t even started to discuss dates. But Nick seems to have a penchant for changing people’s names. He calls his twin baby sisters ‘Search’ and ‘Destroy’, and has even shortened Bronte’s name to ‘Bron’, which is a nickname I’ve strenuously discouraged over the years.

  ‘Here you go, Mum.’ Bronte leans around Nick and holds the baby out towards me. ‘Like, isn’t she just gorgeous?’

  ‘Of course your mother will agree,’ Mum says, with a challenging frown in my direction. ‘Won’t you, honey?’

  Ignoring my mother, I tuck my hair behind my ears and lean closer. Just as I’m thankfully noting the fact that the child is considerably cleaner than she was last time I saw her, a really odd thing happens. I’m expecting to feel something – because, after all, this infant happens to be a direct descendant of mine – but babies are babies, so I’m only anticipating a mild frisson of pleasure or some such response. Instead, she opens her slate-grey eyes and looks straight into mine – and I fall in love. Instantly, overwhelmingly, and irrevocably.

  I close my eyes in shock, but when I open them again it hits me even harder. An all-consuming fierce intensity of emotion that wallops me like a piece of two-by-four to the side of the head. The baby herself seems to be perfectly unaware of the emotional turmoil that’s taking place before her, and there are certainly no clues in her appearance as to why I suddenly feel the way I do. She’s the shade, and texture, of a boiled beetroot. Relatively lipless, totally hairless and with eyes the same colour as the barrel of a particularly oily SLR semi-automatic after it’s been fired several times. Yet here I sit, frozen on the outside and completely melted on the inside – sort of like a Choc Wedge that hasn’t been in the freezer very long.

  ‘Want to hold her, Mum?’ Bronte seems oblivious to the life-changing event that has just taken place. ‘Come on, she won’t bite.’

  ‘Humph,’ says the mound of blankets on the other bed.

  ‘Oh, okay, Bronte,’ I attempt to sound nonchal
ant, ‘if you insist.’

  Bronte passes the baby over and I take her gently, nestling her neatly onto my lap. She looks up at me and yawns, her tiny little mouth stretching to the limit with the effort. And, if anything, I fall in even deeper as I hold her. In fact, if you don’t count the rather distracted glimpse that I got of her last night (and I’m not), then I’ve just fallen in love at first sight for the first time in my life. And I don’t even believe in falling in love at first sight. But she is so incredibly little, so soft, so pliable, so perfect, so absolutely superlatively precious.

  ‘What do you think?’ Bronte interrupts my mental inventory of the baby’s perfections. ‘Isn’t she just gorgeous?’

  ‘Do you know . . .’ I look up and realise that they are all looking at me expectantly. ‘You’re right. She’s lovely.’

  ‘Oh, I knew it!’ Bronte hugs herself with glee. ‘I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist her! She’s just too . . . too special, isn’t she?’

  ‘She certainly is,’ I say slowly, looking back at her tiny face. ‘Really special.’

  ‘Damn straight,’ agrees Nick with obvious pride.

  ‘So what are you going to call her?’ Mum asks Bronte and Nick eagerly while I concentrate on stroking the baby’s tiny fingers. ‘Have you thought of any names?’

  ‘Yeah, as a matter of fact we have.’ Nick grins at Bronte. ‘Haven’t we, Bron?’

  ‘Yes. We’re going to call her –’

  ‘Sherry,’ finishes Nick. ‘We’re going to call her Sherry.’

  ‘But that’s my name!’ Mum looks at them both with amazement. ‘What a coincidence!’