‘He’ll be just fine. Because we’ll make sure of that.’
‘Your mother’s an all-American optimist,’ Tony said to Jack. Our son just peered out at us, no doubt wondering where he was, and what was this thing called life.
That night, Tony did get into bed with me, and read Graham Greene’s The Honorary Consul, and kissed me goodnight. Though sex was still definitely out of the physical question, a cuddle would have been nice. But, then again, a casual cuddle (or, at least, one without the follow-through of sex) was never Tony’s style. When I woke the next morning … true to form, I found him upstairs, sprawled out on his sofa bed, more pages piled up by the computer.
‘You seem to be having very productive nights,’ I said.
‘It’s a good time to work,’ he said.
‘And it also gives you the excuse not to sleep with me.’
‘I did last night.’
‘For how long?’
‘Does that really matter? You were asleep, after all.’
‘As soon as I was conked out, you went upstairs.’
‘Yes, that’s right. But I did come to bed with you as requested, didn’t I?’
‘I suppose so,’ I said, realizing I had nowhere to go in this argument.
‘And the novel is getting written.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘There is no problem, Tony.’
But I also knew that my husband was shrewdly ensuring that, when Jack came home, he’d be able to sidestep all the broken, sleepless nights by using his novel as an excuse … and the sofa bed in his office as his refuge.
Once again, however, I feared raising this point, as I could see that every time I said something contrary, he’d sigh heavily and make me feel like the nag I never wanted to be. And he had let my little free-fall episode come and go without major comment. Just as he’d also been admirably Teflon-like when I was riding the hormonal roller coaster in hospital. So, to keep the domestic peace (especially given Jack’s imminent arrival home), I thought it best not to push this point. Grin and bear it: the great marital bromide.
But I decided to sidestep all such negative thoughts by using the next few days to get the house into some sort of reasonable shape before our son filled every imaginable space. Fortunately, the foreman and his team were outside our front door at eight the next morning, ready to start work (Tony must have really played on their guilt – or simply stopped paying them). And Collins – the Northern Irish boss of the crew – was solicitousness itself, asking me with great concern about my ‘wee one’, telling me he was ‘sorry for my troubles’, but that, ‘God willing, the wee fella will be just grand’. He also assured me that he and his boys would be able to finish all the large-scale work within a week.
‘Now don’t you worry about a thing, except your wee fella. We’ll get the job done for you.’
I was genuinely touched by such kindness – especially in the light of the fact that he had been such a completely irresponsible pain prior to this, never true to his word, always messing us about, always acting as if he was doing us a favour. Suddenly, his inherent decency had emerged. Though I could have cynically written it off as him caving into emotional blackmail, I couldn’t help but think that he was probably like every builder – playing the middle from both ends, taking on far more jobs than he could handle, and never letting the right hand know what the left hand was doing. But there’s something about a child in danger which brings out the grace in almost all of us … unless, like Tony, you build up a wall against all panic, all doubt, all sense of life’s random inequities.
Once again, I sensed that this emotional cordon sanitaire was Tony’s way of coping with his own undercurrent of worry. As elliptical as he could be, I still knew him well enough by now to see through his veneer of diffidence. And though I was truly pleased that he was getting on with the novel, I also realized that it was a defence mechanism – a distancing device, in which he could push me and the potential problem that was Jack to one side.
‘No doubt, it will only be a matter of time before he starts working out ways to get transferred back to Cairo – alone,’ Sandy said when she called me that morning.
‘He’s just quietly freaking,’ I said.
‘Yeah – responsibility is such a bitch.’
‘Look, everyone has their own way of dealing with a crisis.’
‘Which, in Tony’s case, means play ostrich.’
Of course, this hadn’t been my first phone conversation with my sister since I’d been rushed to hospital. Ever since I had come home, we’d spoken two to three times a day. Naturally, Sandy was horrified by my news.
‘If that deadbeat ex-husband of mine hadn’t just taken off for a month-long hike with his outdoorsy paramour, I’d be over in London like a speeding bullet. But there’s no one else to look after the kids, and the bastard’s hiking without a cell phone, so he’s completely out of contact.’
True to form, however, she did not react with horror to the big question mark hovering over Jack. Instead, she worked the phones, calling every obstetrician and paediatrician she knew in the Boston area, demanding information and second opinions, and all those other ‘something must be done!’ attempts to ameliorate a crisis that we love to practise in the States.
‘I really think it’s going to turn out all right,’ I told Sandy in an attempt to get her off the subject of my contrary husband. ‘More importantly, they’re moving Jack today out of Paediatric ICU.’
‘Well, that’s something. Because according to my friend Maureen’s husband—’
And it would turn out that Maureen’s husband was a certain Dr Flett, who happened to be the head of Paediatric Neurology at Mass General – and he had said that …
’—if the baby is responding to normal stimuli after seven days the signs are pretty good.’
‘That’s exactly what the doctors here told me,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ Sandy said, ‘but they’re not the head of Paediatric Neurology at one of the leading hospitals in America.’
‘The doctors here really have been terrific,’ I said.
‘Well, if I had a couple of million in the bank, I’d fly you and Jack over here by MedEvac today.’
‘Nice thought – but this isn’t exactly Uganda.’
‘I’m yet to be convinced of that. Are you better today?’
‘I’m fine,’ I said carefully. Though I had mentioned my initial postnatal dive to Sandy, I didn’t go into great detail … especially as I didn’t want to unsettle her further, and also because I was pretty certain that my brief emotional downturn had been nothing more than that. But Sandy, per usual, wasn’t buying my calmness.
‘I’ve got this other friend – Alison Kepler – she’s the chief nurse in the postnatal division of Brigham and Women’s Hospital …’
‘Jesus, Sandy’ I said, interrupting her. ‘Half of Boston must know about Jack’s birth …’
‘Big deal. The thing is, I’m getting you the best proxy medical advice imaginable. And Alison told me that postnatal depression can come in a couple of waves.’
‘But I’m not having a postnatal depression,’ I said, sounding exasperated.
‘How can you be certain? Don’t you know that most depressed people don’t know they’re depressed?’
‘Because I find myself getting so damn pissed-off with Tony, that’s how. And don’t you know that most depressed people are unable to get really pissed off at their husband … or their sister?’
‘How can you be pissed off at me?’
How can you so lack a sense of humour? I felt like screaming at her. But that was how my wonderful, humourless sister saw the world: in an intensely logical, what you say is what you mean sort of way. Which is why she would never – repeat, never – survive in London.
But in the first few days out of hospital, I was certain that I was beyond the mere surviving stage of postnatal shock. Perhaps this had something to do with Jack’s lib
eration from Paediatric ICU. On Wednesday, I arrived for my morning visit at ten-thirty – only to be met by the usual morning nurse, who said, ‘Good news. Jack’s jaundice has totally cleared up – and we’ve moved him to the normal baby ward.’
‘You sure he’s free of everything?’ I asked.
‘Believe me,’ she said, ‘we wouldn’t release him from here unless we were certain all is well.’
‘Sorry, sorry’ I said. ‘I’ve just turned into a perpetual worrier.’
‘Welcome to parenthood.’
The baby ward was two floors down. The nurse phoned ahead to inform them that I was the actual mother of Jack Hobbs (‘We can’t be too careful these days’). When I arrived there, the ward sister on duty was waiting.
‘You’re Jack’s mum?’ she asked.
I nodded.
‘Your timing’s perfect,’ she said. ‘He needs to be fed.’
It was extraordinary to see him free from all the medical apparatus that had mummified him for the past ten days. Before he looked so desperately vulnerable. Now his face had shaken off that drugged look of shock that had possessed him during the first few days of his life. And though Sandy (through her platoon of experts) had reassured me that he’d have no received memories of these early medical traumas, I couldn’t help but feel more guilt. Guilt that I had done something wrong during my pregnancy – even though I couldn’t exactly pinpoint what that was.
And suddenly, that reproving voice inside my head started repeating, over-and-over again, ‘You brought this on yourself. You did it to him. Because you really didn’t want him …’
Shut up!
I found myself shuddering and gripping the sides of Jack’s crib. The nurse on duty studied me with concern. She was in her mid-twenties: large, dumpy – but someone who immediately exuded decency.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
‘Just a little tired, that’s all,’ I said, noticing her name tag: McGuire.
‘Wait until you get him home,’ she said with an easy laugh. But instead of getting annoyed at this innocently flippant comment, I managed a smile – because I didn’t want anyone to know the manic distress that was encircling me at the moment.
‘Ready to take him?’ the nurse asked.
No, I am not ready. I’m not ready for any of this. Because I can’t cope. Because …
‘Sure,’ I said, my smile tight.
She reached in, and gingerly gathered him up. He was very docile until he was put into my arms. At which point, he instantly began to cry. It wasn’t a loud cry, but it was certainly persistent – like someone who felt instantly uncomfortable with the hands now holding him. And that admonishing voice inside my head told me, ‘Well, of course he’s crying. Because he knows it was you who did him harm.’
‘Is he your first?’ the nurse asked.
‘Yes,’ I said, wondering if my nervousness was showing.
‘Don’t worry about the crying then. Believe me, he’ll get to like it within a day.’
Why are you trying to humour me? It’s so clear that Jack knows I meant him harm, knows I really was trying to hurt him, knows I’m incapable of being a mother. Which is why he can’t stand this first physical contact with me. He knows.
‘Can I get you a chair?’ the nurse asked me.
‘That would be good,’ I said, as my legs were suddenly feeling rubbery.
She found a straight-back plastic chair. I sat down, cradling Jack. He kept roaring – a true cry from someone who was terrified by the company they were now keeping.
‘Maybe if you tried feeding him …’ the nurse suggested. ‘He’s due a feed.’
‘I’ve been having problems extracting milk,’ I said.
‘Well, he’ll clear that problem up straight away,’ she said with another of her amiable laughs which was supposed to put me at my ease, but just made me feel even more self-conscious. So, cradling the still-screaming Jack with one arm, I tried to lift up my teeshirt and bra with my spare hand. But Jack’s cries made me hyper-nervous, with the result that, every time I attempted to yank up my shirt, I seemed to be losing my grip on him. Which made him even more disconcerted.
‘Let me take him there for a moment while you sort yourself out,’ the nurse said.
I’m not going to sort myself out. Because I can’t sort myself out.
‘Thank you,’ I said. As soon as she relieved me of Jack, he stopped crying. I pulled up my teeshirt and freed my right breast from the nursing bra I was wearing. My hands were sweaty. I felt desperately tense – in part, because my milk ducts had been blocked again over the past few days. But also because I was holding my child and all I felt was terror.
You’re not fit for this … you can’t do this …
Once the breast was exposed, the nurse returned Jack to me. His reaction to my touch was almost Pavlovian: cry when you feel Mommy’s hands. And cry he did. Profusely. Until his lips touched my nipple, at which point he started making the greedy suckling noises of someone who was desperately hungry.
‘There he goes,’ the nurse said, nodding approvingly as he clamped his gums around my nipple and began to suck hard. Immediately, it felt as if a clothes pin had been applied to my breast. Though his mouth may have been toothless, his gums were steel-reinforced. And he clamped down so hard my initial reaction was a muffled, surprised scream.
‘You all right there?’ the nurse asked, still trying to be all-smiles – even though, with each passing moment, I was certain that she was writing me off as inadequate and completely unsuited for maternal duties.
‘His gums are just a little …’
But I didn’t get to finish the sentence as he bit down so hard that I actually shrieked. Worst yet, the pain had been so sudden, so intense, that I inadvertently yanked him off my breast – which sent him back into screaming mode.
‘Oh, God, sorry, sorry, sorry’ I said.
The nurse remained calm. She immediately collected Jack from me, settling him down moments after she had him in her arms. I sat there, my breast exposed and aching, feeling useless, stupid, and desperately guilty.
‘Is he all right?’ I asked, my voice thick with shock.
‘Just got a little fright, that’s all,’ she said. ‘As did you.’
‘I really didn’t mean to …’
‘You’re grand, really. Happens all the time. Especially if you’re having a little problem with the milk flow. Now hang on there a sec – I think I know how we can sort this problem out.’
Using her free hand, she reached for a phone. Around a minute later, another nurse arrived with the dreaded breast pump.
‘Ever use one of these things before?’ Nurse McGuire asked.
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Off you go then,’ she said, handing it to me.
Once again, the pain was appalling – but, at least this time, short-lived. After a minute of vigorous pumping, the dam burst – and though I now had tears streaming down my face the relief was enormous too.
‘You right now?’ the nurse asked, all cheerful and no-nonsense.
I nodded. She handed Jack back to me. God, how he hated my touch. I moved him quickly to the now-leaking nipple. He was reluctant to go near it again, but when his lips tasted the milk, he was clamped on to it like a vice, sucking madly. I flinched at the renewed pain – but forced myself to stay silent. I didn’t want to put on another show for this exceedingly tolerant nurse. But she sensed my distress.
‘Hurts a bit, does it?’ she asked.
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘You’re not the first mother who’s said that. But you’ll get used to it so.’
God, why was she so damn nice? Especially when I didn’t deserve it. I mean, I’d read all the damn books and magazine articles, extolling the life-enhancing pleasures of breast-feeding: the way it cements the relationship between mother-and-child, and fosters the deepest of maternal instincts. Breast is best ran the theme of all these pro-suckling diatribes – and they were quick to denounce n
on-believers as wantonly selfish, uncaring, and inadequate. All of which I felt right now. Because the one thing nobody ever told me about breastfeeding was: it hurts so fucking much.
‘Well, of course it hurts,’ Sandy said when I phoned her around noon that day. ‘Hell, I used to dread every moment of it.’
‘Really?’ I said, grabbing on to this revelation.
‘Believe me, it didn’t give me a big motherly buzz.’
I knew she was lying – for my benefit. Because I was often in and out of Sandy’s house in the months right after the birth of her first son. And she didn’t display the slightest sign of discomfort while breastfeeding. On the contrary, she was so damn adept at this business that I once saw her ironing a shirt while simultaneously suckling her son.
‘It’s just a bit of a shock at first, that’s all,’ she said. ‘When are you going back to the hospital?’
‘Tonight,’ I said, hearing the dread in my voice.
‘I bet he’s beautiful,’ she said. ‘Do you have a digital camera?’
‘Uh, no.’
‘Well, get one and you can start emailing me photos.’
‘Right,’ I said, my voice so flat that Sandy immediately said, ‘Sally … tell me.’
‘Tell you what?’
‘Tell me what’s going on?’
‘Nothing’s going on.’
‘You don’t sound good.’
‘Just a bad day, that’s all.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Yes,’ I lied. Because the truth was …
What?
I had no damn idea what the truth here was. Except that I didn’t want to go back to the hospital that night. As soon as I hung up the phone I escaped from the workmen who were everywhere in the house, and took refuge in Tony’s study. I sank down into his desk chair and stared at the pile of manuscript pages stacked face down to the left of his computer keyboard. There was the large black Moleskin notebook, underneath a circular pen holder. I always knew that Tony was an inveterate keeper of diaries. I found this out the first night we slept together at his shambolic Cairo flat – when I woke up around three to take a pee and discovered him in the living room, scribbling in a black-bound book.
A Special Relationship Page 16
