Eyes On You: A Ghost Story

by Steven Jenkins

  It’s almost out.

  It’s nearly here.

  It’s…

  The midwife takes our howling baby girl and places her onto Aimee’s chest. Aimee looks at our baby with tears streaming down her cheeks. She lets go of my hand to hold her. I kiss Aimee on her sweat-soaked forehead. She smiles at me.

  I can barely remember cutting the cord. I know I did. I specifically requested it. But everything’s a blur, like a cluttered dream. When I take our baby from Aimee, I cradle her, staring down into my daughter’s beautiful blue eyes with an overwhelming sense of joy, mixed in with incredible relief. I have to sit down on the chair, still with her in my arms. Too scared that I might faint, that I might drop her. I’ve never fainted before, so today wouldn’t be the best day to start.

  My baby has stopped crying, her eyes are half-closed, her chubby cheeks bright red, her tiny head covered in wispy blonde hair. I fight hard not to cry. I said that I wouldn’t. Just couldn’t understand why any man would. Only women cry.

  But now here I am, a grown man, sobbing my heart out in front of my daughter.

  Our little angel from Heaven.

  A gift.

  Isobel.

  22

  “Can I get you another coffee, Shirl?” Aimee asks Mum as she sets Isobel down in her Moses basket. Isobel’s eyes are opening and closing, still drowsy from her last feed.

  “No thank you, Aimee,” Mum replies, waving her hand in protest. “I’ll be off soon.”

  Aimee sits down on the armchair, just as Mum gets off the couch and walks over to the basket, leaving me slouched across the cushions, completely shattered—yet another sleepless night of crying and 4:00 a.m. feeds. I could easily just fall asleep right here, right now, just by closing my stinging eyes. Aimee says I should sleep in the spare room; she tells me that she’s the one on maternity leave, so why should we both suffer. But I won’t. I hate sleeping away from them. Maybe it’s just the loneliness of being in a single bed again; memories of living back home with Mum. Or it could be the simple fact that I miss them every moment that I’m away. Never thought I’d feel like this…so fatherly. But here I am, ready to pass out on the couch, a combination of fatigue, stress, and work.

  God knows how people cope with twins.

  Mum leans over Isobel and sniffs her forehead. “I can’t get enough of that smell. Reminds me of you, Matt—when you were this age. You never forget that smell. I tell you, if they could bottle it, they’d make a bloody killing.”

  “Tell you what, Mum,” I say, eyes-half closed, “why don’t you take one of her nappies home and sniff that. I’m sure that smell will take you back a few years.”

  Mum rolls her eyes at me. “No, it’s all right, Matt. I’ll stick with the forehead if it’s all the same to you.”

  Mum kisses Isobel on the top of her soft head, and then glances around the living room. “You two have done a marvellous job in this house. You really have. Didn’t notice the colour when I walked in. What is that?”

  “It’s called ‘Almost Oyster’,” Aimee replies, fulfilment in her tone as she also inspects the walls. “We got it on sale. Painted most of the house with it. Much better than that boring magnolia.”

  “Oh, yes,” Mum agrees, “Much better. It really goes with the light-brown carpet. I like it a lot.”

  “What are you both talking about?” I interrupt, suddenly feeling a little more awake. “It looks exactly the same. It’s just cream. There’s no difference. You’re both mad. And blind.”

  Aimee and Mum shake their heads in unison. “Men,” Mum says.

  “Yep,” Aimee continues. “They just don’t have a clue, do they Shirl? All they’re interested in is cars and big TVs.”

  I sit up on the couch, now fully awake. “Well, for one, you know as well as I do that I have no interest in cars. And secondly—do you see a big TV?”

  Mum looks over at the fifty-inch plasma on top of the glass cabinet. “Looks pretty big to me,” she says, a confused frown on her brow. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Exactly,” Aimee says. “There’s nothing wrong with it? It’s big enough.”

  “You women just don’t understand. I wanted a projector on the wall. Big speakers. The works. But no—I had to stick with our old calculator-sized screen instead.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Aimee says. “It’s fine for now.”

  Mum grabs her cream-coloured winter coat from the arm of the sofa chair. “You can’t have big speakers with this little one anyway. You could damage her eardrums. They’re very delicate at her age.”

  “Well, that’s why I told him that he’d have to wait,” Aimee points out, smugly, “until Isobel was older.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say, as I get up to see Mum out. “Whatever. You’ll just have to miss out on watching Downton Abbey on a hundred-inch screen, won’t you. You can watch it in the bedroom on that minuscule thirty-incher. See how you cope with that.”

  Mum buttons up her coat and walks over to Isobel, peering down with adoring eyes. “Well, I best get a move on. I’ve had a lovely afternoon.”

  “There’s no need to rush off so soon, Shirl,” Aimee says. “Why don’t you stay for dinner? You’re more than welcome to join us.”

  “No, no, I’ve got to be off,” Mum replies. “Don’t like driving too late in the afternoon.” She leans down and kisses Isobel on the forehead again. “See you later, sweetheart.”

  Even though I’m exhausted, a smile still creeps across my lips. It’s so great to see Mum happy again. I think she’s finally okay with living without me. It’s only taken her about two bloody years.

  “Right then,” Mum says, “that’s me done.” She kisses me on the cheek, and then Aimee. “I’ll see you all really soon.”

  We follow Mum to the front door.

  “See you on Halloween,” Aimee says. “You sure it’s okay for you to watch the baby?”

  “Of course it is,” Mum replies. “I’m looking forward to it. You kids have a good time.”

  I open the front door; Mum steps out onto the pavement. “Thanks, Mum,” I say. “See you in few days. Love you.”

  She blows a kiss as she walks up to her car. “Love you both. Give her a big kiss from me later.”

  She climbs into her car, gives us a wave, and then drives off down the street. Aimee and I both look at each other, and then groan simultaneously in relief.

  “Thank God for that,” Aimee says.

  “It wasn’t that bad,” I say, closing the front door. “Thought she’d be much worse.”

  Aimee grins. “I know. I’m only teasing you. She’s fine. I enjoyed today. She’s been a real help with everything.”

  We return to the living room and sit back down on the couch. “I’m so tired,” I say, yawning, hands clasped together, arms outstretched above. “What time is it?”

  Aimee checks her watch. “2:45 p.m.”

  “Is that all it is?”

  Aimee nods.

  “Really?”

  She parades the time right up to my face. “Look for yourself if you don’t believe me.”

  “I believe you, Aim. I’m just shocked how bushed I am—and it’s still so early.”

  “Well, you’re just getting old, Matt. Tiredness is the first sign.”

  “I thought it was grey hair.”

  Aimee leans in close to my head, examines my hair with her fingers. “You’ve definitely got a few greys coming through.”

  Laughing, I move my head away from her hand. “Get lost, butt-face.”

  Only six-thirty and it’s already dark. How depressing. God knows how I’m gonna cope when the clocks go back. Or is it forward? I can never remember. All I know is that I hate the long, cold nights. So roll on summer!

  Aimee is upstairs, bathing Isobel. I should help her really, but I’m way too shattered. Slumped on the couch, wearing just my old Oasis concert T-shirt and my Simpsons pyjama-bottoms, I check the planner on the TV, searching for a film Aimee recorded for me last week. Some crappy
‘80s horror, The Stuff. Something about a yogurt that kills people, or possesses people. One of the two…or maybe both. Can’t really remember now. Easy watching because my brain has lost all its basic functions since the baby’s arrived. I can’t remember where I put things, people’s names, appointments. I can’t follow movie plots, TV programmes. Nothing. They say it’s only the mother that gets baby-brain—but now I have my doubts.

  I find the movie and play it, not really in the mood to watch it, but happy for the distraction. After perhaps twenty-minutes of terrible dialogue and atrocious acting, I hear Aimee calling from the landing. I get up off the couch like a fat pig and walk over to the staircase. “What’s wrong?” I shout up to her. “Everything all right?”

  “Can you come up and take her.”

  “Okay,” I reply, as I make my way up the stairs with tired, heavy legs like iron.

  Aimee is sitting on the edge of our bed, Isobel cradled in her arms. I smile when I see how my little angel’s face looks, wrapped tightly in a pink towel, her hair and face still damp from the bath water.

  “Can you dry her and put a fresh nappy on? I’m going to jump in the bath and have a soak. Do you mind?”

  “Of course I don’t mind,” I reply, joining her on the bed.

  She carefully hands her over to me, and I can’t resist kissing her soft forehead.

  “I won’t be long,” Aimee says, removing her white dressing gown and heading for the bathroom. With just her blue underwear on, Aimee still looks as stunning as ever. Yeah, she may have put on a few pounds since having Isobel, but none of that bothers me. All I see is a perfect wife, willing to sacrifice anything for our baby. And that’s all that matters to me.

  “Did you have a nice bath?” I say to Isobel in a childlike voice, as I lay her at the centre of the double bed, unravelling the towel. “Did you have fun with Mammy? Did you splash her?” My heart melts when I see that gorgeous grin spread across her rosy cheeks. It’s probably wind, but who the hell cares?

  Drying her from head to toe, I can’t help but feel paranoid that she might be cold. I reach over to the radiator; it’s warm. Shit. Maybe she’s too warm.

  I take a clean nappy from the top drawer of the oak chest, and put it on her.

  When is she going to start talking? Can’t wait to hear those precious first words. It’s strange…I really want to savour every waking moment, but I still can’t wait for her to grow up, to laugh, to tell me about her day, to sing, whistle, run, to bring me home a painting from school. All those things and a million more. I’ll count the minutes until they arrive.

  But a teenage Isobel?

  Hell no!

  Couldn’t think of a worse fate for a father. All those horny bastards sleazing over my little girl. Feeding her bullshit lines just to get her into bed.

  Well not on my watch!

  I lean down and kiss Isobel on the cheek. “They’ll never mess you around, will they? Daddy won’t let them, will he?”

  Let’s just hope she doesn’t end up resenting me, and marrying a serial killer just to get back at me.

  Grabbing a clean vest and pyjamas from the drawer, I bring them over to the bed. Placing my palm behind her delicate head, I start to lift it gently, pulling her vest over it. I hate dressing her. I’m always worried that I’m hurting her. It doesn’t seem to bother Aimee though. They were born to do this shit. They were born to be mothers. For me, it takes a little longer. Even though sometimes I—

  The sound of wild splashing travels towards me.

  “Aimee?” I call out to her. “You all right in there?”

  No reply.

  I hear splashing again.

  “Aimee?” I repeat, making my way over to the bathroom. I push the door open and peer inside. “Is everything—”

  I gasp in horror.

  Aimee is thrashing around the bathtub, her head completely submerged under the water.

  Adrenalin surging, I reach into the water, grab hold of her left arm and try to pull her out.

  But I can’t.

  Her body is stuck to the bottom.

  The water’s too deep to pull her head out, so I secure both her wrists and pull as hard as I can.

  She still won’t budge.

  I try again. But it’s no use.

  Her body squirming, soapy-water splashing everywhere, I quickly yank the plug out, and then pick up the plastic jug from the floor. I start to scoop out the water as fast as humanly possible, throwing the contents over the tiles.

  One. Two. Three jugs.

  Then I lose count.

  Once the water line is close enough, I drop the jug into the bath, and then grab Aimee’s head, pulling it up to the surface.

  Fuck! It’s still an inch away from the top.

  I pick up the jug again and start to scoop out more water. She’s barely moving, prompting me to scoop even faster.

  And faster.

  Almost there.

  Faster.

  Half an inch.

  My pulse is racing.

  Just one more jug-full.

  Just one…

  Aimee bursts out of the water; eyes bloodshot, filled with terror. I yank her body half out of the bathtub as she coughs up water, struggling to breathe.

  “Jesus Fucking Christ, Aim,” I blurt out, my body trembling, still in shock.

  She tries to speak between coughs but she can’t.

  But then clarity hits me like a bus—and I work out exactly what Aimee is trying to say.

  ISOBEL!

  I storm out of the bathroom, almost slipping in the pools of water on the floor.

  In a split second I’m back in our bedroom.

  My chest tightens.

  The bed is empty.

  I can’t breathe. I hurry to the other side of the bed to see if she’s rolled off. The carpet is empty. Impossible!

  Where the hell is she?

  Dropping to my knees, I check under the bed. It’s bare, apart from a few stray shoes.

  Please God let me find her!

  Don’t do this to me!

  “Where is she, Matt?” Aimee asks from the bedroom doorway; her tone filled with alarm; her naked body dripping water over the floor.

  I have no answer.

  “Where the hell is she?” she repeats; this time a lot firmer.

  I stand up, eyes scanning the floor and room, hoping that somehow I’ve missed her. “She was right here,” I stutter “On the centre of the mattress.”

  Aimee pulls the quilt off the bed, then the pillows. “Then where the fuck is she, Matt?” she asks; her voice quivery; her hands shaking. “She’s not here.”

  I don’t reply. There’s nothing to do but look for her now. Nothing else matters.

  I open the wardrobe doors and separate the hanging clothes. She’s not there, just more shoes and other junk.

  “Stop!” Aimee shouts. “We need to listen for her.”

  I stand completely still like a sculpture, trying to listen out for Isobel. Maybe the sound of her breathing. Crying. Any signs of movement.

  Every second of silence feels like a lifetime. An eternity. A death sentence. Where the hell is she? How could she be missing? It doesn’t make sense.

  It’s just not possible.

  She was right there…on the bed.

  Safe.

  Happy.

  This is not happening…

  Just as I’m about to leave the bedroom, to ransack the rest of the house, to check that the front door is locked, I hear something.

  The faint sound of movement.

  Breathing.

  “Do you hear that?” I ask Aimee.

  Aimee shakes her head; tear-filled eyes wide open.

  Creeping across the room, breath held, body hunched, I try to follow the sound.

  It’s coming from the chest of drawers.

  Stomach somersaulting, I grasp the two handles and slide open the top drawer.

  Nothing. Just clean nappies, wet-wipes, and other baby things.

  Th
en the second.

  Nothing again. Just Aimee’s underwear.

  Body trembling, I open the third and final drawer.

  Please God let it be her.

  Please God.

  Don’t do this to me.

  Please…

  An irrepressible wash of tears comes over me when I see Isobel lying there, just a vest and nappy on, looking up at me. No weeping. No stress. Like nothing had happened. Like the world was just how she left it. Aimee is next to me, on her knees, sobbing loudly.

  She delicately takes Isobel out of the drawer and cradles her, kissing the top of her head. Aimee then looks at me, with those eyes. The same eyes I saw the day Isobel was born.

  Eyes of pure relief, happiness and horror, all rolled into one.

  “Get dressed,” I say, sharply. “We’re leaving.”

  I take Isobel from Aimee and finish dressing her on the bed. Aimee races around the bedroom, throwing clothes on. To Hell with packing. There’s nothing here of importance. Nothing worth staying for.

  Dying for.

  “Take the baby downstairs,” Aimee orders me, “and put some milk and a few bottles in a bag. And get some money.”

  “All right,” I reply, grabbing one of Aimee’s discarded shopping bags from the side of the bed. I then pull out a handful of nappies and a pack of wipes from the drawer, and stuff them into the bag. “Be quick. We’re out of this house in twenty seconds. Okay?”

  “I know.”

  She waves her hand to rush me out, but I’m already leaving. I’m downstairs in a second, Isobel tight to my chest. I hurry into the kitchen and grab my jacket from the back of the chair. I slip it on and then pat the pockets down for my wallet. Feeling its weight in the left pocket, I grab the car keys from the hook by the backdoor. I reach into the cupboard and pull out a tub of baby-formula, two empty bottles, and then shove them into the bag. Scanning the kitchen, I look for anything else I can just grab to take with us, just in case. But there’s nothing we need. I go into the living room and do the same. I see some cash on the coffee table and scoop it up. It’s just a few pound, but it might come in handy.

  Pacing the bottom of the stairs, Isobel starts to cry. She’s hungry. Jesus Christ! Not now. There’s no time to make up a bottle. We have to leave right now!

  “Come on, Aimee!” I yell up to her, my body tightening as Isobel’s sobbing increases. “We have to go! Isobel needs milk!”