Like Being a Wife

by Catherine Harris

  ‘You know, the thing is,’ he says after a pause to double-check his top right lateral incisor, ‘Lionel Richie, the Commodores, I really don’t care. Jack’s a wanker, and Shirley’s going to marry him. And if that’s what she wants then she’s a wanker too.’

  Typically I’d have something to say about this, but I’ve got a mouth full of toothpaste and can’t currently speak. ‘See you in the sack,’ says Toby as I fast-track my gargle and then he flicks off the light as I go to rinse.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ I say when I eventually climb into bed. ‘I’m the maid of honour. The show’s up and running now. I’ve got to see it through.’

  ‘I know you do. I know you do. I just wish you’d never said yes.’

  Thankfully, there’s only one major job still to be done, the dresses: the bride’s, the flower girls’ and mine. I take the morning off to accompany Shirley and Mrs de Young to visit Mrs Domanski, the seamstress, who awaits us at ten o’clock. It’s a clunky little shop with a bell above the door. It expels a festive twang as we go inside. Jack’s mother was supposed to be coming too, but she double-booked so had to stand aside. Shirley says it’s nothing to worry about, but Mrs de Young is not impressed.

  ‘It’s a question of priorities,’ she mutters as Mrs Domanski begins to fuff around with the measuring tape. I raise my arms as she reaches around my waist.

  After some discussion, it turns out the dresses won’t be as big a headache as I’d feared. Mrs Domanski will add sleeves to the original wedding dress and modify some of the details to fit the updated theme, that way she’ll only have to whip up five new outfits instead of six. And that shouldn’t take too long, she assures us, because they’ll be based on the initial designs. She’s already pulled the patterns from her files. ‘Once you select the fabrics, the rest is simple mechanics,’ she says, indicating her workroom where three Vietnamese women labour at the machines.

  ‘I like this one,’ says Shirley, fondling a square of velvet aquamarine.

  I take the swatch and rub it between my fingers. It’s so soft it feels like a powder puff. ‘A bit much though, don’t you think?’ I say, hoping to push her towards something less ostentatious. ‘We’ve seen some other lovely winter-weights.’

  But Shirley won’t be moved. She purses her lips and begins to rub her damaged thigh and I know there’s no point pressing any harder.

  When I tell Toby he says he’ll still love me no matter what Shirley makes me wear to the wedding and he kisses both my eyebrows to seal the point. Besides, he says, I will look suitably Baltic in my floor-length luminescent aqua velvet cloth. Then he promises to find a matching tie so that in the photographs we will seem coordinated, like a real couple.

  ‘You should marry him, as soon as you can,’ instructs my mother next time we talk. ‘Before he has second thoughts and moves out. He’s too good for you. Frankly, I don’t know why he sticks around.’

  ‘Do you hear yourself?’ I say. ‘I’m your daughter. You’re meant to be on my side.’

  ‘Ha,’ she says, and accuses me of being too sensitive. But not before reminding me that blood is thicker than water. ‘You know, if I didn’t tell you these things, who would? As your parent, it’s my responsibility.’

  ‘Bye,’ I tell her and hang up the phone.

  Toby is sitting on the couch reading beside Ron. He smiles at me and puts down his book.

  ‘What do you want for dinner?’ I ask him.

  ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I lie and steer the conversation back to food. ‘Really,’ I tell him, ‘I’ll cook anything you want.’ And I mean it too, within reason. I’ll set the table and do it properly for a change, with our silver cutlery and candles and the matching floral serviettes on the side. I’ll fold them like my grandmother showed me how, into swan-like shapes which stand up by themselves, and I’ll set a place for Ron as well, and we can make like a family and talk about our days.

  Space

  The arrival of the babies precipitated the need for extensive renovations. One couldn’t house them in the standard quarters, they wouldn’t appreciate the comprehensive wine list, for one thing, and the bunk beds simply weren’t appropriate. And then there was the issue of space, or lack of space, as long-time Centre resident, Jenny Lypstock, put it. The council already had the adults rotating through the primary accommodation buildings in alphabetical groups of ten. You couldn’t fold newborns into that kind of mix, she argued, without upsetting the dining services schedule (who was going to nurse the infants, when, where, and how exactly were they going to do it, not to mention when would the breastfeeders themselves get a chance to eat, and then you’d have the catering staff up in arms as well).

  At the planning meeting, Clive Roundtree proposed a buddy system (one grown-up would watch the baby, while their ‘buddy’ went to the dining hall, collecting a 2.5 ration which the three of them would eat together later in a quasi-family configuration). But Jenny Lypstock declared that idea absurd. Principled and high-minded but absurd is how she put it, pointing out that babies don’t have any teeth or motor control, so how were they going to eat the honeyed ribs, or chop and chew the Shangri-la chicken? Let alone the host of other issues, such as where to get that many nappies on a regular basis, and who would do all the changing.

  ‘And let’s not forget the elephant in the room – how to find the money to feed those extra mouths,’ called out Henry Bendell, the Centre CFO, which brought on a round of applause, and then a bout of crying, as the babies who, to that point, had been peacefully asleep in their caregivers’ arms, were startled by the commotion into rousing wails of affront.

  Who brought all the babies anyway? Where did they come from? Someone must have seen something. It wasn’t possible that they’d just arrived there on their own. That many babies would leave a trail. Somewhere there would be a zillion little footprints.

  ‘Do you know who brought all the babies?’ asked Henry Bendell after yet another sleepless night.

  ‘God, don’t look at me,’ said Jenny Lypstock. ‘I don’t have a maternal bone in my body. And I can’t drive.’

  ‘It probably took more than one person to organise it. How many babies do you think there are anyway?’

  ‘At least two thousand,’ said Jenny.

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ said Henry. ‘At least two thousand. And two thousand infants you can’t transport by yourself.’

  ‘Are you implying I was somehow involved?’

  ‘Not everyone would need to drive a car. You could be an accomplice without driving a car.’

  ‘What possible interest could I have in being an accomplice?’

  ‘Babies are said to give a woman a feeling of completeness. A pretty, intelligent, single lady such as yourself might be looking for that kind of purpose.’

  ‘Screw you, Henry,’ said Jenny Lypstock. ‘Maybe you were an accomplice. Maybe you need a purpose.’ And she stormed off, double BabyBjörn secured tightly to her small efficient body, its tiny charges bouncing madly in time with each exasperated step.

  Despite Jenny’s growing preoccupation with cost of living indices and residential real estate prices in several major metropolitan areas, she still wasn’t quite ready to move out of the Centre, the only home she had ever really known. Instead, she threw herself into the renovation project with the gusto of a person not sleep-deprived and covered in baby vomit. Some called it nervous energy, others, sublimation.

  ‘Chill out, brussels sprout,’ said her good friend, Candy Mack. ‘These kids are important, but so is your health.’

  ‘Yeah. Go with the flow,’ said her other friend, Lucille. ‘Let the divine energy guide your way.’

  ‘Be cool like a swimming pool,’ chimed in Nigel, who was on beverage detail and happened at that moment to be standing beside their table refilling their hand-crafted, white-glazed clay coffee mugs. ‘Y
ou’ve got to pay attention to the NOW. Before you know it, those babies will be fully grown and away at uni. Don’t blow this moment trying to make it perfect. Sometimes near enough has got to be good enough.’

  ‘Big words from a high school dropout,’ said Jenny Lypstock, rolling her eyes at the roughly assembled chorus.

  ‘Eff you,’ said Nigel. ‘At least I can drive.’

  ‘He’s got a point,’ said Candy Mack. ‘He’s actually quite a good driver. And he does raise the obvious question, why burn the candle at both ends? These kids don’t look like they’re going anywhere any time soon. Why not relax, pace yourself?’

  ‘Definitely. That’s what I’d do,’ said Lucille. ‘Besides, I thought you’d had enough of this place. What about all those travel plans?’

  Images of lush seaside resorts flashed through Jenny’s mind. She could almost taste the pineapple wedge floating in her pina colada, feel the paper umbrella tickle her nose as she raised her coffee mug for another sip. ‘Maybe after I’ve confirmed the roofing contractor and negotiated the bulk deal on the bassinets,’ she said. ‘Now could we please focus.’ But the island mood stayed with her and she spent the afternoon unable to shake thoughts of tarmacs and departure lounges and bright, expensive cocktails nervously spilled on counter tops in cheap airport bars.

  That night Jenny’s mind flitted between requisition orders, staffing shortages, and the logistics of the babies. As an orphan (her parents had died in a traffic accident soon after her birth), she felt ill-equipped to properly appraise the situation. Was one literally born with the desire to be a parent, and if not, where did it come from? Clearly someone had to look after the babies, and if it wasn’t going to be the government then it would have to be the people. But what if the people, or in this case, the parents, didn’t want to do that? What if there were other activities they preferred to occupy their time, like whitewater rafting and snorkelling? Is that what had happened here? Had the parents simply abandoned their progeny in favour of alternative pursuits? Lord knows the babies seemed hungry enough when they’d arrived at the Centre, and most of them needed changing. But did that make caring for them the members’ responsibility, particularly if they hadn’t asked for the job, and some at least were having thoughts of suspending their affiliation?

  It occurred to Jenny that the very act of entertaining these ideas itself constituted an essential disloyalty, as though the questioning represented some fundamental incompatibility between her outlook and the values shared by the majority of the Centre membership. Even before the arrival of the babies, Jenny had often imagined herself living in a small one-bedroom apartment in the middle of some city where cars outnumbered trees and people thought cooking meant slitting a corner of the plastic film before inserting their frozen meal into the microwave for exactly five minutes on high. She expected she might feel settled there, as though the ruckus outside would cancel out her internal disquiet; she longed to be able to turn up the external volume to drown out her private noise.

  She lay staring at the wallpaper on the bedroom ceiling, a 70s melange of silver, pink and grey, which, as this was her week on the top bunk, was only about two feet away from her face, and wondered who the hell thought that pattern was attractive. That was a person she would like to meet.

  At four am she finally got up. The nursing auditorium was crowded with cribs and rocking chairs, and hundreds of volunteer wet nurses cradling the hungry babies in their arms.

  ‘Here, I’ll take them,’ she said to Mary Jo, who had Lyall #41 and Richard #6 balanced on her knees. They were both well fed and dopey and barely sighed as she relocated them into the BabyBjörn she had secured around her torso. She had grown so used to it she rarely took it off now except for bathing. It had moulded so exactly to her shape, it was almost like a second skin.

  The gender distribution of the babies was fairly evenly spread: 1073 girls, 927 boys. Of the most popular names, there were 139 Anthonys, 66 Sarahs, and 43 Roberts.

  Although the planning meeting didn’t lay out the exact whys and wherefores of a baby processing system, enough parameters were put in place so that after an initial adjustment period a workable schedule seemed to organically evolve in which the same group of people came to care for the same cluster of infants, creating informal clans or tribes identified by group name and decoration, each of which was stitched to the yellow jumpsuits of the children and the primary caregivers in question, obviating the need for other more literal methods of identification.

  Jenny didn’t have any direct experience working with children, but her background in project management made her the obvious choice for interim infant flow coordinator. She walked into the crèche to find hundreds of babies decked out in highly distinctive bibs festooned with pompoms and badges from places like the Grampians and Wilsons Prom, souvenirs acquired on camping trips taken well before their time, their little yellow bodies lolling about on the polished linoleum floor like unclaimed luggage on a baggage carousel.

  Lucille was one of the primary caregivers on duty that day. Her jumpsuit was extravagantly embroidered with the names of ‘her’ babies: Abby, Abe, Abigail, Adeline, Alexander, Alexandria, Alexis, Allison, Angela and Astrid. Each name was followed by a small silver star sewn in superscript, like its own personal asterisk. ‘It’s my Monday group,’ said Lucille. ‘The Super Stars.’

  ‘That must have taken you hours,’ said Jenny. ‘I had no idea you were such an accomplished seamstress.’

  ‘Oh, you know, once they’re asleep there’s not a whole lot else to do.’

  ‘When you can get them to sleep.’

  ‘Yes. Obviously. I can’t tell you how much I’m dreading teething. It’s bad enough now. Feed them, burp them, put them down, listen to them cry, pick them up again. I live for that moment when their little eyelids start to flutter. It’s the greatest feeling in the world, isn’t it, when they finally nod off? That sense of freedom.’

  ‘Yes, but you do know you don’t have to do it, don’t you?’ said Jenny. ‘It’s a voluntary posting. There’s no obligation. If you don’t like your roster, we can always assign your tasks to someone else.’

  ‘Oh no, don’t get me wrong,’ said Lucille. ‘I don’t want to stop. Really, I don’t. I love it actually. It’s just kind of fun to complain about it at the same time. Like, I’m so exhausted, these kids are running me ragged, that sort of thing. But I wouldn’t trade it for the world. These babies, they’re my life now. We’re a family. Albeit a blended family, but a family nonetheless. The whining is just part of it, the whole parenting routine.’

  ‘Is it?’ said Jenny. ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Lucille. ‘That was insensitive. But take it from me, if your parents hadn’t died on that highway all those years ago, they would have complained about you too.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘But would they have embroidered my clothing?’

  ‘That I can’t say,’ said Lucille. ‘But I’d like to think they would have. After all, they had the foresight to arrange for you to live here, didn’t they? It’s not as though you had to go off to some foster family situation. Then again, not everyone can sew. They might have had other talents. Maybe they would have woven your little blankets, or knitted your little booties. Parents bring whatever skills they can to the family table, and I’m sure yours would have brought a lot.’

  ‘Wow. That’s really kind of you to say,’ said Jenny. ‘Though I guess I’ll never really know. I mean, look around. Talk about widespread dereliction of duty. I’m sure Abigail’s parents, or Alexander’s, or Astrid’s all seem perfectly respectable to the outside world, but where are they now? Not at home knitting, that’s for sure.’

  ‘No, probably not,’ said Lucille. ‘I’ll grant you that. But at least these little ones have me now, praise be.’

  Construction on the baby housing complex starte
d the same week as the rain. Jenny had a nine o’clock walk-through scheduled with Henry Bendell, who called to suggest they meet at the Centre cafe instead of the pergola, as it would be much drier inside, and he fancied a cup of coffee.

  He was early. She was late.

  ‘What do you want, Henry?’ asked Jenny as she pulled out a chair and sat down on the wrought iron. She wore her embroidered ‘Jenny’ T-shirt under her new stain-resistant khaki pants-suit.

  Henry was a big man, but he looked even bigger tucked into that tiny Centre cafe table. He went to adjust his position and knocked his coffee all down the front of his corduroys. ‘That’s why I always wear dark colours,’ said Henry Bendell, madly wiping himself with a flimsy, embossed white Centre cafe paper napkin.

  ‘You’re a wise person,’ said Jenny Lypstock, ‘though you should consider the stain-resistant garment. Virtually indestructible, this fabric. And in this current environment the benefits are obvious.’

  ‘Yes, I see your point,’ said Henry. ‘Very practical. So, how’s everything going with the babies?’

  ‘You mean with the early weaning?’

  ‘Yes, and in general. Any takers on that community adoption scheme?’

  ‘The problem there is that many of our members are now quite attached to the infants. No, I should say extremely attached.’

  ‘Bonded?’

  ‘Yes. In a familial way. They don’t want to give up the babies. They feel that the babies have become their babies. Some even think they look alike.’

  ‘That’s understandable, given the matching yellow jumpsuits.’

  ‘Fuck John Lennon.’

  ‘My sentiment exactly. But it doesn’t change their position. If anything they become more insistent. They’re my feelings. Who are you to tell me? That sort of thing.’

  ‘And the accelerated early weaning?’

  ‘Well you can imagine, no one’s getting much sleep.’