Across the Water

by Ingrid Alexandra

  Another wave rolls through me, so powerful I can’t even scream.

  ‘It’s fine; it will be fine,’ Rob’s saying as his face fades in and out of focus.

  But I know he’s wrong. And I feel like I’m drowning. Like no matter what happens from here, my life as I know it is slipping away. As another life flutters frantically within me, mine is coming to an end.

  Rob’s eyes hold mine and I grip his collar in two fists, pulling his face close to mine. I try to capture it, this beautiful thing we share – the essence of what we are, what we were – one more time, before it’s gone.

  ‘Don’t leave me,’ I beg him.

  Rob’s eyes, familiar and foreign at once, are full of warmth and fear and something new I can’t identify.

  ‘Never.’

  Chapter 3

  Liz

  June, 2017

  Sunday, 8:49am

  The smell of bacon tugs me from a fractured dream. I haven’t had this one before: a blue-eyed child stares at me with pleading eyes, reaching out as if asking to be held. It’s innocuous enough out of context, but I jerk awake, heart pounding, and reach out to find Adam’s side of the bed empty. I panic. Is it Monday already? Has he left without saying goodbye? But then I register the smell – bacon! – and remember – it’s Sunday! – and my heart sings.

  I sit up and smooth down my hair just as Adam appears in the doorway wearing nothing but the cheesy love-heart boxers I bought him for Valentine’s day. His smile steals my breath.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he says when his eyes catch mine, with that breathless awe that makes me giddy. Grinning, he crawls across the bed and cups my face, then kisses my lips. ‘You’re so fucking beautiful.’

  ‘Shut up,’ I shove his shoulder, beaming beneath his attention. I marvel at how different he is to all the men I’ve known before – openly loving, saying whatever’s on his mind. He reminds me of an exuberant child. ‘Aren’t you cold?’

  ‘How can I be cold when I’m close to you?’

  ‘Ha.’ I roll my eyes, laughing despite myself.

  ‘Actually, I am a bit.’ Adam mock-shivers as he slips under the covers and wraps me in his arms. His skin is like ice. ‘Kitchen’s a bit draughty.’

  ‘The whole house is draughty,’ I mutter, then bite my lip because I know I’ve done nothing but complain since we got here.

  My husband frowns.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, feeling bad for spoiling the mood.

  ‘Stop it.’ He lifts my chin with his finger. ‘You know what? If this is too much, maybe you should come with me.’

  ‘What do you mean? Where?’

  ‘To Sydney. If things go well, I’ll only be up and down the next few weeks. I could do without the commute, and if you hate it here so much, we can find a short-stay apartment …’

  I stop him with a finger to his lips. ‘Adam. We can’t afford it.’

  My husband’s face clouds, the way it always does when we talk of money these days.

  ‘I’m sorry, baby,’ I keep my voice light. ‘It’s a lovely idea. I know it won’t be easy for you either, driving all that way. And I’ll hate being apart for so long. But it’s a short time in the scheme of things, and it will be worth it, when you get the deal.’

  Adam exhales through his nose. ‘It’s not just that. I’m worried about leaving you here all alone. Especially after what you’ve been through.’ He looks up, his eyes so full of concern I have to look away.

  ‘I know. But I’ve been getting better.’

  As a case worker for a counselling and respite centre for women in crisis, I can encounter some pretty distressing situations. But one case in particular involving a young, single woman and her baby really stayed with me. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder was the diagnosis. I saw a counsellor, was put on medication and it seems to be helping. But sometimes, still, I wake in a cold sweat.

  Adam doesn’t say anything, so I add, ‘And we don’t have a choice. This is just what needs to be done. And it will be worth it, in the end.’

  ‘You’re right,’ he says with a sigh. ‘And when the settlement date for the sale of this old place is finally here, and we get the rest of the money. Then. Then we’ll be out of debt and we can finally relax.’

  I smile and rub his arm reassuringly. ‘They’ve seen the house, paid the deposit … they’re keen. It will happen.’

  Adam nods, but his sunny mood has evaporated. I can’t blame him. As if losing his father wasn’t bad enough, Tim’s left behind one hell of a mess to clean up. And until it’s sorted, until the sale of this house is final and the money from selling his dad’s business is in the bank, we’re neck-deep in debt.

  Last year ended terribly for Adam. One thing after another went disastrously wrong for him and it was so hard to watch. My upbeat, generous husband – then, my fiancé after only a month’s courtship – was screwed over by the business partner who had not only stolen his girlfriend (he caught them in bed together a couple of months before he met me) but had cleared out the company’s joint bank account, leaving him penniless. And this year hasn’t been the easiest so far either. He says more often than I’m comfortable hearing from someone so dear to me, that I’m the only thing that’s keeping him holding on.

  Adam has felt the loss of his father more than he’s let on, and I suspect that, in part, it might be that he’s mourning the relationship he wished he’d had with his father. They were never close and, according to Adam, visits between them were brief and strained.

  I think part of Adam blames his father for his mother walking out on them when he was little. We have that in common, Adam and I. Absent mothers, both of whom shirked the role of motherhood and chose to lead lives separate from their families. I sometimes wonder if this has anything to do with us not wanting children, or whether some people just prefer their independence to willing slavery. Personally, I’d prefer to regret not having children than to regret having them. And there’s no way of knowing which way it will turn out until it’s too late.

  Whenever Adam speaks of his father, which isn’t often, I get the sense that he’s never really respected him. ‘He was weak,’ he’s said more than once. ‘He should have tried harder – with both of us. I can hardly blame her for getting bored.’ And then he’ll get a faraway look in his eyes and, as I often do when I think of my own mother, I wonder whether he’s wondering why she didn’t take him with her. Perhaps it’s easier for him to blame his father than accept the terrible truth: his mother simply didn’t love him enough.

  Adam’s father, Tim, only became successful after his wife, Diane, left and moved to France with a wealthy banker. Perhaps he thought he was showing her, in her absence, that she’d made a mistake. That he could succeed in business and provide the sort of life she wanted, after all. But with the exception of a brief phone call when Tim died, Adam hasn’t spoken to his mother in years.

  In the end, I suppose we should be grateful to Tim because, for all his quirks and flaws, he raised Adam single-handedly, and he’s the reason Adam gets a second chance. And now – fingers crossed – we’ll have enough money to buy a house back in London and to rebuild the business. I want Adam to achieve his dream so badly it hurts. And I want him to make peace with the memory of his father.

  ***

  I roll onto my side and drape an arm over Adam’s waist, kissing the patch of skin at his neck. ‘The woman across the creek has a baby,’ I say conversationally, determined to change the subject and coax back Adam’s good mood. ‘A new one, five, six months old maybe. Lucky we’re on this side of the creek, hey?’

  ‘Erica?’ Adam’s brow furrows.

  ‘No, not her. The younger one, the one in the middle house.’

  Adam shakes his head. ‘No, that can’t be right.’

  I laugh. ‘What, you think I’ve imagined it? I saw her! She was holding a new baby. It was crying, I could hear it from here.’

  ‘What did she look like?’

  ‘Long, red hair. Quite beautiful, actually.’
<
br />   Adam taps a finger to his lips. ‘I don’t think I actually ever met Rob’s wife, but I’ve seen photos on Facebook and I’m fairly sure she had red hair. Hmm. Maybe she was babysitting or something.’

  ‘Ah. I didn’t know breastfeeding was part of babysitting services these days.’ I blush at what I’ve accidentally confessed. ‘Er, not that I was looking. I couldn’t help but see. She was standing right in the window.’

  Adam looks strangely pensive.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He shrugs. ‘It’s just I’d heard they … you, know. Couldn’t. But maybe I’ve got that wrong. What did Rob say her name was …? Oh, I have it. Delilah! Like the song.’

  I stare at him blankly and he laughs. ‘‘Hey there, Delilah’. No?’

  ‘Must be before my time,’ I quip and Adam grins. He leans in and kisses me on the lips.

  ‘Dee, Rob calls her. He’s been a local since Dad bought this place. Decent guy. I had a few pints with him at the pub once or twice and he got quite pissed one night … I’m pretty sure I remember him saying he was keen for kids, but …’ He looks thoughtful, then breaks into a warm smile. ‘Well, that’s great news! Good for them.’

  I think of the woman, the jaybird cries of the flailing infant. ‘Is it?’ I say with a snort.

  Adam tugs me to his chest, his stubble grazing my cheek. ‘I said it’s good for them,’ he repeats. And we both laugh.

  Chapter 4

  Dee

  December, 2016

  Monday, 9:45pm

  Recovery Unit, Brave Cove Hospital

  ‘That’s not how you do it, little one,’ the midwife, Lisa, is cooing while another midwife I’ve never seen before hovers at my bedside. ‘You need to open your mouth, darling.’

  Lisa’s been here since 7:30 this morning, and until recently I’ve been glad to have her around, but right now I just want her to fuck off.

  I’m exhausted, numb with shock and disbelief, and the tiny creature she’s trying to coax to suckle at my breast looks bizarre and alien to me. She’s too skinny and doesn’t look right. Her features are unfamiliar; nothing about her is anything close to what I expected.

  Lisa’s persisting with the breastfeeding, even though nothing’s happening. The baby doesn’t even seem to realise I’m it’s mother. I’m feeling more than faintly irritated. I don’t give a shit about breastfeeding right now. I don’t give a shit about anything. I just want to sleep. The lights are too bright in here, and I’m so groggy I feel half dead. I want everyone to go away and leave me alone instead of expecting me to pass some fucking breastfeeding exam when I’ve been in labour all day and was just drugged to the eyeballs after my emergency C-section went wrong. It’s all I can do not to shout at them all; except of course I haven’t the energy for that.

  When the epidural wore off during the operation, the pain was so excruciating I screamed. I begged the anaesthetist for some relief (I swear to God he was the only person in the hospital who actually listened to what I wanted) and he was very obliging. He’d been there when they first started cutting me open; I asked him whether it was happening yet, as I was feeling a faint pulling around my abdomen. He told me yes, it had begun, and I remember lying there looking up at Rob, both of us paralysed by the enormity of what was happening.

  I can’t remember what drug I was given, but it knocked me out so much I could barely process anything. Once it – Ruby – was out, they allowed Rob to cut the cord before taking him away. I couldn’t believe it. Why had they taken Rob away? Where was the baby? It seemed appalling that after what I’d just endured, my husband got to see our baby before I did. When I’d done all the work, made all the sacrifices, and was still lying on an operating table with my abdomen sliced open.

  ‘Come on, sweetie, you can do it,’ Lisa’s coaxing me again, and I can’t take it anymore. Where is Rob? Does he know where I am? That the baby and I are okay? It seems ridiculous that family aren’t allowed to be in the recovery room.

  I try to speak but I can only croak. The midwives are oblivious to me anyway; the focus is all on Ruby. Is this the way it will be, now? Am I to be invisible forever?

  How long do I have to lie here and let them do this to me? I just want them to take it away – for everyone to just leave me alone and let me rest.

  Finally, finally, they accept defeat and they tell me Ruby needs to go to the special care unit. I’m not sure why and I don’t have the strength to ask. I know in some deep part of my brain that I shouldn’t want her to go, I should be wanting to hold her, to bond with her. But I feel none of that. I only want to close my eyes and have everything disappear. When they take her, all I feel is relief.

  In the furthest corners of my consciousness, I’m aware that this isn’t right. My baby shouldn’t be an ‘it’ – it should be a she, Ruby. The name we chose for her the moment she came out with flame red hair. And I should be wanting to hold her. But the pain is creeping back in, even though the drugs are clearly still in my system, as my head feels like it’s full of concrete and I can barely keep my eyes open.

  ***

  10:30pm

  The next thing I know, I’m in a hospital bed in a tiny space with half-drawn curtains all around me. I’m in agony, the whole lower half of my torso feels like it’s on fire, but I can’t seem to move; I can barely lift my pinkie finger. Has something gone wrong? I can’t even call for help. I can barely breathe, let alone speak.

  Every part of me yearns for sleep, but the pain keeps me conscious. It’s dark in here; the only visible light is a soft orange glow coming from behind the curtain next to me, and the one in front. What time is it? I don’t remember being brought here, and I don’t know where Rob and Ruby are. Why have I been left here alone? I want to die. The pain is too much; I simply can’t bear it.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here when Rob appears. His eyes widen when he sees me. ‘Are you okay?’

  I try to speak but the pain is too much and I can only whisper. He leans in and puts his ear near my mouth. ‘Please. Help.’

  ‘What is it? What do you need?’ Rob looks panicked.

  ‘Pain. I’m … in … pain.’

  Rob nods and springs into action. He disappears for a minute then reappears with a nurse who tells me they’ll contact the pain team, but it might be a while as they’re in the operating theatre.

  I don’t know if I can survive that long. Every breath is agony.

  ‘Hold on, baby,’ Rob says, kissing my forehead, his eyes bright with tears. ‘It’s going to be okay.’

  But I can’t imagine it’s ever going to be okay again.

  ***

  Tuesday, 7:12am

  Post Natal Ward, Brave Cove Hospital

  Monday’s child is fair of face, Tuesday’s child is full of grace.

  I can’t remember the rest, but that’s what’s going around in my head as I gaze at Ruby’s funny, squashed face. She is a Monday child, but so far the poem is proving to be inaccurate. At this moment she kind of reminds me of an old man. I don’t think she’s going to be very pretty, but I’m sure I’ll love her anyway. I can’t work out who she looks like just yet. But her colouring is all mine.

  It’s bizarre to be holding this creature. I’m not one of those people who think all newborns are beautiful, and it seems my own child is no exception. But she is pretty miraculous, even if the very sight of her fills me with a panic so intense I almost can’t breathe.

  Rob is in love. It’s almost worth it, seeing his face. He got to feed her her first meal while I was in recovery, after they couldn’t get any colostrum from me. It’s all fine, now, though, as she’s breastfeeding like a champion. I didn’t get to see her until this morning, however, because the pain team didn’t make it to me until three fucking thirty in the morning and once the morphine finally kicked in I passed out cold from sheer exhaustion.

  The social workers have been in, as apparently the entire medical team who witnessed the birth, and learned of what happened aft
erwards, was worried that I might experience some post-traumatic stress. But seriously. I’m not worried about what happened before, that bit’s over. I’m worried about what on earth I’m going to do next, how we’re going to work out how this tiny creature fits in to our lives. Everything feels different now. And all I feel is a distant sort of terror.

  Ruby makes a face and a different feeling takes over. I go cold. The expression that passed across her face in that moment was so familiar that I knew. I knew with cold-blooded certainty that the very thing I hoped wasn’t true, is. I glance worriedly at Rob. He meets my gaze and there’s the tiniest of frowns between his eyebrows, as if he is carefully considering something.

  It’s then I feel the stab of an entirely different sort of terror.

  Chapter 5

  Liz

  June, 2017

  Monday, 6:45am

  It’s the first time we’ve been separated for any significant length of time. Well, aside from Adam’s brief trip to Australia when his dad was first diagnosed with cancer. But at that time, I was still so consumed by what had happened at work I scarcely noticed.

  This is different. I get the distinct feeling that the honeymoon is over – and, I suppose, technically it is. Adam kisses me on the nose and smooths my bed hair down behind my ears and though I put on a brave face, I can already feel the empty day stretching ahead of me. Bleak, pointless hours. I can’t think of it, I have to focus on something, so I pull my husband closer and kiss him on the mouth. I draw him in, gratified by the immediate hardness against my hip and the surprised, slightly annoyed look he gives me.

  ‘You can’t do that, Lizzie. It’s not fair,’ he says, slightly breathless.