The Mothers' Group

by Fiona Higgins

  She started to reduce the amount she ate, especially in public. Robert had railed against this initially, as eating out had always been something they’d enjoyed together.

  ‘For God’s sake, Pippa,’ he’d said, four months after Heidi was born. ‘We can’t avoid the outside world forever.’

  ‘I can’t control what comes out of me,’ she’d snapped. ‘But I can control when it goes in.’

  His face softened. ‘I’m sorry . . . I guess I don’t really understand.’

  It didn’t surprise her. He couldn’t understand why she refused to go jogging either, an activity they’d both relished prior to her pregnancy. But her pelvic floor just wasn’t up to it now. As it was, lifting the washing basket or walking up a flight of stairs could cause an alarming surge between her legs.

  He began to take on more work, as they were missing her income. They had a mortgage to pay, a car loan, a credit card. But how could she return to work in her condition? As a human resources officer for a small firm specialising in ‘career transition’—a euphemism for redundancies and restructures—she spent her working days in close proximity to others. Conducting one-on-one interviews, breaking difficult news, comforting the crestfallen. They’d originally planned for her to re-enter the workforce when Heidi was four months old, but her medical problems now forced her to extend her maternity leave for up to twelve months.

  To compensate, Robert slotted in extra jobs at the beginning and end of his working day, as well as on weekends. There was always a steady stream of work for a reliable builder on the northern beaches. There were plenty of young families renovating homes, as well as house-proud retirees who needed a handyman. Most days he left the house by six am and didn’t return until after eight pm. He was tired, and it showed.

  She tried to be the best homemaker she could be; it only seemed fair. Once Heidi was asleep for the night, she would reassemble the ruins of the day in preparation for Robert’s return. Warming his meal in the oven, cleaning the kitchen, tidying the lounge room, wiping over the bathroom basin and turning down the sheets. Trying not to resent the many domestic chores that had somehow naturally become her lot in life. The endless cycle of washing, drying, folding and ironing. I’m not a maid, she would sometimes think as she pegged Heidi’s tiny jumpsuits, singlets and socks in neat lines. Often she would stop under the washing line and stare up at the night sky, watching clouds skidding past the moon. How can those clouds be moving so fast, she would wonder, when my life is moving so slowly?

  Despite her fatigue, she had trouble sleeping at night. She would lie next to Robert, listening to his breathing, until long after he’d fallen asleep. As she felt the leakage creep up towards her hips, she would remember their former life. The hiking, the cycling, the lovemaking. Where had it all gone? She had turned into someone she never imagined she would become, with a cornucopia of minutiae tumbling out of pockets and bags. Nappies, wipes, rash cream, teething rings, soft toys, cloth books. Endless piles of clutter, a baby marketer’s dream, crammed into the voids of her existence.

  When Heidi awoke in the night, as she inevitably did, Pippa would curl her fists into tight balls and press them into the mattress so hard that her fingernails bit into her flesh. Eventually she would sit up and make her way to Heidi’s room, feeling the weight of her nappy wedged between her legs. Hating herself. Despising her life.

  Robert slept on. He always did.

  And so he never saw her stand at the foot of the cot and watch, immobilised, as Heidi screamed and screamed. He never knew how hard she sometimes held Heidi to her body, trembling with the desire to shake her. He never heard her spit obscenities at Heidi as she changed, fed, settled and resettled her. But the words she spoke in those dark, small hours always returned to accuse her in the morning. How could she treat this tiny, defenceless human—the baby they had longed for—so badly?

  The guilt was annihilating.

  *

  She’d attended the mothers’ group at Robert’s urging.

  ‘We don’t have much family support,’ he’d said, stating the obvious. ‘And you’re not seeing as much of your friends.’

  He was right about that. The incontinence had made her antisocial.

  ‘A mothers’ group might come in handy,’ he said. ‘Just go along for a few months and if it’s not for you, drop out.’

  She’d gone along to appease him, despite her debilitating anxiety. Was she leaking? Was it staining the seat? Could her nappy be seen under her skirt? At the first session of the mothers’ group, she’d deliberately suggested an outdoor venue for future meetings, in the hope that none of the other women would smell her. She’d resented having to worry about it at all. No one else in the group had a similar problem, as far as she could tell. Everyone else was normal.

  Apart from the mothers’ group, she had few social outlets. Her own parents extended little help from their flat in Fairlight, through no fault of their own. Whenever Pippa visited them, they would sing to Heidi, or bounce her on their laps, but they offered no other practical support. They were getting older, and always asking Pippa for some kind of help themselves: to change a light bulb, go to the shops, or reprogram the television channels. Pippa didn’t begrudge these requests, but she needed a place of respite. With her own problems to contend with, she started avoiding her parents. She felt bad about it, but what else could she do?

  Instead, she paced the hallway of her home with Heidi crying in her pram, or did hundreds of circuits of the small square of concrete that Robert called a backyard. Eventually she ventured further afield, spending whole days walking Heidi to nowhere in particular. One week, she summoned the courage to visit Warringah Mall, doing loop after loop of its air-conditioned levels. But then a humiliating incident in a bookstore sent her home again quickly: she’d passed wind, loudly, while buying Eat, Pray, Love. Her body had betrayed her, she loathed its imperfection. And so she resolved to walk without rest, staying ahead of the repugnant odour that she imagined trailing behind her. She walked from Freshwater to Curl Curl, Dee Why or Manly. Every day, irrespective of the weather. Her jeans became loose, her face haggard. She just couldn’t keep the weight on.

  ‘You’re going to the beautician tomorrow,’ Robert announced one evening, when Heidi was six months old. ‘A facial at ten o’clock. I’ve paid for it already, and I’m taking the day off to look after Heidi. All you have to do is turn up.’

  Pippa sat up on the sofa, taken aback. She’d never known him to have a day off work.

  ‘You need a break,’ he said. ‘Look at you, thin as a rake. You’re so busy looking after Heidi, you’ve forgotten about yourself.’

  She looked at him as though for the first time. This was Robert, the man who bought practical birthday gifts—socks, underwear, sports equipment—if he actually remembered her birthday at all. They’d been together for sixteen years and he’d never once surprised her with a spontaneous gift.

  I really must have let myself go.

  Her eyes filled with tears. They hadn’t had sex for more than six months, a prospect neither one of them would have believed before Heidi’s birth. Every time she considered it, Pippa recoiled. If we have sex, I might split into pieces or leak all over you. Without their usual physical intimacy, an awkwardness had developed between them, an unspoken rift that neither one of them knew how to breach. Robert’s generosity was overwhelming.

  Tears began to stream down her face.

  ‘What?’ asked Robert, his expression confused. ‘Don’t you want a facial?’

  She struggled for composure.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘It means a lot.’

  It was the first time she’d left Heidi, ever. As she slid into the car and turned the key in the ignition, she fought the urge to run back into the house, wrest Heidi from Robert’s arms and retreat to the lounge room. Robert waved at her through the bedroom window, jiggling Heidi on his hip as she reversed down the driveway. She glanced over her shoulder one more time as she steered the ca
r onto the road. She’ll be fine, she thought. It’s just two hours.

  Before she reached the end of the street, her telephone beeped receipt of an SMS.

  We’ll be fine. Enjoy yourself.

  She laughed aloud.

  Driving the car was a different experience without Heidi in the baby seat. She turned off the Baby Meets Mozart CD and found an FM radio station, catching the end of the ten o’clock news. It had been months since she’d caught up on current affairs. The world had continued rotating on its axis and yet she had radically changed: irrevocably altered by the heady intoxication and utter devastation that having Heidi had entailed. Even the weather forecast sounded different.

  The news ended and a familiar tune began, an anthem from her youth. She turned up the volume, bobbing her head in time with the beat. She could remember crooning ‘Forever Young’ into a hairbrush with school friends in her lounge room, dancing about in fluorescent socks and ‘Choose Life’ T-shirts. That was twenty-five years ago, she thought, with a jolt of shock. She wound down the window and, abandoning her usual caution, belted out the lyrics.

  Let us die young or let us live forever

  We don’t have the power but we never say never

  Sitting in a sandpit, life is a short trip

  The music’s for the sad men . . .

  Waiting at a red light, she glanced at the vehicle in the next lane. A tradesman winked at her from the open window of his ute. Embarrassed, she stopped singing. The tradesman pulled a face, as if disappointed.

  Her eyes widened. Oh my God, he’s flirting with me.

  She gripped the steering wheel, repressing a smile.

  The traffic lights turned green and the tradesman accelerated away, tyres squealing.

  She smiled all the way to the beautician’s.

  She checked her telephone three times before the facial.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, activating the mute setting. ‘I’ve just never left my daughter alone with my husband before.’

  The beautician laughed. ‘Oh, don’t worry, I know how you feel. I always check on my husband when he’s babysitting our kids. It’s hard to relax, isn’t it? But you’ve got to have a bit of me-time too.’

  Pippa lay back on the recliner, considering the beautician’s words.

  When he’s babysitting our kids . . .

  Yes, she thought, that’s exactly how it is. When a woman looks after her children, she’s parenting. When her husband looks after them, he’s babysitting.

  The beautician smoothed a headband across the top of Pippa’s forehead, then pressed a hot towel over her face. Despite her anxieties—Will the pad last the distance? Can the beautician smell me?—Pippa could feel herself floating beneath the beautician’s hands.

  Why haven’t I done this earlier? she wondered.

  She awoke with a start to the beautician lightly tapping her shoulder.

  Pippa smiled up at her. She felt as though she’d been asleep for a week.

  ‘We’re done now, Pippa. Take your time getting up.’

  The beautician began to tidy the room, screwing caps back onto bottles and squeezing out sponges.

  ‘Uh, I don’t want to worry you,’ she added, ‘but your husband rang the salon earlier.’

  Pippa sat bolt upright. ‘Why? What’s wrong?’

  The beautician put a steadying hand on her arm. ‘He was just checking what time the facial finished.’

  Pippa frowned. But why would he call, if nothing was wrong?

  She scrambled off the table.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘That was lovely.’ She dug around in her handbag for her mobile. Four missed calls, all from Robert. Her stomach dropped.

  As soon as she was outside the salon, she telephoned Robert. He didn’t answer. She ran to the car and accelerated out of her parking spot. In the seven minutes it took to drive home, a hundred terrifying scenarios raced through her mind.

  The instant she opened the front door, she heard Heidi crying, an unusual, low-pitched moan. She ran down the hall, panic overwhelming her. Robert was standing at the kitchen bench, peeling potatoes. Pippa stopped, confused. Heidi was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Where’s Heidi?’ she asked.

  Robert put down the potato peeler.

  ‘In her room,’ he said. ‘She had a bit of a . . . bump. She cried a bit, then started rubbing her eyes, so I put her to bed. She’s been in there about ten minutes now. She hasn’t gone to sleep, so I thought she might be hungry.’ He gestured towards the potatoes.

  Pippa stared at him, speechless. Then she turned on her heel and started down the hall.

  Robert followed her. ‘She’s fine, don’t worry. How was your facial?’

  Pippa didn’t reply. She opened Heidi’s door and gasped.

  Heidi was lying in her cot, red-faced, saliva streaming from her mouth. A large, egg-shaped lump bulged above her right eye.

  ‘Oh my God.’ She scooped Heidi out of her cot and lay her on the change table, then bent over her to study the lump. Burst blood vessels streaked purple across its surface.

  She turned to Robert, hovering in the door.

  ‘How did this happen?’

  ‘She was on the lounge,’ Robert started.

  ‘What?’ Pippa couldn’t believe he would put Heidi anywhere except the floor.

  ‘I was right there,’ he said. ‘But my phone rang and she just sort of slipped off. I’m sorry.’

  ‘She slipped off ?’ Pippa stared at him, uncomprehending. ‘How did that happen exactly, if you were right there?’

  Robert looked weary.

  ‘Look, it was an accident. A work call came in, I had one hand on Heidi, then I picked up the phone and she slipped . . .’

  Pippa put Heidi back into her cot and turned to face Robert. White-hot rage, unlike anything she’d felt before, surged through her. As she walked towards him, she felt as though she was wading through quicksand: the indignity of her incontinence, the humiliation of Robert’s revulsion, every long, lonely walk she’d ever taken with Heidi in her stroller. Had she endured all of that, as well as three undignified years of IVF treatment, for Robert to drop their precious baby, like a carton of eggs, on the floor?

  She slapped him with a force that stunned them both.

  ‘I’m taking Heidi to the hospital,’ she said. ‘She could have concussion.’

  Robert held a hand over his cheek, staring at her like a beaten dog.

  ‘Now,’ she said, pushing past him.

  She collected the nappy bag, her wallet, the car keys. She carried Heidi on her hip and pulled the pram out the front door, slamming it behind her.

  She didn’t have to wait long in Accident and Emergency. Both Heidi and Pippa had been sufficiently distressed for the triage nurse to prioritise them. Within ten minutes, they were ushered into a consultation room by a young registrar.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, smiling at Heidi. ‘I’m Dr Lee. Now, what happened to Heidi?’

  Pippa took a deep breath. ‘She slipped off the couch and knocked her head. My husband was looking after her, it happened about an hour ago.’

  Dr Lee jotted some notes on his clipboard. ‘Okay, let’s have a good look at her. You can keep her on your knee for the time being.’

  Dr Lee ran his hands over Heidi’s head and neck, palpated her limbs, tapped her reflexes with a tendon hammer, then checked her blood pressure. As he peered into her eyes, Heidi reached for the ophthalmoscope. Dr Lee smiled and nudged her in the chest with it. Heidi giggled.

  ‘Well, she seems fine,’ said Dr Lee at last. ‘She’s had a bump and a bit of a shock, but that’s about all. I’ll give her a dose of baby paracetamol for comfort. And we’ll need to keep you here for the next four hours for observation. That’s standard practice when a child presents with a head injury.’

  Pippa nodded. ‘Okay.’

  ‘You said your husband was looking after Heidi at the time of her injury.’ Dr Lee paused. ‘Is this the first time that’s happened?’

  �
�Yes, I feel so bad. It’s the first time I’ve ever left Heidi with anyone else.’

  Heidi began to squirm on her lap, gnawing at a teething ring. Pippa shifted her weight on the chair. Amid all the drama, she’d forgotten to change her incontinence pad. The wetness was becoming uncomfortable.

  Dr Lee looked up from his clipboard. ‘Is there any violence in the home?’

  Pippa was shocked. ‘You mean my husband?’

  Dr Lee nodded.

  ‘No, of course not.’

  Pippa’s cheeks flushed as Dr Lee continued to look at her.

  ‘Certainly not my husband.’

  Dr Lee raised an eyebrow.

  ‘What I mean is . . .’ She was stammering. ‘Today, when my husband let Heidi slip, I was so angry with him I could have killed him.’ She pushed her hair behind her ears. ‘I slapped him across the face. I was completely out of control. I’ve never hit anyone in my life.’ She could feel the tears welling in her eyes.

  She stared into her lap, embarrassed. She wished she’d said nothing at all. Dr Lee passed her a box of tissues. She removed one and dabbed at the corners of her eyes.

  ‘And how have you been coping generally?’ Dr Lee set aside his clipboard. ‘The transition to motherhood can be difficult. How have you found it?’

  She leaned back in her chair, considering him. He couldn’t be more than twenty-six, this clean-shaven doctor. Barely out of university. Yet he’d posed a question that no one else had ever bothered to ask. Not Pat at the baby health centre, not the women in her mothers’ group, not even her husband. Since Heidi’s arrival, no one had asked whether she was, in fact, coping.

  She exhaled. ‘I’m not coping very well. Today showed me that.’ The wetness was seeping onto her skirt, she could feel it. ‘I need an incontinence pad,’ she blurted. ‘Is there a spare one here?’

  Dr Lee cocked his head.

  ‘I’m still leaking from the birth,’ Pippa explained. ‘Heidi was a big baby. I had a nasty tear.’