A Mother’s Sacrifice

by Gemma Metcalfe

  Thankfully, the cards on the mat all turned out to be from familiar well-wishers, and for a moment that made everything all right. But then the doubt crept back in, and the message inside that card started to play on a loop over and over until suddenly the Big Bad Wolf was knocking on the door and it took all of my strength not to let him in.

  The night is now as black as tar, transforming the bay window into a colourless mirror. My heart soars as I study mine and Cory’s reflections in the glass, a mother nursing her son, his tummy full and his bottle drained. I feel a stab of guilt that I haven’t been able to breastfeed him, especially given the nutritional benefits. I wanted to, really I did. But how could I ever be sure he was full? And what if I got ill and passed it on to him somehow? James accused me of panicking when I presented my typed-up list of pros and cons. He said breastfeeding was the most natural thing in the world. ‘That’s what they’re made for, Lou,’ he laughed, a grin creeping onto his face. ‘Among other things obviously.’ I did think about what he said. I flitted backwards and forwards for months, joining support groups on the Internet and painstakingly trawling through the self-help guides where the illustrations always depicted women with smiley faces and nipples which could cut glass. But in the end I decided bottle-feeding was the safer option. After all, you can never be too careful where infant starvation is concerned.

  ‘Hey, I thought you were coming downstairs after he’d fallen asleep?’ James appears at the open door, his hair shower-wet, causing it to curl up at the ends. He smells of hot soap, his naked chest revealing toned abs which I’d almost forgotten existed. I didn’t allow sex during pregnancy, was terrified he’d unintentionally puncture the baby’s head. They do say a baby’s skull is the last thing to form, don’t they?

  ‘Well, here’s the problem.’ I bite the inside of my cheek, hope he’ll figure out what I’m trying to say and save me from actually saying it.

  ‘What, Lou?’ He leans against the door frame. ‘Go on, out with it.’

  ‘I’ve been doing some research.’

  He tries to suppress a grin but it’s too late; I catch it as it turns up the corner of his top lip. ‘And what research is that, may I ask?’

  ‘Well… we all know babies are meant to sleep in their parents’ room for the first six months. But, some experts actually advise you to have your sleeping baby by your side at all times.’

  ‘I see.’ James raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘Even if said baby has a ridiculously expensive CCTV camera wired into his nursery which his mother absolutely had to have?’

  ‘Not even.’ I fold over my bottom lip. ‘And besides, he might miss us.’

  James enters the room and walks around to the back of the rocking chair, positioning himself just behind me. His breath is hot and slippery in my ear as he leans over me. ‘I think we might miss him too.’

  I glance back at him. ‘So you agree?’

  ‘Of course.’ He pecks me on the cheek. ‘And anyway, who in their right mind forks out three months’ wages on a nursery and then actually puts their baby in it?’

  I laugh. ‘Not anybody sane, that’s for sure!’

  ‘Exactly. So, Mrs Carter…’ He drapes his arms over my shoulders, criss-crossing them like the sleeves of a sweater. ‘Would you like me to bring the Moses basket downstairs so we can finally sit down to eat dinner, or how about I get the picnic basket from the boot and we have jam sandwiches and squash with Peter Rabbit and Tweety Bird on this fine summer’s day?’

  ‘It’s Jemima Puddle-Duck.’

  He laughs. ‘Obviously I knew that.’

  ‘Cooey. Anybody in?’ The distinct sound of my mother-in-law’s voice travels up the stairs, closely followed by the slamming of the front door.

  ‘Oh God.’ James rests his chin on the top of my head. ‘You absolutely have to be joking me.’

  ‘Well,’ I sigh. ‘Looks like Mr Tod’s just turned up and pissed all over the picnic.’

  ‘I cannot believe you didn’t call me the moment you got home!’ My mother-in-law, Tamzin, greets us at the bottom of the stairs, her white perm reminding me of a dandelion. ‘I wanted to come to the hospital the night he was born but your father was in no fit state to drive,’ she says to James. ‘Eight years I’ve waited for this grand-baby and he shows up pissed as a pickled fart! And then last night he had to play darts. Darts can you believe? Felt like throwing a bulls-eye right in his bastard eye!’

  ‘It was the final!’ A meek voice, belonging to my father-in-law, Doug, comes from somewhere behind Tamzin’s fluffy bouffant. ‘All right, James lad, all right, Lou.’

  ‘My God, he’s totally delicious. Give him here.’ Tamzin holds out her hands as if she’s about to catch a rugby ball.

  ‘Well, all right but…’ I tip my head over towards the lounge. ‘Let’s sit down first and then you can.’

  ‘Don’t be such a bloody fusspot,’ she titters, causing Cory to flinch in my arms. ‘I’ve had two of my own, don’t forget. They’re not made of bloody glass, you know? In fact, Doug rolled over on our David when he was a nipper. Probably pissed then an’ all, wasn’t you?’ She turns round and glares at him.

  I manage to safely herd both Tamzin and Doug into the lounge, despite already wanting to show them the door. It’s not that I dislike my in-laws; it’s just, well, to put it mildly, they are an absolute pain in the arse. ‘Why don’t you sit down with Cory and I’ll put the kettle on?’ I begin to furiously plump up a fluffy cushion on the end of the sofa, hopeful that Tamzin will sit down and allow me to place Cory safely into her arms.

  ‘Very well,’ she says, for once doing as she’s told. ‘Ahh, isn’t he cute?’ She takes hold of him gently which is a relief, her eyes crinkling up behind her spectacles as she places him in the crook of her arm. ‘Although I must admit I’ve seen better.’

  ‘Mother!’ James throws her a look.

  ‘Oh, I’m only joking. Take a bloody chill pill. Isn’t that what you kids say nowadays?’

  ‘What would you like to drink, Tamzin – tea, coffee?’ I always find that where my mother-in-law is concerned, it’s best to change the subject as quickly as possible.

  ‘No, none of that rubbish for me. Do us a whiskey, will you, love? My son’s not firing blanks after all. That’s cause for celebration!’

  With that said, I quickly retreat from the lounge – the wolf’s claws scraping against the drainpipe as he scurries up the chimney.

  Half an hour later, James brings in a second pot of tea along with a third whiskey on the rocks for Tamzin. Cory is now safely in my arms, Tamzin’s ‘infatuation’ having lasted all of five minutes.

  ‘So then…’ Doug clasps his hands together and raises his eyes up into his head as if thinking of something to say. ‘He’s a little cracker all right.’ He takes a slurp of his tea and smacks his bulbous lips firmly together. ‘God, it’s nice to finally be able to have a cuppa, I tell you.’ He is still dressed in his paint-splattered overalls and I can almost picture him stepping through the door and instantly being frogmarched here.

  ‘You’re right, he is a cracker. Just like his daddy.’ I smile over at James but he doesn’t return the gesture. ‘You all right?’ I ask him, unsure what’s changed.

  ‘I’m fine, Lou, couldn’t be better.’ He drains the last of his drink.

  I avert my gaze from him, looking down at Cory whose face is relaxed in sleep. I knead his little hand between my fingers like dough, listening to the sound of the wind as it blows against the windowpane, the drip-dripping of the kitchen tap. I’m home, we’re safe. James is just tired, that’s all. There’s nothing to worry about.

  ‘Shame about the carrot top though.’ Tamzin cleaves the silence in two. ‘You’d have thought with James’s dark skin and hair this poor sod might have stood a chance.’

  ‘Tamz, enough!’ Doug shoots her a warning from his position on the armchair.

  ‘Well… I’m just stating the bleedin’ obvious,’ she barks, before taking a large glug of her whiske
y. The ice clinks against her teeth, her calling card for a top-up. When nobody jumps to her tune, she bangs the glass down on the coffee table, causing Cory to flinch.

  ‘Shh, baby, it’s okay, you’re all right.’ Glaring over at Tamzin, I grimace at the hot-pink lipstick that stains the rim of her glass. ‘We really need an early night,’ I try.

  ‘Ginger kids get bullied, that’s all I’m saying,’ she continues, like I haven’t spoken.

  My face flushes with heat. I twist my hair around my fingers, discreetly pulling out a strand by its root; a coping mechanism, I suppose, something I always do when I’m anxious. Not that I am anxious, just tired… hormones probably.

  ‘Probably why madam here pulls all hers out!’ Tamzin tips her manicured thumb over in my direction, her top lip twitching with amusement. ‘That’s right, I can see you. You’ll be bald as a badger if you carry on.’

  ‘Jesus, son,’ says Doug through a cough. ‘Did you give your mother the whole bloody bottle? She’s hammered!’

  Awkwardness clings to the air, which isn’t unusual when Tamzin and Doug visit.

  ‘Well, I happen to love redheads,’ says James, his eyes resting on mine. ‘They are my favourite kind of people.’

  I smile, relief flooding through me that he appears to be acting normally again, or perhaps there never was anything wrong with him in the first place. Maybe I only imagined there was. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. Paranoia is my thing after all. Well, it used to be my thing. Before Cory came along of course. ‘Thanks, sweetie. Love you too.’

  Tamzin sucks her teeth. ‘So what have they said then?’ She lowers her spectacles down onto the bridge of her nose. ‘Are you likely to go a bit loopy given your history?’

  ‘Mum!’ James shoots her a look. ‘Stop being rude.’

  I stiffen, humiliation giving way to anger. ‘Yes, they will keep an eye on me because of my history. But having a history of depression doesn’t mean I’m necessarily going to suffer with postnatal depression.’ My stomach turns over as I say the name of the illness out loud. Postnatal depression, an opportunistic demon. One I’ve feared since clutching the still-wet pregnancy test eight months ago. There is no way I have it though, definitely not. I love Cory, love the bones of him.

  Tamzin smiles thinly. ‘Well, it’s all bloody nonsense if you ask me. Never had any of this depression or postnatal thingamajig in my day. A good stiff drink and night out at the Bingo, that solved everything.’

  ‘I think you’ll find it’s always existed.’ I reach up for a strand of hair but refrain from pulling, not wanting to give Tamzin the satisfaction. ‘It hasn’t appeared out of thin air.’

  ‘Hmm,’ she replies, her lips pursed, as if sucking on something unpleasant. ‘I blame feminism. A lot of hairy women dancing around a campfire chanting about their rights. That’s what’s caused it, you mark my words.’ She pushes her spectacles back up the bridge of her nose. ‘Anyway…’ She stands up a little too quickly, which causes her to wobble. ‘If you do decide to have a funny turn, I’m sure I can step in for little Rory.’

  ‘It’s Cory,’ I mutter under my breath, as she staggers out of the room. ‘And in your bloody dreams.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Louisa

  Now

  The back garden is pitch-black, the half-moon only allowing enough light to make out the solid shape of the shed and outline of the garden fence, which runs parallel to next door’s garden. I wrap my cardigan tightly around myself and make my way over towards James who is sat on the garden bench, the red glow from the tip of his cigarette acting as a beacon. The fierce wind lifts up my hair, smacking it full force into my face, leaving the bald spot behind my right ear exposed. I have to stop pulling out my hair. The health visitor will visit soon and if she notices the baldness she’ll probably take Cory away from me.

  I look down at the baby monitor in my hand, checking again that the green light is flashing. It pains me to leave Cory sleeping inside, but I sense that James needs me. He’s always subdued after his parents visit, which is understandable really; Tamzin has the ability to turn a jester suicidal. I swallow down my dislike for her, reminding myself that she’s Cory’s grandmother, the only one he’ll ever have.

  Sitting down beside James, I place my head on his shoulder. ‘Hey, you.’

  ‘Hey.’ He kisses the top of my head, which is a relief to say the least. He’s fine, I think to myself, he’s happy. Everything is as it should be. ‘How are you doing?’ he asks. ‘Sorry about Mum.’

  ‘I’m fine. Don’t worry about her, you know I take it with a pinch of salt. She doesn’t mean any harm, not really.’ I’m not sure that’s entirely true and yet I sense James needs to hear it.

  We sit for a few moments in silence, enjoying the warmth of each other’s body against the backdrop of the freezing cold night. He continues to smoke his cigarette, inhaling deeply and holding it in his lungs as if savouring the hit.

  I nudge him in the ribs. ‘Thought you were quitting when Cory was born?’

  Exhaling a sad laugh, he throws the butt on the ground and stamps on it. ‘Never going to quit with her as a mother.’ He tilts his head over towards the house even though Tamzin is long gone. ‘Did you hear her? My son’s not firing blanks, cause for celebration.’ His tone is mocking and yet his voice breaks ever so slightly.

  My stomach dips with guilt. ‘She talks rubbish. Anyway, you’re a father now, ignore her.’

  ‘I suppose.’ Standing up, he proceeds to pace up and down the path. Without the fiery ember of the cigarette, I can hardly see him, his silhouette only just visible. I look down again at the baby monitor to check the signal is still strong. Three red bars leap up to five, as if detecting sound. I jump to my feet.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ James’s voice is clipped.

  ‘Maybe Cory’s woken up?’

  ‘He’s not crying. He’ll be fine. Stay out here a little bit.’

  I chew on my bottom lip while continuing to look down at the monitor, which has suddenly dropped down to two bars. ‘I think I best go and check on him. This thing is really active. Best to be on the safe side.’

  ‘He’ll be fine.’ James’s voice is a little harder this time, almost as if he’s annoyed. He takes out a packet of cigarettes and lights one, tips the packet over towards me. ‘For old times’ sake.’

  I shake my head. ‘You know I haven’t smoked for years. I’m not about to start now.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  I take a deep breath, confused as to why he’s tempting me with cigarettes, especially so soon after giving birth to our son. He knows how hard it was for me to quit smoking, especially given my issues. Cigarettes and red wine have always been my crutches, but as soon as we began trying for a child, I managed to quit both of them.

  I have suffered with anxiety my whole life, depression coming and going in spits and spats. The illnesses are as much a part of me as my red hair and freckly skin. When I was a child I attended therapy for a while. The therapist’s name escapes me now but I remember how she smelt of ginger nuts and coffee, and her hair always looked messy even though her face was permanently plastered in make-up. She told me the darkness inside of me would one day go away, that it was only temporary, like a snotty nose or a grazed knee. I believed her at the time. I waited patiently for the scabs to heal, for her medicine to work its magic. But she was wrong. It wasn’t temporary, it wasn’t a grazed knee or a snotty nose. It was more like eczema, a lifetime affliction which flared up at the worst possible moments, needing only slight provocation.

  Now, many years later, I am finally starting to believe that the therapist might have been right, that finally I can be free. Cory has to be the cure to my illness. I owe it to him as much as I owe it to myself. ‘Is there something else bothering you?’ I ask James. ‘Apart from your god-awful mother.’ I slide my eyes over towards him and hold my breath, proud of my courage even though a part of me is terrified of his answer.

  A long silence str
etches out between us. The smell of fresh smoke seeps up my nostrils and I feel my index and middle fingers twitch in response. ‘James?’ I whisper. ‘We can talk about whatever you want, you know.’

  He shakes his head, slowly, almost deliberately. ‘I’m fine, Lou… there’s nothing to talk about.’ He flicks his half-smoked cigarette into the bush behind him, plummeting his face back into darkness.

  ‘You should use an ashtray.’

  ‘Shhh.’ I sense him freeze. ‘Can you hear that sound?’

  I look over at him, his large bulk reminding me how small I really am. ‘Can I hear…?’

  ‘Quiet! I can hear something, in the trees… like footsteps.’

  My blood runs cold. I look over towards the rear garden fence, the wasteland beyond overrun with bushes and trees. The bare branches seem to morph into creatures of the night, the wind cutting between their openings creating an audible whistling noise. ‘No, you can’t. It’s just the wind.’ My words are shaky, my tongue suddenly feeling too large for my mouth. I instinctively look back down at the baby monitor where two bars have lazily dipped down to one. ‘The signal isn’t good here. I need to check on Cory. Finish your cigarette. I’ll make us a drink and some supper.’ Quickly, I turn on my heel and run towards the house, deciding I’ve indulged in quite enough bravery for one night.

  I sense James’s eyes on me the whole time. But I refuse to turn back around.

  Sometimes it’s best not to look.

  ‘I prayed for this child, and the Lord has granted me what I asked of him.’ 1 Samuel 1: 27

  I watch her from afar as she potters around in the brightly lit kitchen, dusting away crumbs from the work surface and straightening the tins in the overhead cupboard so the labels are facing outward. Her arse is stuffed into a pair of denim jeans, the waistband pulled up to her navel. It’s hard to believe by looking at her that she was ever pregnant; that something so precious dwelt inside of her for so long. The baby is stuck to her chest like a magnet, her hand resting underneath his bottom. She flicks on the kettle and spins round to grab two mugs off the draining board. This gives me the perfect vantage point from which to assess her. Studying her facial expressions, while she thinks nobody is watching, is the only way to accurately validate her mental state. It is crucial that I correctly diagnose her at this early stage. I have of course seen her expressions countless times before; have witnessed the whole spectrum of emotions flash across her face; from the dizzying heights of happiness to the darkest depths of despair.