Apple of My Eye

by Claire Allan

  Still, the thought of walking away from his resting place. From my child. It pulled at my heart. It pulled at my conscience. I tried not to think about leaving him for the last time too much. I tried not to think about who would look after his little plot of grass. Who’d put fresh flowers beside that little stone that bears my surname and that expression I’d come to hate. ‘Born sleeping’ – as if it had all been so peaceful. As if it hadn’t been brutal and bloody and horrific. Scalpels and stitches. Infusions. Blood. So much blood. As if there hadn’t been screaming, even though he never made a noise.

  I begged the doctors to save him. Even though by the time I was awake he was already cold. His lips already blackened. I’d hugged him and tried to warm him up. I’d prayed for a miracle. I remember begging God to prove to me that He existed. Prove it by bringing my baby back. He’d done it with Lazarus. Surely if I pleaded and prayed and promised enough, He’d do this for me …

  I’d have loved my baby so much. I do love him. I’d have given him the world and everything in it, but I never had the chance. And then I had to prepare myself to walk away from him forever without ever looking back. What kind of a mother did that make me?

  When I went to the cemetery, I scratched at the ground, dug a little. Filled a little jam jar with soil. Soil that he nourished. I’d slipped it into my handbag, kissed the stone that bore his name. Noah. My beautiful Noah. Even in his silence, it suited him. It was as if it were made just for him. I’d whispered it – my beautiful Noah, that is. Then I’d sat back on the cold ground and tried to consign every detail to memory. No one was around. It was just the two of us. So I said his name out loud.

  Then I shouted it to the sky and vowed that I’d never say it again.

  The next baby name I’d mutter would be the one I’d raise to adulthood.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  Angela

  Eli’s asleep. I sit for a few minutes and watch the rise and fall of her chest. I envy her. The sedative in her tea, which she’d reluctantly accepted after I begged her not to stay mad at me, will ensure she gets a long sleep.

  We didn’t talk much while she drank her tea. I sat on the edge of her bed and told her I knew she’d love her baby very much. That I’d spoken in anger.

  That she should know I could never think that of her.

  She’d stayed quiet. Nodding occasionally.

  I’d told her I loved her. She hadn’t replied but she’d thanked for me the tea. It was something to hang on to.

  I doubt I’ll sleep well myself – and I can’t risk taking a sleeping pill. I have to keep my wits about me. Maybe I’ll make a coffee. Do what I need to keep alert. We’re not safe any more. People are coming at us from all angles. People trying to ruin what we have.

  People we thought were friends. People I should’ve been able to rely on.

  I’m starting to realise that any time I reach out to anyone else for help, they end up letting me down.

  The only person I can rely on to keep Eli and me together is me.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Eli

  The noise from the street wakes me. I blink, trying to bring myself into full consciousness, and realise it’s already light. It must be at least nine, I think, as I try to keep my eyes open. I can’t remember the last time I slept so late.

  But today my head feels heavy as I turn to check the time on my phone. It takes a moment or two for me to remember that it’s missing. Something nags at me through the brain fog, pulling at some invisible strings in my head. I feel a dull throbbing behind my eyes. Even my limbs feel as if they’re weighted down. Numb, I suppose, is how I feel. Physically and emotionally. And just so very tired.

  My eyes close again despite my best efforts to open them. I wonder if I’m coming down with flu as I drift off.

  When I jump awake again later, the same fight to wake up properly begins all over again.

  My head’s still foggy. As if there’s something I’ve forgotten but it’s just out of reach. I feel my baby move, as if nudging me. ‘Wake up, Mummy.’ But even a well-placed punch to my bladder doesn’t wake me enough to pull me fully from my sleep and into consciousness.

  Mummy. Mum. A string connected to my mother is pulled. My brain tries to grab onto it. Something has happened. I vaguely remember having words with her last night – her face full of remorse afterwards.

  And Martin, have I spoken to him? It all feels blurry. I haul myself to sitting, fighting the urge just to lie down and sleep some more. I’m hungry, I realise. And in need of the loo.

  I pull myself to standing, wobbling as the room swims slightly around me. Something isn’t right, I can feel it. I put my hand to my forehead, a primitive check for a fever, but it feels cool. The pain behind my eyes is subsiding, but I still feel as if I’m wrapped in cotton wool and I’m trying to fight my way out of it one delicate white fibre at a time.

  Opening the bedroom door, I make my way to the bathroom, using the walls to steady myself. The house is so quiet, but then again, all I can really hear is the whoosh of my own blood coursing through my veins. My baby kicks to remind me to keep moving and I do.

  In the bathroom, I splash my face with water to shock my body into full awareness.

  Looking at myself in the mirror, it feels as if I’m out of focus. I put my hand to the mirror, just to check it’s there. To check it’s real. That I’m real. I’m starting to feel sick now, hyperemesis, or anxiety, or hunger, or something just beyond my reach.

  I call for my mother, my voice weak, reedy. I want to sit down until I fully come round, so I walk back to my bedroom and sit staring at the closed curtains over the window. Pale pink stripes, a thin gold thread running through them. It strikes me that they don’t match the colour of the walls any more. They had, once. When I was a little girl and had a room that screamed pink and princess and floral.

  I still don’t know what time it is.

  ‘Morning, sleepyhead.’

  My mother’s voice jolts me into the present. I turn to look at her, watch as she comes into focus.

  ‘You’ve had quite the sleep,’ she says as she carries a tray laden with tea, toast and a glass of water.

  ‘What time is it?’ I ask.

  ‘Ach, still early enough,’ she says. ‘You obviously needed that sleep anyway, Eli. But I’m sure you’re hungry. I’ve brought you some toast, and tea and a glass of water to wash down your pills.’

  ‘I think I might have a shower first,’ I say, wondering if that’ll wake me up.

  ‘Eat something first, love. I don’t want you fainting on me while you’re in the shower. I’d be no good having to lift you up. Here, sit back and try to eat something.’

  I shuffle back on my bed and take the cup of tea my mother offers me.

  She sits and watches me eat. I look at her, this person I know but don’t know at the same time. I look at her smile. The soft curves of the wrinkles on her face.

  I watch as she hands me half a slice of toast, butter and strawberry jam spread on top, just as I’d taken it when I was a child. This woman who’s given me everything and most of all has given me herself. Every part of her.

  This woman who’d said horrible, hurtful things to me last night. This woman who I’m not sure if I can trust any more. It’s starting to come back to me now. Sitting at Kate’s table. A picture. A lawyer. My head’s starting to hurt with the effort of trying to remember and trying to stay awake. This feels wrong. There’s something about this that feels all wrong.

  ‘Now, Eli, don’t forget to take your tablets and sure, maybe then you can get a shower and we can plan the rest of the day.’

  I nod and sip my tea. Take a bite of toast but it tastes like sawdust. She’s still watching me. Her eyes never leaving me. The weight of the cup feels too much. The effort of keeping my eyes open seems insurmountable.

  ‘I’m still so tired,’ I mutter.

  ‘I’d say it’s just all the stress and strain of the last few days catching up with you. It was bound to
happen. You’ve been living on adrenaline this past week.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I say, putting the teacup down and lying back against the pillows.

  ‘And the baby’s moving about okay?’

  Her voice cuts through my hazy, almost-asleep state. I open my eyes and see her eyes are fixed on my stomach.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, putting my hand to my stomach protectively. My baby. The one she said I didn’t care about. More is coming back.

  ‘That’s good,’ my mother says, standing. ‘That’s perfect. Now, you rest until you feel less tired,’ she says as she backs out of the room, pulling the door closed.

  As I drift back towards sleep, something more itches at my brain. My mother. A baby forever. In her house. The nursery. The missing phone. Martin. As my eyes flutter shut despite my best efforts to keep them awake, I’m almost sure I hear the sound of a lock turning.

  *

  It’s dark when I wake again. My mouth is dry. My bladder full again. Still I blink, trying to focus in the darkness. I reach over and switch on the bedside lamp beside me before pulling myself to sitting. There are still traffic sounds outside – I guess it’s maybe teatime. I wish I had my phone to check. Wonder why no one wears a watch any more. The glass of water Mum brought up earlier is still sitting on the bedside table and I gulp down all that’s left in it, grateful to quench my thirst.

  My dreams had been weird half dreams. Snippets of conversations. Voices that seemed so real. At one stage I was sure I heard Martin ask for me, try to reach me, and I tried to call out to him but I was dragged back under, unable to move. I hate dreams like that. Hate how they make me feel when I wake up, my heart heavy. I miss him. I need him. I need to drive to Derry again. Without my mother.

  My mother. There it is again. The nagging. I started. Surely I hadn’t heard a door lock earlier? My door lock.

  I get out of bed. Rubbing my stomach, I get rewarded with a gentle kick. I welcome it. As I touch my skin where a hand or foot has just prodded, I’m surprised at the affection that washes over me.

  I turn the handle of my bedroom door, pull to open it, but it stays put. I rattle it again. But still it doesn’t open. I look to where the lock used to be, high up on my side – so I could lock the world out. I sort of expect it to be there still, but of course it isn’t.

  As far as I’ve ever been aware there’s no other working lock. We’d never had keys for the locks on the bedroom doors. They’d been long gone when we moved in.

  Or they had been. It dawns on me as I rattle the handle again that it’s been changed. It’s new. Shiny. Bright. And no doubt came with a lock.

  My baby kicks as my heart thumps. A surge of protective love runs through me. I don’t know what’s going on, but I know the most important person in the room at that moment is the little girl growing in my womb. This little innocent soul who’s somehow managed to find herself in the middle of some sort of war zone.

  ‘It’ll be okay,’ I say, rubbing my stomach and then trying the door again.

  I bang on the door with my fist as hard as I can. Calling for my mother to open the door. Now.

  ‘Don’t panic!’ I remind myself. Keep calm. Don’t assume the worst. But what other assumption can I make?

  I hear my mother’s footsteps on the stairs.

  Her voice is calm, cool, normal.

  ‘I’m on my way, sweetheart.’

  ‘I’m locked in, Mum,’ I call. ‘What’s going on?’

  I hear a key turn in the lock and she pulls the door open, her face serene.

  ‘Such a racket. You’ll give yourself a sore throat, not to mention sore hands.’

  ‘Mum, you locked me in my bedroom. Why? What’s going on?’

  I push my way past her. I want out of the room.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling. Force of habit. I usually keep my valuables in your room these days, so I always lock the door when I leave.’

  She says it as if it’s the most reasonable explanation in the world, even though I’ve never known her to keep her valuables anywhere other than her own room. On top of her wardrobe. In old shoeboxes. Old shoeboxes that still sit on top of her wardrobe.

  ‘You’ve had new locks fitted,’ I say as I start to make my way to the bathroom.

  I turn to close the door, see she’s right behind me in the doorway.

  ‘Well, the other ones didn’t work, did they?’ she says as if there’s nothing bizarre about the whole situation.

  ‘Well, I know this one works just fine,’ I say, nodding towards the bathroom door lock, ‘so if you don’t mind?’

  ‘It’s nothing I’ve not seen before,’ she says, but she does turn and leave, pulling the door behind her.

  I pull the lock across.

  ‘What time is it?’ I call.

  ‘After six,’ she calls back from the landing. It seems she’s waiting for me. ‘You really were a sleepyhead!’

  ‘I think I’ll grab that shower now, Mum. Why don’t you go and put the kettle on? I’ll be down in ten minutes or so.’

  ‘I think I’ll stay here,’ she says, her voice light, and I feel myself tense. ‘Since you’ve been feeling a little off balance, I’d rather be close if you need me. Actually, do you really need to keep that door locked?’

  My skin prickles. This is overkill on caring, even for my mother.

  ‘I’ll be fine, Mum,’ I say, even if I do feel wobbly.

  I’m sure I’ve not reached the stage where I need a full-time carer.

  ‘I’ve brought you some fresh towels,’ she calls, knocking at the door moments later.

  I make sure to lock the door as soon as I’ve taken the towels from her. I can hear her tutting.

  I wash quickly, rinse my hair and wrap a towel around me, marvelling momentarily at how it pulls around my expanding stomach. Opening the door, I see my mother sitting on the landing floor, reading her Kindle as if doing so is the most normal thing in the world.

  ‘See, I told you I’d be fine,’ I tell her. ‘There’s no need for you to sit here. I’ll be down as soon as I’m dressed.’

  ‘I’ve left some clean things out for you,’ she replies.

  ‘Mum, you do know I can pick out my own clothes, don’t you?’ There’s a hint of irritation in my voice that I can’t hide.

  ‘You should watch how you speak to me, Eli. You’re not too old that you don’t still owe me respect.’

  Her voice is cold. Her expression flat. I remember how she was last night. What she’d said. How I told her I’d leave today. I feel uneasy. When I get to my bedroom, I see fresh pyjamas and underwear laid out on my bed.

  ‘I was thinking I’d actually get properly dressed, Mum, thanks,’ I call.

  ‘Why? Sure, it’s nearly seven. It’ll be bedtime soon.’

  ‘I’ve slept all day. I’m not likely to go to sleep soon. Anyway, I was thinking I might call over and see Kate again.’

  If the truth be told, I’m starting to think I need to go and see Kate again. Something feels very wrong here.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ my mother says, appearing at my door. ‘It’s a bad night out there and you’ve clearly been out of sorts. I’d only worry. So I really think you should stay here with me. I’ve been sat in all day waiting for you to wake up. I thought maybe we could watch a movie. Or look over photos from when you were little. You remember that, don’t you, Eli? All the fun we had when you were little. You used to tell me I was your best friend.’

  There’s something about her manner that’s making me feel increasingly uncomfortable. I feel my anxiety heighten. Is it possible she really has been behind all these lies about Martin all along? She seems determined to keep me in her company.

  ‘I think some fresh air might help me come round a bit.’

  ‘Well, if you think so, that’s fine. But I’ll come with you,’ she says in a tone I know not to argue with.

  If I’m being fully honest with myself, she’s starting to scare me.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Eli

/>   I need to eat something. If I allow myself to get too hungry, my sickness will get worse and there’s nothing quite as painful as throwing up on an empty stomach, so I go to the kitchen and start looking through the cupboards.

  Of course, Mum follows me. Watches me as I move around the room.

  ‘Why don’t you go and sit down in front of the fire. I’ll make you scrambled eggs and bring them through,’ she says.

  I start to protest. To say I can make them myself. But I know by the look on her face to stop. So I agree. Say I’ll sit down. If she’s sure.

  As I turn to leave the room, I spot a box from Kitty’s Kitchen on the worktop.

  ‘Did you go and see Kate today?’ I ask, my eyebrow raised.

  ‘Ah no,’ my mother says as she bustles around cracking eggs and whisking them violently with a fork, which clatters off the edges of the metal bowl she’s using. ‘She called in earlier, with that wee boy of hers. Was looking to chat to you, it seems. But I told her you were asleep.’

  ‘Maybe I should just give her a quick call then,’ I say. ‘Since I missed her. See how she is.’

  My mother turns her back from her task and waves her fork at me, gloopy, slimy egg white spattering the kitchen floor.

  ‘Eli, I’m not sure how to say this. But I’m thinking, she’s a bit much, isn’t she?’

  ‘In what way?’ I ask, trying to keep my tone flat. I realise I’m choosing my words carefully.

  ‘Calling round all the time. Having you over. You’ve hardly seen her in years and now she’s all I hear about. Kate this and Kate that. I don’t know who taught her about manners either, but calling over unannounced when she knows you’re not yourself? She’s sticking her nose in our business, Eli, and before you know it, the whole street will know what’s going on in your marriage.’

  ‘She’s just being a friend, Mum. I’m sure she’d have called first if my phone wasn’t missing,’ I say, wondering if now is the time to ask her if she really did ask one of our neighbours about a good divorce lawyer, since she’s so concerned about the whole street knowing my business.