by Nikki Smith
‘God, those queues are a nightmare. They really need to get more staff down here. Want some?’ She pours the water into a plastic cup.
‘No thanks.’ My mother had used to paint her nails the same shade as Sarah is wearing now. A baby shell pink. I remember the ‘Ballet Slippers’ label on the bottom of the tiny bottle.
I would sit beside her on the bed when she’d been in one of her good moods, my fingers pressed flat on her dressing table as she carefully ran the small brush over mine so we would match. I had been desperate to be just like her when we were together like that. Sometimes I would sneak up to her room when she had been in the kitchen and open the drawer of her dressing table where she kept all of her make-up, breathing in the smell; of her, of lotions and creams that I wasn’t supposed to touch but that I thought would make me beautiful. I would press the powder puff from her compact onto my nose and chin just like I had watched her do and turn the base of her No.7 plum lipstick until the smooth stick appeared, spreading it over my lips and pressing them together in front of the mirror to blend the colour. Then I would pull off a couple of cotton wool pads from the neat cylindrical pile that she kept on her dressing table, squeezing out a few drops of her Oil of Ulay lotion to wipe everything off. I’d thought being grown-up was easy. I had no idea what was to come.
Sarah unzips the side pocket of her bag to put her purse away before cautiously blowing on a piece of pie and starting to eat. She’s almost finished when she pauses momentarily, her fork halfway to her mouth, glancing across at another table.
I stare at her. ‘What is it?’
Her fork restarts its journey and her gaze switches back to me. ‘It’s nothing. I thought I spotted someone I work with.’
I seize the opportunity. ‘Why don’t you go and say hello?’
She shakes her head. ‘No, it’s fine. I see enough of him in the office.’ She’s almost finished what’s on her plate. I can’t let her leave.
‘D’you want some dessert?’ I’m desperate.
‘Dessert?’ she looks at me.
‘Yes … some ice cream or something. As it’s hot.’ I’m gabbling.
‘No, honestly, I’m fine.’ She puts her hand on her stomach. ‘I can’t eat anything else after that pie.’ She tips up her cup and swallows the last drops of water.
I look at the empty bottle. I’m not going to get another chance to see that letter and I have to force myself not to just grab her bag from beside her and pull out the piece of paper. I watch as she gets up and I follow her, weaving my way between the tables to the far side of the canteen where we have to return our trays. I hang back deliberately whilst she strides ahead.
‘I thought I’d lost you,’ she says as I slide my tray onto the runners of the metal stand amongst all the others waiting to be collected.
‘That man stopped me,’ I tell her.
‘Which man?’ She looks out across the sea of faces.
I point in the direction of the table where she was looking earlier. ‘That one over there. He asked me to ask you to go over.’
She frowns but doesn’t move, staring at the table where he’s chatting animatedly with his colleagues, not looking in her direction.
‘He doesn’t seem to be looking for me.’
I shrug. ‘I said I’d pass on the message.’
She sighs and starts to walk towards him as I tap her on the shoulder.
‘Do you want me to hold that for you?’ I point to her bag.
She looks at me. ‘No thanks, I’m good.’
My heart sinks as she threads her way across the room through the narrow spaces between the various tables. I watch her speak to the man I pointed at. He stares in my direction and I smile, raising my hand in a wave as if to acknowledge him and the conversation that never took place.
She’s frowning when she comes back. ‘He says he didn’t ask you anything.’
‘He did,’ I insist. I can tell she doesn’t really believe me but isn’t sure what to do about it. My body language gives the impression that I’m telling the truth. ‘Shall we go?’
As we leave the canteen, I smile at the table whose occupants are all staring in our direction and stroll out down the corridor towards the reception area, praying they don’t follow us.
I pull the sleeves of my top down over my knuckles, hiding my hands inside the material as I glance at Sarah’s bag. She sees me looking and I force myself to smile at her as I press the button for the lift, wondering what would happen if I asked to look in it. Even if she agreed, I couldn’t bear the humiliation if I’m wrong. I feel a stab of anxiety when the lift finally arrives and have to stop myself from running into it and curling up in a ball in the corner.
More people push in behind us; it’s always busy at lunchtimes. The doors won’t shut as it’s too full, so the two people who got in last are forced to step out. We’re shoved up against one another, invading each other’s personal space. I don’t trust myself to speak, standing next to Sarah in silence as someone presses the button for the first floor and we all move upwards. She’s talking to someone on the other side of her, her leather tote bag pressed against my hip. I can see the piece of paper with the black writing on it. I don’t hesitate. I reach carefully between the handles and pull it out, stuffing it deep into my cardigan pocket, keeping my eyes fixed on the back of Sarah’s head the whole time. She doesn’t seem to notice as she’s too busy nodding in response to the woman complaining about the lack of space. The lift reaches the first floor, the doors open and I step out, breathing more freely now I’m no longer squashed into the cramped space. I glance at Sarah, but she’s still chatting, not looking at me, oblivious to the rustling in my pocket that it seems only I can hear.
I force myself to walk at a normal pace towards the library, counting to ten before I turn around to check she’s not following me, but the corridor is empty. I convince myself that any second I’m going to hear the familiar ping of the lift that would signal her return. But I don’t.
Mrs Painter is waiting by the counter as I walk up to the reception and as she looks at me, I wait for her to ask why my face is so flushed, but she doesn’t mention it.
‘I’ve got some photocopying to do,’ she says. ‘Can you stay here in case anyone needs anything? We’re not busy, so you shouldn’t have any problems, but you know where I am if you need me.’
I nod and pick up the scanner, anxiety crawling across my stomach, desperate for her to leave so I can see what’s written in the letter.
She gathers up her paperwork, one piece at a time, as she peers at me over the top of her glasses. ‘Are you sure you’re OK? You look a bit hot.’
I nod and lean against the edge of the counter for support, feeling the lump in my pocket flatten as I press against it, reassuring myself it’s still there.
I fiddle with the button on my cardigan, waiting for her to leave, staring at the entrance door, expecting Sarah to reappear at any moment. Mrs Painter finally disappears down the row of shelves towards the copier room. I make myself wait until she’s completely out of sight before I reach into my pocket and draw out a crushed ball of paper, unfolding it and smoothing it out on the reception counter.
It’s a letter. The black writing is unmistakable and it’s addressed to me.
Ali,
It’s been almost a year. I think of you often. Do you think about me too? Nothing is the same without you. I miss you and Tilly.
Jack
Tilly.
Oh my god.
Tilly.
Part Two
THEN
Alison – Day One
She’s lying asleep under a pink blanket in the hospital bassinet, dressed in the Babygro that’s been tucked in my drawer for more years than I care to remember. Her lips are tightly pressed together, a small indent between her eyebrows making it look like she’s frowning. She’s everything I’ve ever wanted, but as I stroke her head all I can feel is a knot in my stomach.
Jack pokes his head through the curtain t
hey’ve drawn around the bed to give me some privacy. I smile at him.
‘Hello, you,’ he says. ‘I was trying to be quiet. I didn’t want to disturb you in case you were dozing.’
I shake my head. ‘I’m not tired.’ I glance at the clock. He’s been gone for ages.
‘I’ve bought you something.’ He hands me a small box.
I spot the thin sheets of seaweed and slices of raw tuna through the transparent plastic lid.
‘Oh my god, Jack! I can’t believe you remembered.’
‘I promised you I wouldn’t forget,’ he says, sitting down beside me and kissing my cheek. ‘You feel cold. Have they given you enough blankets?’ He puts his arm round my shoulders.
I nod as I rip open the sachet of soy sauce and drizzle it over the cubes of rice, watching the liquid seep between the grains, staining them a dark brown colour. I put a piece into my mouth, savouring the saltiness on my tongue. I’ve craved this during the past nine months after being told I shouldn’t eat it. So many of my desires have been subsumed to her needs, and the taste of something previously forbidden makes me realise how much I’ve resented the burden of responsibility. Having to watch what I drank. What I ate. Every coveted mouthful spoiled by the bitter aftertaste of fear that I would forever be at fault for damaging the body growing inside me.
‘How’s she doing?’ he asks.
I glance at her. ‘She’s fine. Dropped off eventually.’
Jack strokes the fine layer of dark down that covers her head. I’ve never seen him look at anyone apart from me in that way and I feel a sharp pang of envy. I haven’t fallen immediately in love with her like everyone said I would. I don’t really feel anything. I think I’m still shell-shocked from the birth. I hadn’t expected it to be so brutal.
Each hour had slipped away, taking with it a small piece of the person who’d arrived on the ward with her neatly packed overnight bag and carefully written birth plan. The unending contractions had been like a rollercoaster that I couldn’t get off; a ride where my eyes had been tightly shut and I’d gripped the sheets in an effort to reassure myself I was still alive, still tethered to reality. When there was barely any of me left, the midwife’s smile had become a little less bright, her tone a little more urgent as she’d increased the drugs to a point where my hands had shaken so much I hadn’t been able to hold the grey cardboard tray full of yellow bile in front of me, my body’s attempt to empty itself from every orifice.
My bed had been wheeled into another room, every bump and turn intensifying the agony. There had been no pain at the end. Just blood. So much blood. I’d felt it hot and sticky, a pool that had coagulated beneath me as they’d pulled her out with an implement that resembled giant metal salad servers. Splashes of crimson smeared over legs that looked like mine but no longer belonged to me after the spinal block. The eyes of the people in long blue gowns and masks had been the only visible sign of their humanity. One had held my hand, their touch insulated from mine by a plastic glove as another had sewn me back together. I’d lain motionless, trying to work out if any pieces of the person I’d been thirty-five hours ago still remained.
Jack squeezes my hand. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to watch her so you can have a sleep?’
‘I’m fine,’ I say. He won’t know what to do if she cries.
When I’d found out I was pregnant, I’d imagined her as a swirl of blue, like a viscous liquid that would slip through my fingers if I tried to hold onto it. I’d been there before with the rounds of IVF. Too many times. I’d counted the days, anticipating the flood which never came. Instead she’d matured into a ball of red, a pulsing mass that grew at a surprising rate, pushing everything inside me aside to make room for her expanding body. In these last few weeks, she’s turned yellow, basking in the warmth of my hands as they’ve lovingly stroked her, too big to move beneath my skin stretched as tight as a balloon. And now she’s beside me. Disturbingly pink and real.
A midwife pulls back the curtains. ‘Everything all right in here?’
I nod.
‘Hopefully we can get you out of here soon,’ she says. ‘We’re just waiting for the consultant to officially discharge you. I don’t think you’ll have too long to wait.’ She leans over the cot, staring at the small bundle. ‘She’s gorgeous, isn’t she? Dead to the world.’
‘She wasn’t last night,’ I say and the midwife laughs.
‘Ah, they take a while to do that. You can always try and have a nap when she does. I did that with both of mine.’ She picks up the clipboard hanging on the bottom of my bed, signs something and puts it back. ‘And if you have any questions, you can ask my colleague who’ll come and see you tomorrow, as they’ll need to check on your stitches – you had to have a few more than we all expected. We’ll give you some paracetamol or tramadol and the pain should settle down after a few days. I’ll be back in a bit when the consultant’s been round. Is there anything else you need at the moment?’
I shake my head.
‘I’ll leave you in peace then.’ She walks off and I turn towards Jack.
‘Can you get her car seat? I want one of the midwives to check it’s not too big for her. She looks so tiny I’m not sure she’ll fit into it properly.’
‘Course.’ He picks up the empty sushi box off the bed and puts it in the bin on his way out of the ward.
I pull the curtain round the bed. I don’t want anyone here whilst I get my daughter ready, watching over my shoulder, passing silent judgement on my awkward efforts. Jack is doing and saying all the right things, but I can tell he’s on edge, and I don’t think it’s just because of the baby. He was like it before I gave birth. Mumbling something in the middle of a conversation that made it completely obvious he hadn’t been listening to me and I’d had to repeat everything I’d just
said.
I pull on my maternity trousers an inch at a time, leaning against the hospital mattress for support. My body is unfamiliar and my centre of gravity has altered now my bump has shrunk. I don’t recognise myself.
My dad said having a baby would change everything, that I’d become a different person. I’d laughed but hadn’t believed him. Now I wonder if what he said was true, that creating another life took away something of your own, shaving parts off you in thin slices so you didn’t notice until it was too late. After we’d all stood in our kitchen raising a toast to the success of our last round of IVF, I’d seen him talking to Jack, his face serious. Perhaps he’d been warning him about what would happen. I hadn’t heard what he’d been saying, only Jack’s earnest reassurances that he’d make sure he looked after me.
His mum had phoned me earlier to say she couldn’t wait to see her new granddaughter. I’d sensed a catch in her voice just before she rang off, telling me to make sure we still found time for each other. That she’d always be happy to babysit. I hadn’t said anything to Jack as I know he already blames himself for his father’s behaviour that started straight after he was born. He doesn’t need to hear his suspicions confirmed that his mother thinks it was as a result of his arrival too. I’ve never met the man, but from the few things Jack’s said about him, I’m glad he’s not a part of our lives.
After the consultant’s discharged us, I hold Jack’s arm to steady myself as we head out to the car, each step taking twice as long as when I came in. I don’t want to go. We’re safe in here. I worry we’re leaving too soon. I’d rather have stayed in a few more days so the staff could be around to keep an eye on her. They’d reassured me that despite the lengthy delivery she’s perfectly healthy, but I’m worried they’ve missed something. You read that in magazine articles all the time and I know sometimes it takes a while for any complications to show up. Our flat is at least half an hour away from medical treatment – longer if the traffic’s
bad.
The receptionist smiles as the glass doors open automatically to let us out. I swallow, trying to get some saliva into my mouth. I’m not sure they should trust me to take her home. I don’t kn
ow what I’m doing.
Jack manoeuvres himself and our new baby through the back door of the car.
‘Be careful with her,’ I say.
‘I’m just making sure her car seat is fixed in properly,’ he replies.
I ease myself into the passenger side. Sitting down is painful.
He gets in next to me and I twist round to look at her.
‘Are you sure the belt’s fastened securely?’ I ask.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I’m sure.’ He thinks I’m being paranoid.
‘It’s not that I don’t trust you,’ I say. ‘It’s just once I’ve thought about it, I worry something’s going to happen. It’s a superstition thing. You know. Like saluting with magpies.’
He frowns. It’s clear he doesn’t have any idea what I’m talking about.
‘Do you want to check it if it’ll make you feel better?’ he asks.
I nod and lever myself out of the car to open the rear door. I run my hand along the belt, pulling it several times to see if it’s tight, before manoeuvring myself back into my seat.
‘Happy?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’ I run my fingers over my eyebrow as he leans across and kisses the top of my head.
‘Then let’s go home,’ he says.
Our flat doesn’t feel like the same one I left less than two days earlier. The décor is old and tired and the vibrancy of new life jars against everything that’s already here. The rooms are eerily still after the bustle of the hospital and as I run my hand over the photo frames on our hall shelf it’s like touching exhibits in a museum that belong to someone else. I’m a stranger in my own home. Up until today it’s been Jack and me. Now it’s the three of us and I’m unprepared for the intensity. My whole world is contained within these few walls, shrunk to a fraction of the size it was before.
Jack puts the car seat down in the middle of the hall. I’m not sure what to do with her. I should probably pick her up as she’s starting to whimper. Sounds that I know will shortly turn into a high-pitched continuous noise, telling me something is wrong; reinforcing my guilt at not knowing what it is. I’m her mother, I should be able to understand her. I check my watch. She’s not due a feed for another fifteen minutes. I undo the harness clips on the car seat and pick her up, hoping she can’t tell she’s making me anxious.
