by Ruth Heald
But still I feel the goosebumps on my arms, the sense that something’s not quite right. It must be all in my head. I need a proper night’s sleep. Then things would be clearer.
Olivia eyes eventually fall shut. I lay her back down gently in her cot, next to her toy bunny.
When I get into bed, Matt’s snoring softly. I stare at the ceiling. The adrenalin hasn’t left my body and my heart’s still racing. I try to relax, but I can’t. Something’s still bothering me. Then I realise.
The nightlight in Olivia’s bedroom. I always switch it off once she’s asleep. But when I went into her room the nightlight was on.
I wasn’t imagining things.
Someone was in our home.
When I wake up in the morning I’m overcome by a sense of dread. It’s my birthday, and I feel sick with uncertainty. I like days that are mundane and predictable. Days when I know what my husband is likely to do, how he’s likely to respond. But my birthday is not one of those days. I have no idea how he’ll behave.
It’s still early and the rest of the house is sleeping. I creep out of the bedroom and into the bathroom. I should wash before my daughter wakes and the day bursts into action, but I don’t want the sound of the shower to wake my husband. Instead I think about what I might wear. I flick through my clothes in the wardrobe in the spare bedroom, considering them in turn. They are from another life. Designer dresses from when my husband used to take me out for meals, smart suits for work.
I don’t know if I should make an effort to look nice today. I’m only going to be in the house with my daughter, just like any other day. But I can imagine my husband berating me if I choose casual clothes. And I can also imagine him getting angry if I do dress up, repeating his accusation of an affair. I don’t know which is the greater risk.
I go to the curtains and peer out. The sun beams through the window. The car isn’t there today. At least I have that to be grateful for. Who is it that’s watching me and what do they want?
I wish I could go out today. Just for once. I imagine myself in a floaty summer dress, the sun’s rays warming my skin, my arms slowly browning. Perhaps I will take my daughter into the garden later, staying close to the house to avoid the prying eyes of the neighbours.
I go back to the wardrobe and pick out a dress. It’s light and airy and not too showy. I’ll have to wear a cardigan over it when I go in the garden, just in case the neighbours spot the blue-green bruise that covers my entire upper arm.
* * *
Later, when my husband is at work, the post comes, letters landing with a thud on the mat. But there aren’t any cards, only bank statements. I let myself cry, just a little bit, remembering how alone I am. I cut myself off completely from family when I met my husband. My father was abusive and my husband whisked me away from him, rescuing me. My saviour. Without my husband, I’m not sure I’d have ever escaped. But it wasn’t long before I found out that he was no different from my father.
I’m anxious about my husband’s return home, not sure whether he has any plans for my birthday. But an hour earlier than usual, I hear his key in the lock. My body tenses at the sound and I rush downstairs.
‘For you.’ He presents flowers and chocolates and kisses me on the lips.
‘Thanks,’ I splutter, surprised. ‘But you don’t like chocolates.’ I’m confused.
‘But you do,’ he says. ‘They’re all for you. A special treat.’
‘Oh,’ I say. I feel the tears forming at the corners of my eyes. I’m so relieved he’s being nice to me.
‘Are you going to go and get ready then?’
‘Get ready?’ I feel a ball of anxiety knotting in my stomach. Is he taking me out? The thought makes me queasy. It’s been so long since I was out in the world that the idea of crowds of people talking and laughing seems oppressive and frightening.
‘Yes, put your nicest clothes on.’
I go upstairs and dress with trepidation. Designer dress. The diamond teardrop earrings he bought me for our fifth wedding anniversary and the matching necklace. Make-up, layers of it, until my bruises are covered and I look human again. But I feel afraid. I really don’t want to leave the house.
When I go downstairs, my husband offers me a glass of red wine and I take it, my hands shaking. He has put our daughter to bed. Everything is so out of the ordinary that I’m terrified about what will happen next. We are off script, in an unknown land.
I hear noises from the kitchen, pots and pans banging.
My husband smiles at me. ‘That’s the chef,’ he says. ‘I’ve hired a professional chef to cook for us.’
I smile, glad we are staying in, and even gladder that a third person is here as a witness. My husband always behaves impeccably in front of other people.
The dinner is delicious and at some point I relax and we laugh and joke together. It’s like old times. I force down a feeling of sadness that this situation is so rare, that our relationship isn’t always like this. I focus on the moment, focus on enjoying myself.
After dinner, he takes me in his arms and kisses me, his tongue delving into my mouth, his hands casting over my body roughly.
Upstairs, he throws me onto the bed. I feel a flush of fear and arousal as pushes my skirt up and then unbuckles his belt.
‘Happy birthday,’ he says.
After it’s over, I listen as he goes to the bathroom, brushes his teeth and goes downstairs.
I wrap the duvet around myself, still dressed apart from my knickers.
I feel the wet tears on my face, the flood of despair. I don’t know why I’m crying. He still wants me. He still loves me. Doesn’t he?
Hugging the pillow to me, I let my tears spread across it.
I don’t know why I feel like this. He’s been kind to me today. I should be grateful. Shouldn’t I?
Twelve
When I wake up, Matt isn’t in bed. I roll over groggily and check my phone. It’s already 7 a.m. Confused, I go into Olivia’s room and see Matt sitting with her, cooing at her. She smiles up at him and I feel a tinge of jealousy.
‘How are you feeling?’ Matt asks.
I’ve been tossing and turning all night, totally convinced someone had been in the house. But now it seems so unlikely. It could only have been me that left Olivia’s nightlight on.
‘Bit tired,’ I reply. ‘Thanks for letting me sleep in.’
‘I think you needed it.’
‘Yeah, I think I did.’
‘Are you going to go to the doctor today?’
‘I’m not sure I need to. I was just being paranoid last night.’
He looks at me intently. ‘But there’s more going on than that, isn’t there? You haven’t been yourself since Olivia was born.’
‘I suppose not.’ He’s right. Something’s wrong with me. I’m so forgetful, so paranoid.
‘Will you ring the doctor?’
I agree and Matt stands over me when the phone lines open at eight. I’m pleased to get an appointment for the morning, as I’ve arranged to see Emma in the afternoon.
Matt strokes my back. ‘It will be OK,’ he says. ‘Just tell them the truth.’
‘I’m not sure how to.’
‘Is it that bad?’ he asks, concerned. ‘I’m worried about you, Claire. It reminds me of last time you were ill.’
I’m worried too. I don’t want to ever get to the state I was in last time, when it seemed like there was no way out.
‘It’s different this time,’ I say. ‘I’m not as bad.’ I sigh. I wonder if I can confide in him.
He’s looking at me so intently. ‘What is it then?’
I take a deep breath. ‘It’s Olivia. I feel like I haven’t bonded with her. That I don’t love her the way I should.’
The words sound even worse out loud. They are words that no mother should ever say. I notice Olivia watching me and I turn away from them both, ashamed.
Matt wraps his arms around me and hugs me tight. ‘It will be OK, Claire. You’re a good mother. Just
talk it through with the doctor. I’m sure they’ll be able to help.’
* * *
Two hours later, I sit on a sofa at the GP’s surgery, which operates from a converted house on the edge of the village. My hands shake as I thumb through an old copy of a celebrity magazine looking at wedding pictures of a minor royal I’ve never heard of. I don’t know what I’m going to say when I go through the door and see the doctor. I look at Olivia, smiling up at me from her buggy, and feel the familiar guilt rising inside me. She deserves so much more.
I worry that the doctor will see my history of depression in my notes and judge me when I tell them how down I feel. What if they think I’m an unfit mother and take my daughter away from me?
I had wanted Olivia so much, but I didn’t let myself get excited the way I did the first time I got pregnant. We’d been so organised back then. We named the baby Martha Rose as soon as we found out she was a girl and bought drawers of baby clothes. I imagined bringing her home from the hospital in the blue and white striped dress that was neatly folded in the drawer waiting for her arrival. When we finally got pregnant again, two years after my miscarriage, I refused to name the baby until she was born – a living, breathing being. When I went past twenty weeks I started making promises to my unborn baby, as she kicked me from the inside and sat on my bladder. I would be the best mother. I would love her no matter what. I would never get angry or raise my voice. All the baby had to do was come out alive and I’d be forever grateful.
I had broken all of my promises in the first two months.
The buzzer rings insistently and it’s my turn. I swallow back tears as I push the buggy into the consultation room.
The doctor smiles at me. ‘She’s very happy,’ she says, looking at Olivia.
My heart sinks. How can I possibly explain how I feel towards her?
‘What can I do for you?’ the doctor asks as I take a seat.
‘I… I…’ I start to speak but the words won’t form. And then I’m sobbing. ‘I’ve been feeling a bit down,’ I mumble.
She leans closer. ‘How long have you been feeling like this?’
‘Since she was born.’
‘OK,’ she says. ‘I’m just going to run through a few questions with you about how you’re feeling and then we’ll decide on the best course of action.’
I swallow back tears as I answer her checklist of questions about my mood, anxiety and sleep.
‘Sometimes I look at her and I don’t feel anything at all,’ I whisper, overwhelmed by guilt. ‘And other times I wonder if I hate her.’
The doctor scribbles in her pad. I wonder if she’ll ask for more detail. I think of all the other things that are going on: the feeling that someone’s watching me, the forgetfulness, the dream last night.
I see her looking at my notes on her computer and I hold my breath. I don’t know if she’ll see the record of what I tried to do to myself three years ago. I don’t know if she knows.
She turns to me and smiles. I smile back, relieved. She can’t have seen anything in my notes.
‘It sounds like you’ve got postnatal depression,’ she explains. ‘It’s very common.’
‘OK,’ I say. The word depression echoes in my brain. I don’t want it to get worse. I don’t want to feel the way I did last time, like there was no way out.
‘I’ll refer you for cognitive behaviour therapy,’ she says. ‘That will help you change your patterns of thinking and control how you feel.’
‘How long’s the wait?’
‘I can’t say at the moment, but usually it’s not too long. Around two to three months.’
Tears start to well up. I need help now, not in three months.
She stops typing into her computer and turns to me.
‘In the meantime, you need to start looking after yourself. Do you have family to support you?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘My husband’s parents live nearby.’
I see her eyebrows raise and she takes a second look at her computer screen. My surname will have told her just whose daughter-in-law I am. She probably knows Ruth. Everyone does. There’s nowhere to hide in this village.
‘OK,’ she says, as she searches around in her desk drawer and pulls out two leaflets. ‘Don’t be afraid to ask for help from friends and family. And it’s important to eat well and exercise.’ She hands me the first leaflet, with a picture of a smiling woman jogging through a park on the front.
‘Thanks,’ I reply, feeling crushed. Exercise isn’t going to be enough. It took so much effort to tell her how I felt, but I won’t get professional help for ages. I’ll have to struggle on with Olivia, on my own.
‘In the meantime, here are the numbers for some mental health helplines. Just in case you need them.’
I take the leaflet from her but I know I’ll throw it straight in the bin. I don’t want to ring a helpline. I just can’t. I swallow back tears as I wheel the buggy out of the room. Three months sounds like a lifetime to wait. I don’t know how I’m going to get through each day.
* * *
When I arrive at Emma’s flat later that day, I’m still shaken by the appointment. I settle down on the sofa with Olivia, while Emma makes tea and Lizzie wriggles on her playmat. I look around the neat and tidy living room and feel a twinge of jealousy. There’s never any clutter at Emma’s flat. No baby things lying around on the floor. No boxes. Just clean, neat lines, white walls and tasteful framed prints.
Emma brings me my tea and I let it warm my hands before I take a sip.
‘I’m looking forward to this,’ she says brightly.
I nod. Today Emma’s helping me with an annual ritual: preparing gift packs for the local children’s home. It’s something my mother and I used to do together every year. I’ve continued the tradition since she died. But this year I nearly didn’t bother. The date crept up on me unexpectedly and I hadn’t done any preparations, and I didn’t have any connections with the children’s homes local to here.
When I mentioned it to Emma, she wouldn’t let me just give up. She rang round children’s homes, found one that was nearby and willing to accept the gifts, and then took me shopping for the small toys and toiletries we needed for the bags. Today we’re wrapping the toys and baking fairy cakes to add to the packs.
We start with the baking, placing Olivia and Lizzie on a rug on the floor so they can watch us. Olivia’s eyes follow my every move intently, while Lizzie stares at the ceiling light, fascinated. As I mix the ingredients together with my hands, I think about all the years that have passed since my mother died. For a long time afterwards Miriam would help me put the gift packs together and then we’d reminisce about my mother over a drink at the local pub, where Mum and I used to celebrate her birthday each year. For the last few years I’ve prepared the gift packs alone. It feels better with Emma by my side today.
‘Are you all right?’ Emma asks. ‘You’ve been a bit quiet.’
‘I’m OK,’ I say. It’s an obvious lie. A tsunami of emotion rises up inside me. Tears well up as I think of my mother and the doctor’s appointment earlier.
‘What’s wrong?’ Emma asks, putting her arm around me. I let the wooden spoon fall with a clatter into the mixing bowl.
‘I went to the doctor this morning. She diagnosed me with postnatal depression.’
‘I’m so sorry, Claire. That must be awful.’
‘It… I’m just finding it hard,’ I say. ‘I wish I was like you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You and Lizzie. It seems to come so naturally. Being a mother is such a struggle for me.’
Emma puts her hand gently on my shoulder, and I shudder with sobs. ‘It’s OK,’ she says, comforting me as I wipe away my tears with the back of my hand.
‘Sometimes I don’t think I even love her. I… I don’t have it in me.’
I glance up at Emma, waiting for her to judge me.
But she says nothing and just holds me, letting me cry on her shoulders. ‘You know you can
talk to me anytime?’
I nod.
‘We should arrange something to cheer you up,’ Emma says. ‘There’s a new boutique wine shop opened in Oxford. We could try the wine tasting there one day.’
‘Maybe,’ I say, noncommittally. When I’m feeling down, alcohol is the thing I want most in the world, but what I need least. If I start drinking when I feel like this, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to stop.
‘You need a night out.’ Emma smiles.
I imagine myself in a club, dancing and carefree. It seems like a distant dream. I’ll never have that life again.
‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘Matt works all hours and I’d never get a babysitter. Besides, Matt and I never go out together any more ourselves. He spends more time with Sarah than with me.’
‘His ex?’
‘They work late together a lot. They’re very close.’ I remember the text Sarah sent Matt late at night the other day.
‘I could babysit,’ Emma says. ‘Give you two the chance to reconnect.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, feeling grateful. ‘We need that.’
I hope a night out together will be enough. But in my heart I know our relationship needs a lot more work. We moved out here to bring us closer together, but each day the distance between us seems to grow. I’m terrified that one day the gap will be too big to ever bridge again.
Thirteen
My eyes flick open and I look at my phone: 6.30 a.m. I lie still and listen to the sounds of the house creaking. I can’t hear any noise from Olivia’s room. She’s normally awake by this time. I roll over and try and get comfortable under the duvet. I’m exhausted. I turn the pillow over and rest my cheek against the cold cotton. I can feel the minutes ticking away until Olivia wakes up. But I can’t get back to sleep. My body clock has been reset by my daughter.
Matt murmurs in his sleep, and I watch as he slowly wakes. He sees me and rolls towards me, his arm wrapping around me and cupping my breast. I sigh. Last night we finally had the time to talk properly. As well as opening up about my postnatal depression diagnosis, we talked about getting the intimacy back in our relationship. It’s something we both want.
