Broken by Ilsa Evans Page A

anything to have the pregnancy back, because suddenly she learnt what unbearable
really
meant. It was watching a tiny baby with transparent, blue-tinged skin struggle for life. It was not being able to hold her when she was in pain. And it was knowing of the risk that she could be lost simply because she had been born too soon
.
    It was an accident – just one of those things. Mattie was standing on top of the kitchen step-stool, reaching awkwardly into the overhead cupboard for something or other. Max was in his highchair nearby, eating diced pears out of a yellow plastic bowl that had suction cups underneath to secure it to the tray. When she fell, catching one leg under the steps and carrying them down with her, she hit her head sharply against the stove corner and lost consciousness. And by the time she opened her eyes again, it was all over. The ambulance ride, the ruptured placenta, the emergency caesarean. She was the mother of a baby girl who was fighting for her life in the neo-natal nursery and things would never be the same again
.

SIX
    T he next few days passed quickly and well. The only dark spot was the fact that Jake did not drop by, and nor did he ring. Mattie herself picked up the phone time and again, only to rethink making the call, then returning the handset to its cradle. Nevertheless, the lack of contact weighed in the back of her mind, shading her days with continuing disquiet and more than a touch of reproach.
    But everything else went surprisingly smoothly. On Wednesday afternoon, she had returned home from collecting the children to find, on the doorstep, a neat elastic-banded bundle of lilac party-plan invitations, several colourful product brochures with fold-out order forms and a friendly note from Sharon saying that she was sorry to have missed her. Mattie spent a very pleasant evening, with Courtney’s ready assistance, examining the brochures and circling the items they would have really liked if they could have afforded them.
    Then Mattie had been dreading Thursday, with the knowledge that after she said goodbye at the school, she would not be seeing her children again until Sunday. But as with many things, her expectations were actually worse than the deed. First she got involved in a rather interesting discussion with some other mothers who did Monday morning reading with her, regarding the positive and negative attributes of Miss Thomson, the prep teacher. Then she handed out invitations to her Whimsicalities party and fielded the immediate, and rather curious, questions about her change of address. This was followed by a pleasantwalk down to the shops where she posted off an invitation to Liz, complete with a carefully thought-out handwritten note that read:
Would love to catch up. If you can’t make this, give me a ring and we’ll arrange something else? Cheers, Mattie
. Before posting it Mattie had stood at the letterbox for several moments. Should she or shouldn’t she? Would she look desperate after all this time? Finally, she took a deep breath and thrust the letter through the opening before she could analyse it further. And, as the letter disappeared with a flash of white, she had felt a surge of well-being, fuelled by the certainty that she had done the right thing.
    Then, with that accomplished, she visited the supermarket to buy some decadent food for the weekend and dropped off the completed application at the community centre. Beryl, thrilled to see that she had followed through with her interest, had taken her on a tour of the centre and even lent her some handouts from the community service course so that Mattie could get a start on her required reading.
    The smoothness of those few days were helped by a firm decision not to drink anymore while she was alone. After the ease with which she’d slipped into her maudlin state on the first night, she sensed that madness lay that way, biding its time with a sly smile. And alcohol invited it in. So she