movements. Iâd held both of them, separately, till they stopped crying, rubbing my thumb back and forth across their temples.
The baby started crying at about five, before the sun was up. I padded through after a couple of minutes. The shape on the bed didnât stir, so I picked the basket up off the floor, and said something comforting and instant like shhh, shhh, letâs let mummy sleep, and then I thought about what Iâd just said, and who Iâd just used the word âmummyâ to mean, and I wrapped myself in Simonâs smelly dressing gown and carried her through to the kitchen.
In all that time, the fifteen consecutive years we spent breathing the same stale air of the same house, I donât remember once having shown her how to put on makeup or insert a tampon. I was an inadequate big sister, a geeky gawky spotty thing who didnât speak and didnât ever help her out, not that she needed it. Ever. Rona always had the skill of mixing with people, but coming out whole and still herself. If I was ready to tell her the secrets of our flesh sheâd have heard them, and heard them some years before I had even known. I hadnât ever fulfilled a need, so she had grown up not to need me. Until now.
After Iâd fed her, the baby stirred and fretted for a while, then I felt her growing limp, watched her tiny eyelids flickering down, felt her nuzzle in to the softness of my chest and fall asleep on me. And I just sat there, overwhelmed, as still as I could. I was scared that if I moved, Iâd spoil it, this huge, beautiful feeling. My breath slowed to match hers, and everything about us wasperfectly in unison.
Half past seven. I needed to have a shower and get ready. So we made two mugs of coffee and we went through to wake up mummy.
I know Rona, though. I know her. And so I donât know why I was surprised, as I pulled back that convincing-looking hump of duvet to find a faked body â blankets and couple of pillows. Like a bad joke from a bad film.
I wasnât that old, not really. I might have managed three more years on the planet, but I wasnât ready for this. I wonder if it even occurred to her whether I would be or not. And I needed to pee, and there was a baby beginning to cry again because Iâd gripped her too tightly. We went through to the bathroom, and one-handed I pulled out towels enough to make a softish mat. I laid her down on the floor on top of them, and then turned her away so she couldnât see me. All this seemed very logical. I sat down on the toilet and breathed in and almost collapsed. When I was done I washed my hands for about two minutes so that she wouldnât pick up any germs. I looked at my palms, my fingertips, and imagined them encrusted with bacteria, so I scrubbed and scrubbed. And the baby started to cry again. And I said oh shit. Rona left my flat sometime between two-thirty and four in the morning, six years ago. She left behind the bag sheâd brought, which only contained the babyâs things. There was a possible sighting at the bus station at five thirty am, but the person wasnât sure. We had word that she might have been seen in Manchester four years ago, but it came to nothing. She hasnât used her bank account since that day, although sheâd cleared it out three days before. Her phone was a pay-and-go, which hasnât been used; her passport hasnât left the country. I have no way of screaming at her, or slapping her, or telling her to take her fucking baby and give me my life back.
After that morning, Beth would only sleep on me. Not lying down. Not on anyone else. And I thought, fine. Iâll take her. Youâve given her to me. But you donât ever get to have her back.
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Difficult to know, really. When does it slide over? When do the walls rebuild themselves around you? The first time you have sex for money? Itâs not as clear-cut as that,
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