rehearsed smile – ‘it is
nothing
, darling. Because it’s
normal
. To give overdue emphasis to
this
would be to plant unnecessary anxieties where, for the most part—’
I jump in. ‘Where for the most part, most mothers will give birth to perfect,
normal
babies and sail blissfully out of these corridors thinking blissful thoughts?’
The hand clamps down on mine, strong now, stern.
‘Come on now, Rachel. Believe me, sweetheart –’ If this smirking automaton calls me ‘darling’ or ‘sweetheart’ again I will behead her with one violent swipe of the breakfast tray – ‘when you look back on this whole beautiful journey, I promise you, darling, you won’t even remember these first few . . .’ She tails off to nothing. My demented black-ringed eyes must be looking at her with violence, with horror, possibly both. She tries again. ‘Once you get home, once you get into a rhythm with Baby, you’ll barely remember these first few days. You
won’t
, darling! And in time all you
will
remember are the good bits. This beautiful,
gorgeous
little man here.’ She flashes a little look at me. I nod and force a timid smile, try my very best to seem reassured as she lurches towards the climax of her sermon. A little faux-chuckle and she leans forward, gives me a tiny, matey prod. ‘Why else do you think all these women keep coming back again and again, having more and more?’
I won’t, I want to say. And if I could turn back the hands of time . . .
But, unaccountably, there’s something about herfecundity, her jovial good faith in the very essence of motherhood that thaws somewhat my frigid mood. I sigh hard, and with it I fly the meekest of my misgivings up the pipe.
‘I keep telling myself it’s because I haven’t slept.’ I smile at her.
Her neck tenses before she can check herself. She tries to look tender; it comes out as a grimace.
‘What is, sweetie? Keep telling yourself
what
is?’
‘Maybe once I’ve slept.
Really
slept, I mean. Maybe then I’ll have clarity.’ As worn out as I am, I can see she’s impressed and possibly reassured by my use of ‘clarity’. I try to give an impression of thoughtful concern; tender self-awareness. But the part of me in control can’t prevent the dark side coughing out what’s on my mind. I look her in the eye, and I say it: ‘Maybe I’ll stop thinking these thoughts?’
‘What thoughts, Rachel?’ Her poise has slipped. She’s uneasy and unsure. She withdraws her hand to her lap, a reflex action that she’s quick to temper, knocking a stray thread from her tunic before placing her hand back on my wrist, but barely holding it there now, conscious of the skin shivering between us. ‘What kind of thoughts?’
And now I don’t want to tell her any more. Tears are nettling my eyes. I shake my head, do my best to resist.
‘Hey, sweetie. You can tell me – that’s what I’m here for! Tell me what thoughts you’ve been thinking, darling.’
‘Home. I just want to go home. Please?’
I shift my focus on to Joe, make a paltry pretence offussing over his blanket. I can feel her scrutinising me. I dry my eyes and shut up shop. I don’t even make eye contact, now. When I look up again, she has gone.
Darkness is pressing at the windows. Most of the other mothers on the ward have gone home, their beds awaiting new arrivals. Tomorrow, as soon as the doctor has been to check Joe’s hearing, they’ll let me go. It’ll be just me and Joe. Alone in the house. The thought fills me with dread. The tea lady hauls her trolley to the top of the ward, collects the empty cups.
‘Get some sleep, love,’ she trills. ‘Be the last chance you get before you go home.’
But Joe has other plans. He cries and cries. I roll over and ignore him. His crying amplifies into one trembling, quavering, hideous bout of prolonged and unbearable sobbing. I drag myself up and out of bed, heavy of heart, and pluck the tiny rebel from his cot. I pace the ward, rock him,
nothing
, darling. Because it’s
normal
. To give overdue emphasis to
this
would be to plant unnecessary anxieties where, for the most part—’
I jump in. ‘Where for the most part, most mothers will give birth to perfect,
normal
babies and sail blissfully out of these corridors thinking blissful thoughts?’
The hand clamps down on mine, strong now, stern.
‘Come on now, Rachel. Believe me, sweetheart –’ If this smirking automaton calls me ‘darling’ or ‘sweetheart’ again I will behead her with one violent swipe of the breakfast tray – ‘when you look back on this whole beautiful journey, I promise you, darling, you won’t even remember these first few . . .’ She tails off to nothing. My demented black-ringed eyes must be looking at her with violence, with horror, possibly both. She tries again. ‘Once you get home, once you get into a rhythm with Baby, you’ll barely remember these first few days. You
won’t
, darling! And in time all you
will
remember are the good bits. This beautiful,
gorgeous
little man here.’ She flashes a little look at me. I nod and force a timid smile, try my very best to seem reassured as she lurches towards the climax of her sermon. A little faux-chuckle and she leans forward, gives me a tiny, matey prod. ‘Why else do you think all these women keep coming back again and again, having more and more?’
I won’t, I want to say. And if I could turn back the hands of time . . .
But, unaccountably, there’s something about herfecundity, her jovial good faith in the very essence of motherhood that thaws somewhat my frigid mood. I sigh hard, and with it I fly the meekest of my misgivings up the pipe.
‘I keep telling myself it’s because I haven’t slept.’ I smile at her.
Her neck tenses before she can check herself. She tries to look tender; it comes out as a grimace.
‘What is, sweetie? Keep telling yourself
what
is?’
‘Maybe once I’ve slept.
Really
slept, I mean. Maybe then I’ll have clarity.’ As worn out as I am, I can see she’s impressed and possibly reassured by my use of ‘clarity’. I try to give an impression of thoughtful concern; tender self-awareness. But the part of me in control can’t prevent the dark side coughing out what’s on my mind. I look her in the eye, and I say it: ‘Maybe I’ll stop thinking these thoughts?’
‘What thoughts, Rachel?’ Her poise has slipped. She’s uneasy and unsure. She withdraws her hand to her lap, a reflex action that she’s quick to temper, knocking a stray thread from her tunic before placing her hand back on my wrist, but barely holding it there now, conscious of the skin shivering between us. ‘What kind of thoughts?’
And now I don’t want to tell her any more. Tears are nettling my eyes. I shake my head, do my best to resist.
‘Hey, sweetie. You can tell me – that’s what I’m here for! Tell me what thoughts you’ve been thinking, darling.’
‘Home. I just want to go home. Please?’
I shift my focus on to Joe, make a paltry pretence offussing over his blanket. I can feel her scrutinising me. I dry my eyes and shut up shop. I don’t even make eye contact, now. When I look up again, she has gone.
Darkness is pressing at the windows. Most of the other mothers on the ward have gone home, their beds awaiting new arrivals. Tomorrow, as soon as the doctor has been to check Joe’s hearing, they’ll let me go. It’ll be just me and Joe. Alone in the house. The thought fills me with dread. The tea lady hauls her trolley to the top of the ward, collects the empty cups.
‘Get some sleep, love,’ she trills. ‘Be the last chance you get before you go home.’
But Joe has other plans. He cries and cries. I roll over and ignore him. His crying amplifies into one trembling, quavering, hideous bout of prolonged and unbearable sobbing. I drag myself up and out of bed, heavy of heart, and pluck the tiny rebel from his cot. I pace the ward, rock him,
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