Maxim again until my voice was hoarse.
For the first time since the abduction, I was happy to hear the key turn in the lock and his footsteps on the stairs.
‘It’s coming!’
‘But it’s too early – you’re only seven months!’
‘Maxim, please help me! It hurts!’
I was so happy to see him; so happy that I didn’t have to go through it alone. His eyelids were puffy and his hair was wild, and he was dressed in grey flannel pyjamas. He rushed around the basement, disorientated from sleep, and ran the tap to fill the washing-up bowl with water. He went to find the bag he had packed for when the baby came. For months he had read books on how to care for a baby; he had learnt the stages and symptoms of pregnancy, and had watched videos on the internet to prepare for the delivery. He brought the bag over to the bed, and checked how many centimetres I was dilated; it felt like he was prodding an open wound. He rushed back to the sink to get the bowl, which he placed at the foot of the bed; he took a cloth from the bowl and sat beside me against the bedframe and pressed the cool wet cloth to my clammy forehead. He wiped it over my neck, my chest, and swollen, taut stomach. He rubbed it softly between my legs and removed the cuff from my wrist.
‘It hurts so much.’
‘It will be over soon. Only one more centimetre and you’ll be able to start pushing.’
‘Already?’ I looked up at him, terrified, wishing I didn’t have to push, feel the pain, and have such a responsibility.
He held my hand.
‘You can do this. You’re ready.’
I didn’t believe him, but I didn’t have a chance to reply as the next wave of agony burned in my belly as though I had been stabbed and the blade was being twisted. I gritted my teeth and groaned, digging my heels into the bed again, and squeezed Maxim’s hand as hard as I could.
‘You’re ready to push,’ he said, his breath sour from sleep.
‘I can’t!’
‘You have to. You can do it. I have to go to the end of the bed now.’
He moved to the end of the bed and tucked towels beneath my bum and thighs. I heard the snap of disposable gloves.
‘You need to push now.’
I pushed, and screamed from the pain and the pressure.
‘Keep pushing. Come on.’
Sweat and tears poured down my face and my hand gripped the bed sheet until it twisted around my fist. I had to stop, to breathe, but pushed again when I felt the pressure moving downward, through me. From behind my closed eyelids, explosions of white lights flashed with the pain. I could smell blood, faeces, and sweat.
‘One more push!’
I screamed, clenched my teeth until I thought they would shatter, pushed until I felt as though my head was going to explode and my belly was about to burst.
And then I heard the first cry of my baby.
TWENTY
Once I became a mother, Maxim freed me of the handcuff. I was a prisoner, but given freedom of the whole room. Being able to walk when I pleased, use a real toilet rather than the metal bowl, and wash myself rather than be washed by Maxim’s hands felt so good. He had fitted a small bath and a toilet in the basement. They were old and stained, and I was only allowed cold water, but I didn’t care. I would shiver in the freezing cold water and tell myself it was worth it. For the first time since he took me, I finally had some control.
I wanted to wean John from breastfeeding once Mary arrived, but Maxim was adamant that it was the best thing for John: he was getting the nourishment he needed, and he would be smarter and healthier because of it. Every time I mentioned it, Maxim read aloud articles that he had cut out of newspapers, and told me how good breast milk was for infants. I was breastfeeding two children: one newborn, and one toddler with teeth.
I sat on the rocking chair, with John suckling from one breast and Mary from the other. John would get possessive – he had never had to share his mother’s milk before – but he was getting better, although I had
For the first time since the abduction, I was happy to hear the key turn in the lock and his footsteps on the stairs.
‘It’s coming!’
‘But it’s too early – you’re only seven months!’
‘Maxim, please help me! It hurts!’
I was so happy to see him; so happy that I didn’t have to go through it alone. His eyelids were puffy and his hair was wild, and he was dressed in grey flannel pyjamas. He rushed around the basement, disorientated from sleep, and ran the tap to fill the washing-up bowl with water. He went to find the bag he had packed for when the baby came. For months he had read books on how to care for a baby; he had learnt the stages and symptoms of pregnancy, and had watched videos on the internet to prepare for the delivery. He brought the bag over to the bed, and checked how many centimetres I was dilated; it felt like he was prodding an open wound. He rushed back to the sink to get the bowl, which he placed at the foot of the bed; he took a cloth from the bowl and sat beside me against the bedframe and pressed the cool wet cloth to my clammy forehead. He wiped it over my neck, my chest, and swollen, taut stomach. He rubbed it softly between my legs and removed the cuff from my wrist.
‘It hurts so much.’
‘It will be over soon. Only one more centimetre and you’ll be able to start pushing.’
‘Already?’ I looked up at him, terrified, wishing I didn’t have to push, feel the pain, and have such a responsibility.
He held my hand.
‘You can do this. You’re ready.’
I didn’t believe him, but I didn’t have a chance to reply as the next wave of agony burned in my belly as though I had been stabbed and the blade was being twisted. I gritted my teeth and groaned, digging my heels into the bed again, and squeezed Maxim’s hand as hard as I could.
‘You’re ready to push,’ he said, his breath sour from sleep.
‘I can’t!’
‘You have to. You can do it. I have to go to the end of the bed now.’
He moved to the end of the bed and tucked towels beneath my bum and thighs. I heard the snap of disposable gloves.
‘You need to push now.’
I pushed, and screamed from the pain and the pressure.
‘Keep pushing. Come on.’
Sweat and tears poured down my face and my hand gripped the bed sheet until it twisted around my fist. I had to stop, to breathe, but pushed again when I felt the pressure moving downward, through me. From behind my closed eyelids, explosions of white lights flashed with the pain. I could smell blood, faeces, and sweat.
‘One more push!’
I screamed, clenched my teeth until I thought they would shatter, pushed until I felt as though my head was going to explode and my belly was about to burst.
And then I heard the first cry of my baby.
TWENTY
Once I became a mother, Maxim freed me of the handcuff. I was a prisoner, but given freedom of the whole room. Being able to walk when I pleased, use a real toilet rather than the metal bowl, and wash myself rather than be washed by Maxim’s hands felt so good. He had fitted a small bath and a toilet in the basement. They were old and stained, and I was only allowed cold water, but I didn’t care. I would shiver in the freezing cold water and tell myself it was worth it. For the first time since he took me, I finally had some control.
I wanted to wean John from breastfeeding once Mary arrived, but Maxim was adamant that it was the best thing for John: he was getting the nourishment he needed, and he would be smarter and healthier because of it. Every time I mentioned it, Maxim read aloud articles that he had cut out of newspapers, and told me how good breast milk was for infants. I was breastfeeding two children: one newborn, and one toddler with teeth.
I sat on the rocking chair, with John suckling from one breast and Mary from the other. John would get possessive – he had never had to share his mother’s milk before – but he was getting better, although I had
Similar Books
