each of these outfits, all perfectly chosen and coordinated from expensive boutiques. Me, if I were pregnant (the very thought makes me morning-sick with envy) I’d wear tight-fitting T-shirts in shades of brown or grey and have them stretch and ruche over my bump. I’d sling on a man’s cardigan with big deep pockets in which to stuff my tissues. There’d be a lot of tissues. I’d be very emotional, all those hormones racing through me, controlling me, making me feel crazy and sad one minute then ecstatic the next. But, as things stand, I am stuck on the even keel of not being pregnant; no wacky rush of hormones for me today. I’m pretty numb to it now.
I touch one of the maternity dresses and it slides off its hanger. I stare at it on the floor of the wardrobe. I pick it up and hold it against me. Claudia is taller than me. Un-pregnant, I imagine she’s a size twelve or fourteen against my size eight. The dress is a pink and orange Pucci-style print and it makes me look barely there behind its gregariousness. It comes down to mid-calf on me whereas I reckon it would be a more fashionable knee-length on Claudia. Plus, her colouring – those swathes of dark hair and her rosy complexion – would handle the clash of hues on this bright dress. On me, it would simply confirm my invisibility.
I throw it onto the floor and stamp on it in my socked feet. Sobs well up in my throat, as if someone has their hands round my neck, squeezing ever more tightly. When will this choking feeling end?
I grab the wardrobe for support and still myself, head bowing between my arms. What was I thinking? Momentary loss of control is not part of my agenda. I pick up the dress and shake it out. It mustn’t look creased. I hang it back in the wardrobe and am about to shut the doors when I notice something on the floor of the cupboard. It’s a pretty white and green floral box with ‘Keepsakes’ printed on the lid.
I’ve seen this sort of thing before. Oh yes, many times on numerous trips to the baby department of John Lewis or Debenhams or stacked up among Baby’s First Albums and soft rag books in that fashionable little baby boutique near my place. My
old
place.
I stop and tilt my head to the ceiling, trying to make the tears go back in.
I take a breath. This is a box for keeping safe newborn photos, first bootees and locks of hair tied with cotton. This is the kind of place you stash wobbled-out milk teeth – tiny and jagged – and snapshots straight after the birth that Mum doesn’t want in the family album. It’s where you find baby’s first birthday cards and a christening order of service, or the first wavy marks ever made on paper by a clumsily-held crayon. This box holds the deepest memories, the most special mementos, the very beginnings of life. It gets opened once every few years and added to less and less as time goes by.
I lift it out. It’s heavier than I’d expected. I give it a little shake. There’s stuff in there. Has Claudia already been collecting keepsakes from her pregnancy? Or perhaps the contents are for the twins, collected by James and his first wife. The lid is veneered with a skim of dust, indicating it’s not been looked at in a while.
I blow hard at the top of the box, place it on the carpet, and kneel down beside it. I stop. Listen. Did I hear something, someone? My heart thumps in my throat like a second, guilty beat. What would I do now if Claudia came home, burst into her bedroom to find me rummaging through her wardrobe?
Sorry, Claudia. I just wanted to know what it feels like to be pregnant; to have pregnant things; to wear pregnant clothes.
Would she accept that? Would she understand that I probably want – no,
need
her baby more than she does?
I lift the lid. I stare at the contents.
I feel as if I’ve taken a peek inside a womb, the very inner sanctum where life is held so precious. My fingers itch to rifle through this box of . . . of . . . what are they? Keepsakes?
I touch one of the maternity dresses and it slides off its hanger. I stare at it on the floor of the wardrobe. I pick it up and hold it against me. Claudia is taller than me. Un-pregnant, I imagine she’s a size twelve or fourteen against my size eight. The dress is a pink and orange Pucci-style print and it makes me look barely there behind its gregariousness. It comes down to mid-calf on me whereas I reckon it would be a more fashionable knee-length on Claudia. Plus, her colouring – those swathes of dark hair and her rosy complexion – would handle the clash of hues on this bright dress. On me, it would simply confirm my invisibility.
I throw it onto the floor and stamp on it in my socked feet. Sobs well up in my throat, as if someone has their hands round my neck, squeezing ever more tightly. When will this choking feeling end?
I grab the wardrobe for support and still myself, head bowing between my arms. What was I thinking? Momentary loss of control is not part of my agenda. I pick up the dress and shake it out. It mustn’t look creased. I hang it back in the wardrobe and am about to shut the doors when I notice something on the floor of the cupboard. It’s a pretty white and green floral box with ‘Keepsakes’ printed on the lid.
I’ve seen this sort of thing before. Oh yes, many times on numerous trips to the baby department of John Lewis or Debenhams or stacked up among Baby’s First Albums and soft rag books in that fashionable little baby boutique near my place. My
old
place.
I stop and tilt my head to the ceiling, trying to make the tears go back in.
I take a breath. This is a box for keeping safe newborn photos, first bootees and locks of hair tied with cotton. This is the kind of place you stash wobbled-out milk teeth – tiny and jagged – and snapshots straight after the birth that Mum doesn’t want in the family album. It’s where you find baby’s first birthday cards and a christening order of service, or the first wavy marks ever made on paper by a clumsily-held crayon. This box holds the deepest memories, the most special mementos, the very beginnings of life. It gets opened once every few years and added to less and less as time goes by.
I lift it out. It’s heavier than I’d expected. I give it a little shake. There’s stuff in there. Has Claudia already been collecting keepsakes from her pregnancy? Or perhaps the contents are for the twins, collected by James and his first wife. The lid is veneered with a skim of dust, indicating it’s not been looked at in a while.
I blow hard at the top of the box, place it on the carpet, and kneel down beside it. I stop. Listen. Did I hear something, someone? My heart thumps in my throat like a second, guilty beat. What would I do now if Claudia came home, burst into her bedroom to find me rummaging through her wardrobe?
Sorry, Claudia. I just wanted to know what it feels like to be pregnant; to have pregnant things; to wear pregnant clothes.
Would she accept that? Would she understand that I probably want – no,
need
her baby more than she does?
I lift the lid. I stare at the contents.
I feel as if I’ve taken a peek inside a womb, the very inner sanctum where life is held so precious. My fingers itch to rifle through this box of . . . of . . . what are they? Keepsakes?
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