Sweet Damage

by Rebecca James

  ‘Where are you?’ he said. ‘I’m leaving now. I’ll come and get you.’

  He drove her to the hospital. On the way she became convinced that it was a false start, that she’d be sent home again, but after they’d parked and were on their way to admissions, she was seized with such an overwhelming pain that she had to stop and lean on Marcus. It seemed to last for such a long time, and hurt so much, she assumed she must be well advanced, that she would have a quick labour. But she was only in the early stages, and the pain continued for hours, getting worse and worse as the night went on.

  ‘I can’t have a baby when I’m in this much pain,’ she cried, during a brief lull between contractions. ‘It’s stupid. It hurts too much. There must be something wrong.’

  But the midwives, with their calm, mellow voices, their annoyingly smug faces, assured her that everything was going perfectly.

  ‘I can’t do it!’ she screamed in the early hours of the morning, just as the nurses changed shift. ‘I’ve had enough. I’m going home!’

  An hour later Benjamin slithered out between her legs and cried gustily. She reached for him and the pain miraculously stopped. All of a sudden she loved the midwives, she loved Marcus and Fiona, she loved the entire world. Most of all, she loved her new baby son.

  54

  AS SHE TALKS ABOUT BENJAMIN’S BIRTH AND HIS SHORT LIFE, HER entire manner changes. She seems softer, more open, and her eyes glow with an almost palpable sense of pride and happiness. It’s good to see – however temporary it is – her face so clear and free of shadows. For a moment it’s as if she has forgotten. But when she comes to the next bit of her story, Benjamin’s death, her bearing changes dramatically. She hunches over and her face draws down. Her hands twist in her lap. And the only thing left in her eyes is pain.

  55

  THE DAY BENJAMIN DROWNED WAS A CLEAR, SUNNY DAY, AND THOUGH IT WAS winter, it was warm enough to open the windows, let some fresh air into the house. Benjamin was eight weeks old – and for Anna those eight weeks had been miraculous. She hadn’t realised that love could be so expansive, so consuming. Had never realised how willing she’d be to surrender every minute of every day and every night to take care of another human being.

  She seemed to waste hours and hours each day just gazing at him, staring at the wonder of his little body, his hands and feet, his eyes, his breathtaking smile.

  And while on the one hand she felt busier than she ever had, and more productive, and far more needed, she also felt somehow looser and more free than she had before. She felt liberated from worrying about normal things like time, or studying, or cleaning the house. She existed purely for Benjamin. She slept when he did. Woke up when he needed her. She carried him everywhere, spent hours sitting in one spot either nursing him or patting him to sleep over her shoulder. She wandered around the house in big T-shirts and long skirts, her hair piled high on the top of her head in a loose bun. Her breasts were much larger than normal, swollen with milk, and she felt bounteous and beautiful, voluptuous, womanly. She felt strong and capable and serene.

  On this particular morning Benjamin was fractious and irritable. She’d been up since four and when Marcus came into the kitchen she was relieved to see him.

  ‘Let’s take him out,’ Marcus said, pushing open the French doors, letting the warmth of the day in. He was in one of his rare cheerful moods. He was usually so serious and reserved – not grumpy exactly, but certainly not full of easy smiles – and when he was in a mood like this it was hard not to respond, hard not to feel infected.

  Anna laughed. ‘Okay. Yes. What a brilliant idea.’

  He crouched down beside Anna so that his face was level with Benjamin’s. He used the voice he reserved specially for the baby. ‘Would you like to go out, young man? Enjoy the day? See some of this beautiful country you’ve been fortunate enough to be born into?’

  Fiona came down to the kitchen a while later and as she helped herself to a bowl of muesli Marcus asked her what she’d like to do.

  ‘Why don’t we take the ferry over to the botanical gardens?’ she suggested. ‘Have a picnic.’

  ‘A picnic’s a brilliant idea,’ Anna said. ‘But let’s not go anywhere on the ferry. What if Benjamin starts crying? We’ll be stuck.’

  ‘We could walk down to Fairlight Pool?’

  ‘We always do that. Let’s go somewhere else,’ Anna said. ‘Somewhere we can drive to. Just in case.’

  ‘I know a place,’ Marcus said. ‘Haven’t been there for years. But there’s plenty of shade. You can walk, Fiona, and Benjamin and Anna and I can relax on the grass.’

  Fiona made sandwiches while Anna went upstairs to pack a bag. She was ludicrously excited – she’d barely been out of the house since Benjamin had been born. She ran around her room shoving things in her bag: sunscreen and sunglasses, nappies and creams. A big hat for her, a little one for Benjamin.

  Marcus drove, and when they got there they carried the pram down the stairs to the picnic area and spread blankets beneath a tree. They ate sandwiches and grapes, drank cupfuls of cold orange cordial. Fiona read a book; Marcus lay on his back, hands behind his head, and dozed. Anna fed Benjamin, then lay on the grass beside him and showed him things – blades of grass, smooth stones, green leaves. After a while Fiona put her book down and said she was going for a walk.

  There was a large, noisy family having a barbecue nearby. There seemed to be a lot of kids, aged somewhere between two and fifteen, all of them either shouting or laughing. Once the noise would have bothered Anna but since becoming a mother herself she appreciated children, understood how important they were. She watched the mother tend to one of the smaller children before sending him off with a pat on his bum. The woman looked tired but happy. Anna smiled at the noise and imagined that she might one day have a large family. She imagined she would enjoy the energy and chaos of all those people.

  At one stage a ball landed heavily on their blanket, rolling close to Benjamin’s head. A kid followed immediately behind, all breathless and red-faced, and grabbed the ball and ran off again, without apologising or even acknowledging his trespass. He stomped over their blanket, upsetting their cups of cordial in his haste and Anna felt a sharp flash of anger at his obliviousness, his lack of care, and then she laughed inwardly at how easily her new sense of tolerance turned to irritation.

  After a while Benjamin became tetchy and Anna knew he was tired and needed sleep. She fed him again and put him in his pram. But he wouldn’t settle. He clenched his fists and whined, his face scrunching up like an old man’s.

  ‘I think I’ll just take him for a walk,’ she said to Marcus.

  ‘U-huh,’ he said, without opening his eyes.

  Anna was surprised how difficult it was to push the pram through the overgrown grass. It was an expensive pram, but meant for city walking and smooth surfaces, not rough, uneven earth. She found it hard going, the too-small wheels kept getting clogged with grass, blocked by stones. She had to stop frequently, which made Benjamin cry. She thought he would be happy once she could get some speed up, but when she reached the smooth concrete of the ramp his cries only got louder, more frantic. She searched the bottom basket of the pram for his dummy but couldn’t find it. Benjamin started crying louder.

  ‘Sorry, little man,’ she said. ‘So sorry. I just need to find your dummy.’

  It would take far too long to push the pram back through the grass so she left it on the concrete and dashed back to the picnic area. She searched briefly around their blankets, and in the baskets and bags of food, but with no luck.

  ‘I’m just going back to the car,’ she called out to Marcus. ‘Watch Benjamin for a second?’

  He didn’t answer her, or open his eyes, but he lifted his hand in acknowledgement.

  She grabbed the car keys and dashed up the stairs to the parking lot. When she found the dummy tucked into Benjamin’s car seat she sighed with relief. She locked the car and started strolling back down to the picnic area.

&n
bsp; It only took a second or two to register the blank space where the pram had been. She didn’t panic at first; she didn’t think anything at all. She merely turned her head to look around, assuming that Marcus had moved him – that he’d taken him for a walk or back to the picnic area. She wasn’t worried.

  It wasn’t until she happened to glance down towards the bottom of the ramp and saw the familiar black curve of the pram handles arcing out of the water, like two strange exotic birds, that she broke into a run.

  56

  HER STORY EXPLAINS EVERYTHING: HER SADNESS, HER ANXIETY, her isolation.

  ‘Anna. My God. He drowned? That’s . . .’ I shake my head. ‘The poor little boy. Poor you.’

  I don’t say the obvious thing. I don’t say, I hope you don’t blame yourself, Anna because saying that would be like opening the door to an avalanche of pain. Saying that would be acknowledging something too ugly: the horrible certainty that she must feel terrible, responsible. That she must be racked with guilt.

  It was an accident, a freak accident, one of those fucked-up things that happens in life, but still, I know she must hate herself.

  ‘Can I tell you something?’ she asks, looking down at her lap. ‘Something I’ve never told anyone?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’ve always thought . . . I’ve always wondered if something else happened that day.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The ramp. It barely had a slope. In fact I didn’t even notice that it sloped towards the water until later, until afterwards. And I’d left it sideways to the slope, facing towards the picnic area, that’s the way I was walking. And I just stopped. I didn’t turn the pram around to face the water or anything.’ She sighs, pushes her hair back. ‘And I know I locked the brake, Tim. I know I did. I was always so careful about things like that. I really was. I was so scared that something might happen to him. And I could remember pushing the lock down. For days afterwards I could really clearly remember the feel of the plastic bar on my foot, the clicking noise it made when it was locked in place.’

  I watch her face carefully, wait.

  ‘I never mentioned it, not to anyone, there didn’t seem any point . . . but there were these other people there that day. This big family with a whole bunch of really wild kids. And I always wondered if one of those kids had . . . just by accident, or just some kind of silly game or something . . . maybe just bumped it. Unlocked it. Turned it the other way or something. Maybe they saw it rolling into the water and freaked out. Ran away. You know what kids are like.’

  ‘You should have said something, Anna,’ I say. ‘You should have told someone.’

  ‘I couldn’t. I couldn’t go around blaming anyone else, could I? Ultimately it was my fault. Even if someone did unlock the pram or bump into it or even push it. I left him there. I was his mother. I was responsible for him.’

  ‘And what about Marcus? He was just as responsible. You asked him to watch.’

  ‘He was half asleep. I should have checked that he heard me, that he really understood. I shouldn’t have been so complacent. And what would it help anyway if I found someone else to blame? Benjamin’s dead. He isn’t coming back. Whether it was my fault or not. Benjamin is gone.’

  57

  HE DOESN’T TURN AWAY OR LOOK UNCOMFORTABLE. HIS GAZE REMAINS direct and open.

  He believes her.

  And despite her words, her assurance that what people think could make no possible difference, the knowledge that Tim believes her fills her with a beautiful warmth, a satisfying and intense relief. The tension that normally keeps her so trapped and tight and afraid falls away so that she feels soft and buttery, immensely conforted. And her heart expands with happiness in a way that feels perfect and new.

  58

  ‘COME WITH ME. I WANT TO SHOW YOU SOMETHING,’ SHE SAYS, getting up, holding her hand out towards me, and I know by the expression in her face that she means to take me to the attic.

  There’s a cot in one corner. Next to it a big armchair. The cot is made up with sheets, a soft baby blanket. A colourful mobile hangs over it, yellow ducks and red balls. There’s a chest of drawers next to the cot with a collection of framed photos sitting on top of it. Anna holding her baby. Close-ups of Benjamin’s face.

  She walks to the cot, reaches up to the mobile and twists the key. The ducks go round, a soft lullaby rings out in the air.

  ‘I just come up here. Sit right here next to his cot.’ She steps back and lowers herself into the armchair. Fresh tears fall from her eyes and she takes a shaky breath. ‘I just pretend. That’s all. I pretend I’m waiting for him to wake up. I pretend none of this ever happened. That he never died. And sometimes I even believe it. For a second or two. Sometimes I get this wonderful content feeling, like I’m just a normal mother waiting for her baby to wake up. I almost feel happy. And those moments make it worthwhile.’ She lifts the blanket to her face, presses it to her nose, closes her eyes. ‘I used to be able to smell him on this. For ages. I think the smell has gone now. But still. It reminds me of him.’

  ‘You’ve spent a lot of time up here?’ I ask. ‘Since he died?’

  She nods. ‘I was on my own most of the time anyway, especially once Fiona and Marcus left. May as well be up here.’

  ‘Why did they even move out? I would’ve thought you’d need them. I would’ve thought they’d want to help. Be around for you.’

  She’s quiet for a moment, folds the blanket in half on her lap. She keeps her eyes down, smooths the fabric with her hand. ‘I’m sure they wanted to help. In fact I know they wanted to help. I just don’t think Fiona could cope. I was pretty messy when Benjamin died. Pretty bad. Imagine the emotion of today times ten. And then think of living with that day after day after day.’

  ‘Pretty intense,’ I say.

  ‘And then imagine if you’re Fiona, someone who hates even normal displays of emotion. Marcus tried to explain it to me. He said that they had such a messy, unpredictable childhood that now, as an adult, she needs to be in control of things. Of her environment, of every single thing in her life. Well, you can’t control grief. You can’t even really help the person who’s grieving.’ She laughs sadly. ‘I think the fact that it just went on and on and on, scared her. Made her feel useless.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I suppose that makes some kind of sense. But . . . one thing . . . while I’m asking questions . . .’ I hesitate.

  She lifts her head. ‘Go on.’

  ‘The green room?’ I ask. ‘Was that yours before? Was that where you and Benjamin slept?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Fiona and Marcus and I did it up before he was born.’

  ‘And you shifted into the smaller room after he died?’

  ‘I couldn’t stand it in there afterwards. Couldn’t sleep. I took my father’s old office,’ she says. ‘All the other rooms just seemed too big. Too empty.’

  ‘Did you ever consider moving?’ I ask gently. ‘Selling up? Getting something smaller?’

  She shakes her head. ‘No. I couldn’t. This was Benjamin’s home. This is where he lived. I could never leave.’

  We’re both quiet for a moment and I wonder where things will go from here. What do you do with a person so broken and sad? I feel tongue-tied and inadequate. What she’s been through is so huge, so profound, I feel like we come from two fundamentally different worlds. We share a language, a culture, but now that seems like surface stuff. Inside, she’s different, foreign, and that scares the hell out of me. I knew exactly what I wanted from her earlier – sex – but now that seems inappropriate and impossible, crude even.

  She must sense my thoughts, my confusion, because she stands up and takes my hand, stares straight at me, her expression frank and intense.

  ‘Tim,’ she says. ‘Can you do me a favour?’

  ‘Of course. What?’

  ‘You don’t have to . . .’ she sighs. ‘You’re looking at me differently. And I don’t want you to. It’s not necessary. Or helpful. I’m s
ad. Okay. My baby died – I will always, always be sad. But that’s not all of me. I’m still a girl and yesterday I remembered that. It was the best I’ve felt since Benjamin died. And I know what I’ve just told you must feel really heavy and serious, but if you could just forget about it for a while? I just want to feel good again. I want to kiss you. I want to get that feeling back again. Last night I felt more alive than I have in forever . . . and right now I just want you to stop looking at me as if I’m an invalid, and start looking at me the way you were last night – as if you like me, as if you think I’m hot.’ She takes a deep breath and smiles. Her cheeks are red, her eyes wet. She looks more beautiful than ever.

  ‘I do like you,’ I say. ‘And you are hot.’

  ‘So kiss me then,’ she says.

  And I do.

  59

  THEY GO BACK TO TIM’S ROOM. THEY MOVE SLOWLY, CAREFULLY, BOTH OF them self-conscious at first, both trying to seem more confident than they feel. They undress each other, then get beneath the doona, and once they’re both enveloped in the cosy warmth their self-consciousness disappears and they move close, press together, kiss. They take their time, they take hours. They touch and kiss each other all over. Mostly she keeps her eyes closed so she can focus on sensations: the feel of Tim’s fingers on her belly, his lips on her neck, the salty smell of his skin, the scratch of his stubble; but when she does open her eyes, she finds Tim smiling at her, his green-hazel eyes wrinkled up at the corners, an expression of surprised delight on his face.

  And for a while she’s happy, taken up in the moment, remembering what it’s like to give and receive pleasure, what it’s like to feel alive.

  60

  THE NEXT MORNING I WAKE LATE. ANNA’S STILL ASLEEP, CURLED on her side, facing me. Her expression is peaceful, her lips are turned up, almost as if she’s smiling, and I get a buzz from that, from the fact that I’ve made her happy. I get out of bed as quietly as I can and go downstairs to make coffee.