The Silent Treatment

by Abbie Greaves

  I must have been desperate because I ended up calling Mary. She had probably just given me her number to be kind; I doubt she expected me to use it. One lunch break, though, it all got too much, the weight of not telling you, of not telling anyone. The weight of my own uncertainty. She picked up on the first ring.

  “Hi, it’s Maggie Hobbs. I submitted an adoption application a few years back. You gave me your number . . .”

  There was a disconcerting pause while I imagine she tried to trace me.

  “My husband wasn’t at the first meeting,” I added.

  “Of course. How are you?”

  “I just wanted to let you know that I’m expecting.” The words fell out far faster than I had intended. I suppose that’s what comes from phoning on a whim. “I’m going to be a mother.”

  She was so thrilled, Frank, and that was just what I needed—that unequivocal, unreserved, unmitigated delight that I hoped would rub off on me. With her enthusiasm still fresh in my mind, I got myself registered with a doctor farther out of town and booked my first scan for the end of the week. It was a Friday afternoon, and it seemed safe enough to call in sick at work.

  It was still too early to find out the gender, so the whole thing felt more like a formality, or that was what I told myself as I filed into the waiting room, one of only two women sitting solo, without a partner or parent fussing over their every move. I missed you then, Frank. I wished that things could have been even a bit more straightforward for us.

  “Is the father in the picture?” the midwife asked as she smeared the ultrasound gel across my stomach.

  “Yes. My husband’s away, unfortunately, at a conference. Obviously, he’s sorry he can’t be here.” I couldn’t believe I was rolling out the same line I had to the adoption services, only this time you were barely twenty minutes away in the car.

  I was so worried about what she thought, about whether the lie was flashing across my face, that I hadn’t even been looking at the screen, where a grainy image was shifting in tiny, incremental movements.

  “Congratulations, Mum.” In the background, the printer whirred and chugged its way into life.

  A minute later and I had a photo of our future balancing on top of my handbag.

  I told you that night. I was going to wait until Jack and Sarah had gone, but I didn’t trust my own resolve. Somehow having the image tucked in my back pocket made it all so much easier. It was concrete, the backup I needed if you expressed so much as an inch of doubt. In the end, you didn’t. You might have been surprised, but you didn’t seem to agonize over it the way I did. For you, it was a joy, pure and simple. Your enthusiasm was infectious, and with every animated conversation that met me at the end of a long day’s work, I was able to push the tricky thoughts further and further to the back of my mind.

  There were times when I could even have sworn you were more excited than me. I loved coming to bed and seeing you propped up against the pillows, some parenting book folded back in one hand, a Biro poised for underlining in the other. You spent so long researching strollers that I had visions of our son or daughter being at school before you got round to making a decision. It probably would have been the case had it not been for a conveniently timed sale at the baby outlet store.

  “Race you for it.” You were rocking back and forth on one foot, both hands on one of our shortlisted prams, doing your best impression of an athlete primed on the starting line. On either side of us expectant parents pushed industrial-size trollies loaded with high chairs and sterilizers and an assortment of other equipment I could barely recognize. The occasional toddler scuttled across the floor. “Loser makes dinner.”

  I whined something about health and safety. Even as I did, I could see it falling on decidedly deaf ears.

  “It’s an assault course! To the cots and back,” you said, shooting me the sort of wicked grin that reminded me how I’d gotten knocked up in the first place. Some of the braver kids were already gawping at you from behind their parents’ sleeves.

  “Frank! I am seven months pregnant!”

  “Three . . .”

  “Frank!” I could feel the smile itching at the corners of my mouth despite myself.

  “Two. It’s power-walking only. Promise. Nothing too strenuous. One!”

  I wasn’t going to follow you, I swear. But then you were off on an impressive power-walk, your hips giving that same silly, exaggerated wobble you usually reserved for the dance floor at weddings. It has always been irritatingly infectious.

  Customers began to press up against the shelves with surprising good humor. Or perhaps just good sense. You’ve never exactly been known for your coordination.

  “Oh, fuck it.” I grabbed the nearest pram. Naturally, it was the most ungainly beast in the shop. It had one of those huge curved awnings over the top, better suited to a café than to a newborn. I refused to let that stop me. “Not so fast!”

  On the bus home, we were pressed up against each other, our flat-packed purchase (the winner) squashed against the window. It was cold out, and the windows had steamed up. I wasn’t watching what you were doing; you’d exhausted me, and I had my head tipped back on your shoulder, a million miles away, until the driver took a sharp right. Your hand reached out to steady me, and you flung the other over the bump. A total overreaction, but it made my heart soar. I went to kiss your cheek.

  That was when I saw it—in big fat capitals, written in the condensation:

  MUM + DAD

  A photo slips out of the bottom of the planner and onto Frank’s palm. He hasn’t seen this one in years. Twenty-five, to be exact. Not since Eleanor was born. The ultrasound image feels a little tacky, the film demonstrating a surprisingly firm grip despite the clamminess of his hands. He angles the bedside lamp so that it shines directly on the image and Eleanor’s amoebic form comes into focus, a fuzz of pixels in black and white. He traces the outline of her body, lets his fingers walk along the date stamp, the time too. She is an almost perfect kidney bean. Ironic, really, for a girl who for twenty years of her life would painstakingly pick them out of chili con carne, leaving them on the side of her plate with a look of gross disdain.

  Even now, his heart swells looking at a version of Eleanor so unlike how she looked that last time, or any time for that matter. There is something so magical to her body, curved in on itself like a comma, as if to conserve energy for the terribly important business of growth. The scientist in him knows that it is just a collection of cells, reflected as a series of shadows on the film. But the father in him knows it will be so much more. It will be light and it will be laughter and it will be the most marvelous years of his life.

  “You are so loved,” he says, bringing her bulblike head to his lips.

  He goes to tuck the image back inside the book. The lines at the top of the page leap out at him, underlined with such force that the paper has buckled beneath them: I was scared, Frank, so scared. We were in this together, but somehow I felt so alone. When he thinks of Maggie in the GP’s office, scared blind and more isolated than ever before, he can’t believe she went through it all by herself. He just wishes he could have been there, to squeeze her hand, to fix her a cup of water from the dispenser, to run his hand across her hunched shoulders in the hope of releasing even a few centimeters of her tension.

  Frank, of all people, knows how it feels to be isolated by a secret. He can’t judge Maggie for that. He knows the fear that it is writ large on your face and the lengths you will go to in order to avoid the subject at all costs. Just the thought of it brings a fresh line of sweat out from under his collar. No, he can’t begrudge Maggie the scan he missed. Where would that leave him? He has begrudged her the knowledge of something so much more important.

  Four days to go

  Then—she was there. Simple as that. Not the labor. You don’t forget that, by the way. No, I mean she was at home. Could you believe it? I couldn’t. That first week was a pinch-me moment. I’d go to sleep and wake up wondering if I’d dreamed u
p this happiness. I never thought it would happen for us.

  You know me, not usually at a loss for words. But holding Eleanor was as close as I’ve ever come. I felt something so fierce for her that it was almost paralyzing. I could have watched her forever, the tiny wrinkle in her nose when she wasn’t quite comfortable, the little bubbles of saliva she would blow as she drifted off to sleep. Some nights, I couldn’t even bear to put her down, and I’d wander up and down the corridor with her propped against my shoulder, stroking her silky baby hair. Bright red, just like yours.

  We got some time as a threesome too, thanks to some accrued annual leave and your very generous boss. We laid her on top of the duvet and watched in awe as she stretched her legs in the air, the flesh bulging in chubby wrinkles at her knees and ankles. I particularly enjoyed your attempts at nursery rhymes. We had incy-wincy spider falling off a wall and into a hundred pieces, and a rendition of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” that petered out after just a line or two . . . In the end, I managed to drown you out with a blast of ABBA, which got you up and dancing, Eleanor strapped to your front and her feet jiggling with the beat. Our very own Dancing Queen. The most precious royalty on earth.

  It was euphoria. It was the best. It was the highest high I could have imagined. I never can stay there, though, can I? God, I wished I could. More than anything. But then again, it wouldn’t be me. I’d never hated myself for it more. I could feel the falling start on the day you went back to work, Frank. You know that sensation, just as you are drifting off to sleep? The one like dropping two floors in the lift with no warning, stomach lurching, legs twitching? That was it, Frank, that day.

  I’d had it before—the drop, the fall, whatever you want to call it. That was who I was. I didn’t need a name for it, a diagnosis or what have you. I told myself I could manage it. Or so I thought. Now, though, with Eleanor, everything was so much more intense. There was another person involved, one who depended on me entirely. And it had never been that bad before.

  Eleanor was what? Three, four weeks old? You came to say goodbye, your cycle helmet already on, and as you kissed the tops of our heads, one by one, Eleanor let out a piercing shriek. I was so close to throwing my arms around your ankles and demanding that you stay. I couldn’t do it. Not alone. I was scared of what I would do. I was scared of myself.

  I quickly realized that running through the checklist for why Eleanor was crying was pointless. Clean? As far as I could tell. Warm? Maybe too much so. I checked for fever. Fed? As well as I could. Under my T-shirt, I could feel my nipples cracking, the skin raw. Even the cool air passing over them caused me to wince. I tried everything I could think of—bouncing, singing, stroking, cajoling, begging—and none of it worked. Nothing, Frank. I was trying my best, and still nothing was good enough.

  The first days without you passed in a blur. I knew I should be out, in the park, with Edie, at any one of the mother-and-baby groups put on in the local church hall. I couldn’t stand the thought of everyone sitting around with their babies calm on their laps, a freshly pressed muslin over one shoulder, while Eleanor screamed blue murder. Maybe they would slip me some tips, some advice on where I was going wrong. Maybe they’d be kind enough to hold those thoughts in and just judge silently. The image alone was enough to make my eyes water. It didn’t take much those days. Instead I lay prostrate on the sofa, the curtains closed, Eleanor on my stomach. The two of us stared wide-eyed at each other. I couldn’t tell who was more helpless.

  Just before you came home, I would muster the energy to open the curtains and fill the kitchen sink for Ellie’s bath. Something we could do as a family. The minute you walked in the door, the relief shot straight through me. I’ve always been able to find pockets of light with you. I’d prop Eleanor up while you splashed water every which way, unleashing a flurry of giggles.

  If you had snapped that on a camera, it would have made the perfect tableau. You could have cut it out and used it as a still in a cereal advert or in something about a kitchen renovation that had actually gone to plan. Anyone looking in would have envied us. But you always knew me so much better. You would be drying her off with the hand towel, and I felt like a wanted woman—how long before you guessed?

  I didn’t say anything. Not to you, not to anyone, certainly not directly. I didn’t know how it would come out, and I couldn’t stand to lose Eleanor. I loved her, I knew that, somewhere deep within. I just needed to get back to that place, the delight of the first few weeks, and clear the horrible, messy thoughts before someone tried to take her away. It was the sleep deprivation, the hormones, the long hours alone.

  Try as I might—they wouldn’t budge. Horrible, awful thoughts that would descend on my happy-baby checklist like a swarm of flies, so black they obscured everything else. I imagined her tumbling down the stairs like a rag doll that screamed. I imagined her drowning in the cup of water on the sideboard.

  Every thought made me feel sick. But I couldn’t shake them; the moment one disappeared, another would appear in its place, somehow worse. There was a whole loop of them—images of Eleanor bruised, bleeding, or in some other form of pain that I had unwittingly caused—and there was no way out. I would squeeze my eyes shut, and still they were there. I checked her tiny body for signs of hurt one hundred times a day. What if I had done something against my will, without knowing? I didn’t want this. I would die for her.

  Where were they coming from, these clouds, intruding on every aspect of my day? I was going mad, I could feel it, and I couldn’t see my way out. When Eleanor was three months old, I nose-dived. I convinced myself there was a virus in our flat and the moment Eleanor drifted off, in my one moment of respite, I set about cleaning the flat from top to bottom. I bleached the bathrooms, twice. I put all our clothes in the washing baskets and threw the rugs outside. I remember exactly where I was when you came home: I was on my knees scrubbing the kitchen floor with my bare hands. Eleanor was screaming, and I couldn’t hear her over the sound of dry brushing.

  “Maggie. Maggie! Hey, hey, stop a second.”

  I had scrubbed so hard that my left palm was bleeding.

  “Maggie, darling. Up you get.”

  I couldn’t even stop to catch my breath and respond. You had to hoick me up at the waist and physically unfurl my fingers until the brush dropped.

  “Maggie—what is it? What’s up?”

  “I can’t do this,” I whispered into your chest. “I’m a terrible mother. You’d do better without me. You both would.”

  Somehow you managed to get me to our bedroom and tucked me into bed. The whole time I could hear Eleanor in distress downstairs. I remember flapping madly in that direction and you just nodding, so serene. Not for the first time, I wished I could be more like you.

  I didn’t know where I was when I woke up. It was light, and the street outside was quiet, almost empty. I rolled onto my side, facing the cot. She wasn’t there. I’ll never forget that surge of sheer panic, a jolt of adrenaline so acute that I flew out of bed still naked.

  “Frank! Frank! Where are you? She’s gone!”

  “Here, darling.” The kitchen door nudged open. Eleanor gurgled in your arms. “See, she’s missed you.”

  Do you know what I thought in that moment, Frank? You two were better off alone. There was none of the chaos I brought, the panic and the paralysis. I was so scared of doing everything wrong that I could barely do anything at all. Sometimes, when you were holding her and she started crying, you would pass her over to me, almost on a reflex. I took her. But inside? I wanted to run as far away as possible from your outstretched arms and Eleanor in them. I wasn’t going to help matters, quite the opposite in fact. I told myself Eleanor could sense my unease, or that she would grow up and realize that was what it was. I couldn’t stand that thought of being rejected again, not by her, not by you either.

  It got better, eventually. I only noticed we were moving in that direction in earnest once Eleanor was past six, seven months. So, slow progress, but these th
ings don’t change overnight, however much we wish they would. You brought in Edie—she came every day until Eleanor was almost one. You came home earlier. But still, even with all your kindness, I could never tell you how dark it had become: just what those thoughts were; how close I had come to giving it all up. What if you left me, the unfit mother? What then?

  Now I have broken that. What is running through your mind, Frank? I hope it is not the image of me hurting our precious, precious Eleanor. They were thoughts, Frank, horrible ones, but there wasn’t a drop of truth in them. It can’t be easy to hear that I held so much of my suffering back from you. You have never been a judgmental man. You have taken me at face value even when that face has been Medusa herself, all chaos and snarling, biting ends. But somehow I thought this was one step too far.

  No one wants to hear that the person they have given their life to has the mind of a monster—do they?

  Chapter 5

  Frank’s left foot has gone numb again. He has been meaning to get that looked at, but he has had enough of hospitals for one lifetime, and he has always been at the bottom of his own pecking order. He shakes it out and waits for the inevitable flow of pins and needles to prick their way up to his hip. He ought to take a walk, but it is hardly the time for it—he read somewhere that dawn is when most burglaries and unprovoked murders take place. Not a safe time by any means.

  Instead, he shunts his feet into his slippers—horrible, flat, frayed things that Maggie hates—picks up the planner, and heads down to the study. It takes a little while for the computer to wake up. Like owner, like tool, Maggie would say, with that mischievous glint in her eye that she has always had. When the screen eventually comes to life, his chess has timed out. A little bubble has popped up in the center of the board: Game Over!

  Not yet, Frank thinks. Not without a fight.