The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1

by Douglas Kennedy

  But when I woke at seven that morning, Tony wasn’t next to me in bed. Rather, I found him asleep on the new pull-out sofa in his study, a small pile of printed pages stacked up by the computer. When I brought him a cup of tea a few hours later, my first question was, “How late did you work?”

  “Only till three,” he said, sounding half awake.

  “You could have come down and shared the bed.”

  “Didn’t want to wake you.”

  But the next night, he did the same thing. I’d just come back from the hospital—my second visit of the day to Jack. It was nine o’clock—and I was slightly aggrieved to find Tony already at work in his office, as he had told me he couldn’t make it to the hospital this evening, because of yet another international crisis (something in Mozambique, I think) that was keeping him.

  “Anyway, it’s not as if Jack will be missing me,” he said when he phoned me that afternoon at home.

  “But I’d like it if you were with me.”

  “And I’d like it too. But . . .”

  “I know, I know—work is work. And who cares if your son . . .”

  “Let’s not start that,” he said sharply.

  “Fine, fine,” I said, sounding truly touchy now. “Have it your way. I’ll see you at home.”

  So finding him in his office that evening really did peeve me.

  “I thought you said you’d be working late at the paper.”

  “We got the pages to bed earlier than expected.”

  “Well, thanks a lot for rushing over to the Mattingly to see your son.”

  “I only got in fifteen minutes ago.”

  “And went straight to work on your novel?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You really expect me to believe that?”

  “I was inspired,” he said, without the faintest trace of irony.

  “I suppose you’ll now want dinner?”

  “No—I grabbed something at the office. Anyway, what I really want to do is work on, if that’s okay.”

  “Don’t you want to know how Jack is?”

  “I do know that. I called the hospital around six, and got a full update from the ICU nurse. But, I suppose, you know that already.”

  I wanted to scream. Instead, I just turned on my heel and left. After throwing something together in the kitchen, and washing it back with a single glass of wine (I wasn’t risking another descent into weirdness), I poured Tony a glass and brought it back up to his office.

  “Oh, ta,” he said, looking up from the screen.

  “How’s it going?” I asked.

  “Good, good,” he said in a tone that indicated that I was interrupting his flow.

  “Want to watch the Ten O’Clock News?”

  “Better keep on with this.”

  Two hours later, I stuck my head back in his office.

  “I’m going to bed now,” I said.

  “Fine.”

  “You coming?”

  “Be down in a moment.”

  But when I turned the bedside light off fifteen minutes later, he hadn’t joined me. And when I came to at eight the next morning, the space next to me was empty.

  So, once again, I climbed the stairs to his office—only to find him under the duvet on his sofa bed.

  This time, however, I didn’t bring him a cup of tea. Nor did I wake him. But when he staggered downstairs around ten, looking harassed, the first thing he said to me was, “Why the hell did you let me sleep in?”

  “Well, since we now seem to be living separate lives, I don’t have to be your alarm clock.”

  “I spend two nights on the sofa, and you’re already talking about separate lives.”

  “I’m just wondering if you’re trying to tell me something. Or if this is some passive-aggressive—”

  “Passive-aggressive. For fuck’s sake, I was just working late. On the novel—which you so want me to write. So what’s the problem?”

  “I’m just . . .”

  “Insanely insecure.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. Except, “Perhaps.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t be. And I will be at the hospital tonight. And I will share our bed. All right?”

  True to his word, Tony did show up at the Mattingly around eight that evening. He was half an hour late, but I decided not to make a big deal of it. I had already spent the better part of an hour making eye contact with my son. He seemed to be watching me watching him—and for the first time in weeks, I actually found myself smiling.

  “Look at this,” I said as Tony walked down the ward toward us. He crouched down beside us and looked at his son.

  “I told you he would be all right,” he said.

  Yes, you did. But why do you have to remind me of that now?

  “He really sees us,” I said, deciding it was not the moment to respond to Tony’s comment.

  “I suppose he does.” He waved briefly in his direction. “Hello there. We are your parents, you poor bugger.”

  “He’ll be just fine. Because we’ll make sure of that.”

  “Your mother’s an all-American optimist,” Tony said to Jack. Our son just peered out at us, no doubt wondering where he was, and what was this thing called life.

  That night, Tony did get into bed with me, and read Graham Greene’s The Honorary Consul, and kissed me good night. Though sex was still definitely out of the physical question, a cuddle would have been nice. But, then again, a casual cuddle (or, at least, one without the follow-through of sex) was never Tony’s style. When I woke the next morning . . . true to form, I found him upstairs, sprawled out on his sofa bed, more pages piled up by the computer.

  “You seem to be having very productive nights,” I said.

  “It’s a good time to work,” he said.

  “And it also gives you the excuse not to sleep with me.”

  “I did last night.”

  “For how long?”

  “Does that really matter? You were asleep, after all.”

  “As soon as I was conked out, you went upstairs.”

  “Yes, that’s right. But I did come to bed with you as requested, didn’t I?”

  “I suppose so,” I said, realizing I had nowhere to go in this argument.

  “And the novel is getting written.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “There is no problem, Tony.”

  But I also knew that my husband was shrewdly ensuring that, when Jack came home, he’d be able to sidestep all the broken, sleepless nights by using his novel as an excuse . . . and the sofa bed in his office as his refuge.

  Once again, however, I feared raising this point, as I could see that every time I said something contrary, he’d sigh heavily and make me feel like the nag I never wanted to be. And he had let my little free-fall episode come and go without major comment. Just as he’d also been admirably Teflon-like when I was riding the hormonal roller coaster in the hospital. So, to keep the domestic peace (especially given Jack’s imminent arrival home), I thought it best not to push this point. Grin and bear it: the great marital bromide.

  But I decided to sidestep all such negative thoughts by using the next few days to get the house into some sort of reasonable shape before our son filled every imaginable space. Fortunately, the foreman and his team were outside our front door at eight the next morning, ready to start work (Tony must have really played on their guilt—or simply stopped paying them). And Collins—the Northern Irish boss of the crew—was solicitousness itself, asking me with great concern about my “wee one,” telling me he was “sorry for my troubles,” but that, “God willing, the wee fella will be just grand.” He also assured me that he and his boys would be able to finish all the large-scale work within a week.

  “Now don’t you worry about a thing, except your wee fella. We’ll get the job done for you.”

  I was genuinely touched by such kindness—especially in the light of the fact that he had been such a completely i
rresponsible pain prior to this, never true to his word, always messing us about, always acting as if he was doing us a favor. Suddenly, his inherent decency had emerged. Though I could have cynically written it off as him caving into emotional blackmail, I couldn’t help but think that he was probably like every builder—playing the middle from both ends, taking on far more jobs than he could handle, and never letting the right hand know what the left hand was doing. But there’s something about a child in danger that brings out the grace in almost all of us . . . unless, like Tony, you build up a wall against all panic, all doubt, all sense of life’s random inequities.

  Once again, I sensed that this emotional cordon sanitaire was Tony’s way of coping with his own undercurrent of worry. As elliptical as he could be, I still knew him well enough by now to see through his veneer of diffidence. And though I was truly pleased that he was getting on with the novel, I also realized that it was a defense mechanism—a distancing device, in which he could push me and the potential problem that was Jack to one side.

  “No doubt, it will only be a matter of time before he starts working out ways to get transferred back to Cairo—alone,” Sandy said when she called me that morning.

  “He’s just quietly freaking,” I said.

  “Yeah—responsibility is such a bitch.”

  “Look, everyone has their own way of dealing with a crisis.”

  “Which, in Tony’s case, means play ostrich.”

  Of course, this hadn’t been my first phone conversation with my sister since I’d been rushed to hospital. Ever since I had come home, we’d spoken two to three times a day. Naturally, Sandy was horrified by my news.

  “If that deadbeat ex-husband of mine hadn’t just taken off for a monthlong hike with his outdoorsy paramour, I’d be over in London like a speeding bullet. But there’s no one else to look after the kids, and the bastard’s hiking without a cell phone, so he’s completely out of contact.”

  True to form, however, she did not react with horror to the big question mark hovering over Jack. Instead, she worked the phones, calling every obstetrician and pediatrician she knew in the Boston area, demanding information and second opinions, and all those other “something must be done!” attempts to ameliorate a crisis that we love to practice in the States.

  “I really think it’s going to turn out all right,” I told Sandy in an attempt to get her off the subject of my contrary husband. “More importantly, they’re moving Jack today out of pediatric ICU.”

  “Well, that’s something. Because according to my friend Maureen’s husband—”

  And it would turn out that Maureen’s husband was a certain Dr. Flett, who happened to be the head of pediatric neurology at Mass General—and he had said that . . .

  “—if the baby is responding to normal stimuli after seven days the signs are pretty good.”

  “That’s exactly what the doctors here told me,” I said.

  “Yes,” Sandy said, “but they’re not the head of pediatric neurology at one of the leading hospitals in America.”

  “The doctors here really have been terrific,” I said.

  “Well, if I had a couple of million in the bank, I’d fly you and Jack over here by MedEvac today.”

  “Nice thought—but this isn’t exactly Uganda.”

  “I’m yet to be convinced of that. Are you better today?”

  “I’m fine,” I said carefully. Though I had mentioned my initial postpartum dive to Sandy, I didn’t go into great detail . . . especially as I didn’t want to unsettle her further, and also because I was pretty certain that my brief emotional downturn had been nothing more than that. But Sandy, per usual, wasn’t buying my calmness.

  “I’ve got this other friend—Alison Kepler—she’s the chief nurse in the postpartum division of Brigham and Women’s Hospital . . .”

  “Jesus, Sandy,” I said, interrupting her. “Half of Boston must know about Jack’s birth . . .”

  “Big deal. The thing is, I’m getting you the best proxy medical advice imaginable. And Alison told me that postpartum depression can come in a couple of waves.”

  “But I’m not having a postpartum depression,” I said, sounding exasperated.

  “How can you be certain? Don’t you know that most depressed people don’t know they’re depressed?”

  “Because I find myself getting so damn pissed off with Tony, that’s how. And don’t you know that most depressed people are unable to get really pissed off at their husband . . . or their sister?”

  “How can you be pissed off at me?”

  How can you so lack a sense of humor? I felt like screaming at her. But that was how my wonderful, humorless sister saw the world: in an intensely logical, what you say is what you mean sort of way. Which is why she would never—repeat, never—survive in London.

  But in the first few days out of the hospital, I was certain that I was beyond the mere surviving stage of postpartum shock. Perhaps this had something to do with Jack’s liberation from pediatric ICU. On Wednesday, I arrived for my morning visit at ten-thirty—only to be met by the usual morning nurse, who said, “Good news. Jack’s jaundice has totally cleared up—and we’ve moved him to the normal baby ward.”

  “You sure he’s free of everything?” I asked.

  “Believe me,” she said, “we wouldn’t release him from here unless we were certain all is well.”

  “Sorry, sorry,” I said. “I’ve just turned into a perpetual worrier.”

  “Welcome to parenthood.”

  The baby ward was two floors down. The nurse phoned ahead to inform them that I was the actual mother of Jack Hobbs (“We can’t be too careful these days”). When I arrived there, the head nurse on duty was waiting.

  “You’re Jack’s mum?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “Your timing’s perfect,” she said. “He needs to be fed.”

  It was extraordinary to see him free from all the medical apparatus that had mummified him for the past ten days. Before he looked so desperately vulnerable. Now his face had shaken off that drugged look of shock that had possessed him during the first few days of his life. And though Sandy (through her platoon of experts) had reassured me that he’d have no received memories of these early medical traumas, I couldn’t help but feel more guilt. Guilt that I had done something wrong during my pregnancy—even though I couldn’t exactly pinpoint what that was.

  And suddenly, that reproving voice inside my head started repeating, over and over again, “You brought this on yourself. You did it to him. Because you really didn’t want him . . .”

  Shut up!

  I found myself shuddering and gripping the sides of Jack’s crib. The nurse on duty studied me with concern. She was in her mid-twenties, large, dumpy—but someone who immediately exuded decency.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Just a little tired, that’s all,” I said, noticing her name tag: McGuire.

  “Wait until you get him home,” she said with an easy laugh. But instead of getting annoyed at this innocently flippant comment, I managed a smile—because I didn’t want anyone to know the manic distress that was encircling me at the moment.

  “Ready to take him?” the nurse asked.

  No, I am not ready. I’m not ready for any of this. Because I can’t cope. Because . . .

  “Sure,” I said, my smile tight.

  She reached in, and gingerly gathered him up. He was very docile until he was put into my arms. At which point, he instantly began to cry. It wasn’t a loud cry, but it was certainly persistent—like someone who felt instantly uncomfortable with the hands now holding him. And that admonishing voice inside my head told me, “Well, of course he’s crying. Because he knows it was you who did him harm.”

  “Is he your first?” the nurse asked.

  “Yes,” I said, wondering if my nervousness was showing.

  “Don’t worry about the crying then. Believe me, he’ll get to like it within a day.”

  Why are y
ou trying to humor me? It’s so clear that Jack knows I meant him harm, knows I really was trying to hurt him, knows I’m incapable of being a mother. Which is why he can’t stand this first physical contact with me. He knows.

  “Can I get you a chair?” the nurse asked me.

  “That would be good,” I said, as my legs were suddenly feeling rubbery.

  She found a straight-back plastic chair. I sat down, cradling Jack. He kept roaring—a true cry from someone who was terrified by the company they were now keeping.

  “Maybe if you tried feeding him . . .” the nurse suggested. “He’s due a feed.”

  “I’ve been having problems extracting milk,” I said.

  “Well, he’ll clear that problem up straightaway,” she said with another of her amiable laughs that was supposed to put me at my ease, but just made me feel even more self-conscious. So, cradling the still-screaming Jack with one arm, I tried to lift my T-shirt and bra with my spare hand. But Jack’s cries made me hyper-nervous, with the result that every time I attempted to yank up my shirt, I seemed to be losing my grip on him. Which made him even more disconcerted.

  “Let me take him there for a moment while you sort yourself out,” the nurse said.

  I’m not going to sort myself out. Because I can’t sort myself out.

  “Thank you,” I said. As soon as she relieved me of Jack, he stopped crying. I pulled up my T-shirt and freed my right breast from the nursing bra I was wearing. My hands were sweaty. I felt desperately tense—in part, because my milk ducts had been blocked again over the past few days. But also because I was holding my child and all I felt was terror.

  You’re not fit for this . . . you can’t do this . . .

  Once the breast was exposed, the nurse returned Jack to me. His reaction to my touch was almost Pavlovian: cry when you feel Mommy’s hands. And cry he did. Profusely. Until his lips touched my nipple, at which point he started making the greedy suckling noises of someone who was desperately hungry.

  “There he goes,” the nurse said, nodding approvingly as he clamped his gums around my nipple and began to suck hard. Immediately, it felt as if a clothespin had been applied to my breast. Though his mouth may have been toothless, his gums were steel-reinforced. And he clamped down so hard my initial reaction was a muffled, surprised scream.