Like I Can Love

by Kim Lock

  Using her thumbnail she opens the baggie and fumbles one pill into her hand. Round and pale yellow, she recognises the generic Nitrazepam – it’s the same kind prescribed at the hospital. But on these pills there’s no pharmacist label: no prescription.

  Blood drains from her face and rushes through her ears. There are enough sedatives here to kill a football team.

  ‘What are you hiding, Jenna?’ Fairlie whispers, blinking dry eyes.

  The pills safely back in her pocket, Fairlie flushes the toilet, blasts the cold tap on then off, and hurries back to the bedroom.

  For the next two hours, Fairlie and Ark work in silence, swiftly removing all traces of Jenna. First the bedroom, then they move to the lounge room: photographs, novels, a few more items of clothing. Fairlie struggles to keep her hands steady and swallows dryly so many times her throat begins to burn.

  Eventually, they are done. Fairlie allows herself to linger only when she hugs Henry tightly, feeling the curl of his little arms around her neck, and her eyes fill with tears.

  ‘I’ll be back real soon, okay?’ she whispers to him. ‘I promise.’ She gives Ark a stiff smile, and then she hurries to her car.

  *

  Nitrazepam.

  Fairlie racks her brain as she pulls onto the highway. A heavy sedative, the drug is only prescribed at the hospital in small doses – and only rarely. It’s possible it had been prescribed to Ark to help him cope in the aftermath of Jenna’s death. But in that case, it would be in a blister pack in a box with a pharmacist label and Ark’s name clearly printed.

  And it wouldn’t be hidden, stuck purposefully to a wall behind Jenna’s shoe.

  Yanking the steering wheel, she pulls to the side of the road. Conveniently Telstra’s suspension doesn’t extend to their account payment number, so after conceding her credit card details, she’s finally able to open a browser on her phone.

  Nitrazepam: A hypnotic drug of the benzodiazepine class, indicated for the short-term relief of severe, disabling anxiety and insomnia . . . Sedative and motor-impairing properties . . . Side effects include dizziness, depressed mood, rage, violence . . . fatigue, impaired memory, slurred speech, numbed emotions . . .

  Severe, disabling anxiety and insomnia. Was that Jenna? Depressed mood, violence, numbed emotions. Is that what she’d been going through?

  In Fairlie’s hand, her phone begins to vibrate, interrupting her thoughts. The caller ID reads Brian Masters. Her immedi­ate thought is to silence the call and her thumb hovers over the screen.

  This is the third time he’s tried to call. Both previous calls she had let go to voicemail, and the messages he’d left were cheery and brief, asking how she was, and if she’d like to catch up again.

  Did she want to catch up again? She’d been so drunk she could barely remember: flashes of the heat of his skin, the blurry swim of her vision, the carpet prickly against her back. Why did he want to see her again?

  She thumbed the screen. ‘Hey,’ she said, then listened. ‘I’d love to.’ Lowering her right foot, Fairlie pushed her car over the speed limit.

  10

  THEN

  Jenna’s heart was buzzing, a hummingbird caged in her chest as staff moved around her, their actions routine and unhurried. They all seemed so blasé and ­unconcerned, almost jovial. Nattering and gabbing about this and that, as though the woman spread-eagled on the table before them, skin translucent beneath the blinding spotlight, wasn’t about to have her body opened like an envelope.

  A kind face appeared in her vision. A woman with green eyes, the rest of her face obscured by a mask and hidden beneath a wildly patterned headscarf.

  Elephants.

  Pink and purple elephants lumbered in rows across her head. Jenna relaxed ever so slightly. The theatre nurse with the elephants on her head was smiling – Jenna could see it in her eyes.

  ‘All set, darl?’ The mask muffled her voice.

  Jenna couldn’t answer for fear, so she simply nodded once, wide-eyed.

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll let Dad know straightaway.’

  Somehow, rather than bringing Jenna comfort, it made her heart race even faster. Ark, trembling into the operating theatre earlier, had turned white behind his mask and fled, croaking out a panicked, tear-filled apology, his eyes darting wildly.

  How very alone she was; how very inescapable this was for her.

  There was pushing and shoving and pressure. She could feel her body being jostled, and the obstetrician’s head dipped behind the blue screen that blocked her view of her lower body. With one final pull, the doctor held a baby above the screen, briefly. Its limbs were thrust outwards as though startled, its tiny fingers and toes spread wide like a grabbed cat. Gleaming blueish skin, slick and bloodied.

  ‘A boy. Congratulations,’ the doctor said. The baby was whisked away for a few moments; a moist, strangled cry filled the room. Then gowned arms were pressing a heavy, wrapped parcel to her chest, high up near her throat.

  A boy.

  Too exhausted to move. Her arms felt so weighted she was suddenly frightened she might not be able to hold the baby steady on her chest.

  ‘Do we have a name?’ a nurse asked brightly.

  Jenna looked up at her. A name. The baby was here – her baby, Ark’s baby. It was all real, now. Another squawk from beneath her chin, a snuffling, the blankets moving in and out with jerky, tiny-limbed movements. Could she say it, the name they’d agreed upon? Ark wasn’t here. It was his name. Her heart thudded against the cage of her ribs, numb nothingness below as the surgeon – laughing with his assistant about something that happened on television last night – worked inside her open abdominal cavity.

  ‘Henry,’ Jenna whispered. She named him so that he could become a real person.

  ii

  Outside the window of Jenna’s hospital room the sky lightened gradually, a smeary purple-grey turning mushroom pink as the magpies began to warble.

  The waterproof covering beneath the thin sheet crackled as Jenna shifted on the mattress, trying to get comfortable. A stab of pain flashed across her belly and she winced as her hand found the raw incision, staples like railroad pins studded across her spongy flesh.

  Over in the trolley, the baby was squirming again. Little coughing bleats, wet and effortful, small fists and feet and knees prodding at the soft white swaddle from within. The baby seemed so real out here – had it really been inside her? Had its limbs poked like that at the walls of her womb?

  Jenna struggled into a half-sitting position, feeling the blood drain from her head. Her vision swam; she put a cannulated hand out for the baby’s trolley but it was out of her reach. Gritting her teeth, she shifted higher and leaned against the bed rail but a thick rod of pain shot down her middle and she cried out.

  The infant’s coughs turned mucousy and urgent. Finding the call button at her shoulder, she rang for a midwife. The infant was trying to cry in a voice strangled with liquid. Jenna watched with alarm as bubbly fluid trickled from the wide open mouth. Panicked, she stretched out, thumbing the call bell again and again.

  Finally, the midwife strode into the room.

  ‘I can’t reach – the baby’s choking,’ Jenna said despairingly.

  Deftly, the midwife plucked the swaddled infant from the trolley and turned him onto his side along her forearm. ‘He’s fine,’ she said, one hand vigorously stroking the baby’s back. The middle-aged woman had a broad, kind face and a confident, no-nonsense air. ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked. ‘How’s your pain?’

  ‘Is it . . . is he okay?’ Jenna nodded towards the baby.

  ‘Perfectly fine. He just has a little bit of mucous to drain, that’s all. When they come through the birth canal the normal way, all the amniotic fluid gets squeezed from their lungs. So caesarean-born babies sometimes need to cough it up instead. He’ll be fine. Nothing to worry about.’
/>   The midwife plopped Henry into her arms and Jenna, trying to look capable, fumbled the bundle into the same position in which the midwife had held him.

  ‘Have you put him to the breast yet?’ the woman asked, picking up Jenna’s chart.

  ‘I tried, but he doesn’t seem to want it.’

  ‘Try to do it soon,’ the midwife replied, scribbling something down. ‘They can be a bit sleepy from the epidural. It’s important that you get him fed soon. Would you like to try now?’

  What Jenna wanted to do was sleep. Wheeled into theatre yesterday afternoon after twelve hours of induced contractions that had gone nowhere, she’d then spent the night waiting for the sensation to return to her lower body while listening to Henry’s squawks and bleats. On and off in the dark, she had held the cross infant to the pale, blue-veined orbs of her breasts and watched him mouth ineptly at her nipple like a clumsy lover.

  The baby cried out again – he seemed angry now, as though he’d heard her thoughts.

  ‘Okay,’ Jenna said wearily. ‘I’ll try again.’

  *

  Laying the baby between her blanketed thighs, Jenna picked up the cooling toast and bit into the corner. It was undercooked and bland but it was food, and her stomach was growling. Just as she took her second bite, the door opened and an enormous bunch of flowers was pushed into the room, followed by Ark grinning so widely she couldn’t help a small laugh. Lilies and roses, swaying spikes of green leaves, ‘It’s a boy!’ on a floating pastel-blue balloon.

  ‘How’s my little man?’ Ark leaned into the trolley and picked up the sleeping baby like he’d done it a thousand times, cradling him and chuckling softly, placing kisses on his forehead like gifts. He bent down, Henry in his arms, and kissed her softly. ‘And how’s my lovely wife?’

  ‘Sore. And tired,’ she answered honestly.

  Ark frowned. ‘That’s not good,’ he said. ‘You didn’t sleep last night?’

  For some reason, Jenna felt a stab of self-consciousness. She smoothed the blankets over her lap, ran her fingers through her hair, licked at her tacky lips. ‘He’s been unsettled, plus . . .’ She suddenly couldn’t finish the sentence, a hard lump swelled into her throat.

  ‘Hey,’ Ark said, sitting down on the bed. ‘What’s wrong?’

  A tear slid down her cheek. With a knuckle, she flicked it away.

  ‘You’re tired,’ he said, putting a hand on her leg. ‘And hurting. Should I ask for something for your pain?’ He looked up at the door, as though he could summon a nurse with the thought.

  Jenna bit her lip. ‘I’ve asked. They won’t give me anything stronger than Panadol.’

  ‘Why not? You just had surgery!’

  ‘Because of the . . .’ she waved at her chest, ‘drugs go into the milk.’

  ‘Oh.’ He looked sympathetic. ‘Maybe it’s for the best, then.’

  Was it for the best? She felt like she’d been sawn in half, the pain drilled down to her spine. Blood and pee leaked from between her legs. But there were more important things than her now – the baby, the milk in her breasts. The baby might be out but her body was still not her own.

  But as she looked at Henry, his rosy red face and womb-curled body cradled so deftly in Ark’s strong arms, there it was again: that clenching, fearful ache in her throat, the tearful swim of her vision. How could she even think such self-centred things? Of course it wasn’t about her. Pain licked flames along her hips and she gritted her teeth, told herself to feel it.

  Ark took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. The action felt at once grounding and so affectionate Jenna was hit with a wave of what felt like homesickness. A sob escaped her mouth, and she covered her face with her free hand. All she could see behind her closed eyelids was her own mother, and an unavoidable wave of responsibility brought forth by the delicate newborn.

  ‘Babe,’ Ark said softly, ‘get some sleep.’

  ‘How?’ she asked, letting herself sound as miserable as she felt.

  ‘I’ll take Henry,’ he said brightly. Then, looking at Jenna’s face, he added, ‘Don’t worry. We’ll have fun, won’t we, buddy?’ Ark rocked the baby, his face shining with happiness. ‘Just sleep,’ he said to her. ‘You need to rest and recover, your body’s been through a lot. But look,’ he said, lifting Henry’s face to his own. ‘Look what you’ve made. You’re incredible.’ He kissed her again, on the mouth and then on the cheek. ‘I could never thank you enough for this gift.’ His voice cracked. ‘You’ve made me a father.’ Tucking the blankets around her shoulders, he repeated, ‘Sleep. I’ve got this.’

  So he took the baby and, after a while, Jenna slept.

  iii

  ‘Still sore?’ Fairlie asked.

  ‘A little,’ Jenna answered. Settling back as comfortably as she could she watched Henry’s cheeks, shiny with the lanolin she’d smeared over her stinging nipples for three weeks. But he latched well now, and sucked hungrily. ‘At least he’s finally started to gain a bit of weight.’

  ‘That’ll make your child health nurse happy.’

  For a while they settled into a companionable silence. They sat side by side out on the front verandah, looking across the lawn towards the grapes, feet tucked beneath themselves on the day bed. Finches twittered in the grevilleas and far away, down beyond the grapes, the cars on the highway sounded like the rush of the ocean. Between the mildness of the afternoon, Fairlie’s easy company and the sound of Henry’s swallows, Jenna was aware that it should be possible to feel relaxed. Contented. But as immediately as this awareness came to her – the softened fall of her shoulders, Fairlie’s somnolent yawn as she scrolled on her phone – something within Jenna hardened, like a muscular reflex, and she was instantly on guard again. Uneasy and frightened, although of what she was not sure. In her peripheral vision she saw Fairlie drop her phone, stretch and look over at her. Jenna continued to stare out over the vines.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Fairlie asked.

  ‘Sure,’ Jenna answered quickly. ‘I’m just tired.’ She offered her friend a smile. ‘Everybody says it gets easier eventually. How many times have we said that to women with newborns?’

  Fairlie seemed to wait for more. ‘I’m sure it will,’ she said, reaching out to squeeze Jenna’s leg; her hand felt warm on her shin. ‘He’s only three weeks old, hang in there.’ She paused and added, ‘Have things been better at all?’

  Jenna sniffed. ‘It’s okay. Ark’s busy right now, a few more weeks and they’ll be picking the grapes again, so I suppose that makes things more difficult.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Fairlie phrased the question casually. ‘Are you guys fighting again?’

  ‘He’s trying to spend more time at home,’ Jenna said, her fingers worrying a loose thread on Henry’s jumpsuit. ‘But it’s difficult when he’s got so much to do. I probably am being selfish, needing him here when I should be coping.’

  ‘God, Jen. You just had a baby. You’re allowed to find it hard.’

  Abruptly incensed, Jenna flung a hand in the air. ‘Abbey said I should try initiating sex more; I should be more affectionate. On the BubHub web forum they said I should put Henry into day care and get some time to myself so I don’t demand so much of Ark. Bloody hell, Linda Sommerson said I should consider myself lucky, because her ex-husband used to flog her with the kettle cord.’ Jenna’s shoulder slumped and she closed her eyes. ‘I’m so tired of complaining, Fro.’ She rubbed her hand across her face. ‘He says he loves me. That’s all that matters.’

  ‘If he loves you, he should treat you better.’

  ‘My expectations are too high.’

  ‘An unwillingness to be whipped with electrical appliances isn’t exactly aiming high,’ Fairlie pointed out. ‘Are you happy?’

  Jenna gave her a tired look. What could she say? That she felt trapped? How would she explain that? How could she say that she felt like eve
rything was out of control and that her life wasn’t her own anymore? Anywhere she looked, the view seemed unfamiliar – like everything before it had been a ruse.

  ‘Yes,’ she said eventually. It was an easy lie, she told herself. Not even a lie, a stretch of the truth. ‘I just need more sleep.’

  With a soft popping sound, the baby released her breast. She positioned him onto her lap, grimacing as she moved his sleepy weight away from her still throbbing incision. ‘Your mum called me yesterday,’ Jenna said. ‘She wanted to know how Henry is going.’

  Fairlie picked up her cup and drained the last of her tea. ‘She’s always asking about you two,’ she said, setting her cup down.

  A familiar broodiness descended.

  ‘Jen, why don’t you call her?’

  Jenna stared down at Henry, swooped with a sudden wave of fatigue. ‘No.’

  ‘But she’s your mum. You used to be so close. She’d want to know about Henry.’

  ‘It’s been too long.’

  ‘It hasn’t. Besides, I don’t think it matters how long it’s been since you spoke to her – she would still want to hear from you.’ Fairlie hesitated. ‘There’s no time limit between mothers and their children.’

  ‘It’s not about time.’ Jenna raised her eyes to meet Fairlie’s. ‘I don’t know who she is anymore.’

  iv

  Evening fell hazy over the grapes. Even from where Jenna sat on the couch, insatiable baby tugging at her breast, she could see the fruit hanging in clumps along the rows. Heavy and ripe. She glanced down at the milky bloat of her breast, at the fattened veins spreading from her tattoo. It was going to be a great vintage. A busy season. Ark would have his hands full: his skin and clothing would be stained purple-black and the phone would ring incessantly with eager buyers. She imagined her milk turning purple in Henry’s throat, saw her breast as a bloated, dark grape for greedy suckling.

  Inside, the house was a mess. Three piles of clean washing heaped in accusing mountains on the couch; the kitchen floor was scattered with cereal left over from her breakfast, knocked flying as she ate one-handed. Filmy dishes from last night’s dinner were piled in the sink and she hadn’t even thought about tonight’s dinner.