Michael, Michael

by Wendy Perriam

  Tessa shivered. The roses would be dead by now, killed by last month’s frosts. It was the first week of December, and too cold to hang around. She forced her feet to carry her to number twenty-seven, pausing at the gate to calm herself, compose herself, practise sounding casual and detached. Dr Edwards had already left – thank God. She’d watched his Citroën pull away a good half-hour ago, the smug purr of the engine seeming to express her own relief. His wife wouldn’t know she was a patient, would greet her as a stranger.

  ‘Ah, Tessa! Do come in. I’ve heard such a lot about you.’

  Tessa shook the friendly hand, tried to return the smile. It was more difficult to meet the eyes – her rival’s eyes, but affectionate and welcoming. Joyce Edwards looked a mess – dressed in baggy skirt and dreary blouse, with no make-up but a smear of coral lipstick – but, as Mrs Webb had said, she was clearly a good sort, and that fact was quite unsettling.

  ‘The kitchen’s just through here. Do make yourself a drink. I’ve left the tea and coffee out, and some fruit-cake in that tin. And if you’d like to watch the television …’

  Tessa followed the slight figure – no voluptuous curves, no height, but boyish hips, a bustling walk, and a ladder in her frumpy patterned tights. They were trekking through the ground floor of the house, and Tessa could feel herself assaulted by a wild succession of colours, shapes and smells; tantalized by furniture and rooms – too much at once and every item resonant, because these were Michael Edwards’ things. Everything she passed belonged to him, or had been touched by him: his fridge, his cooker, hi-fi, chairs, his photo on the mantelpiece, his white cat on the sofa. She was so overwhelmed to have been admitted to his house, at last, her steps were slow and hesitant; her voice struggling to form sentences – politely paltry words about the house, the cat, the cold spell. It was hard to talk at all when she required every ounce of self-control to stop her hands from reaching out and scooping up possessions – souvenirs of Dr Edwards, keepsakes to take home. Anything would do, however paltry: a brick, a tile, some fluff from the new carpet, a few combings from his hair.

  Joyce had already gone ahead and was standing on the staircase, beckoning Tessa up. ‘And now you must meet Jonathan,’ she said. ‘He’s had his bath, so all you’ll need to do is give him his bottle and settle him down in his cot. He likes his bedtime routine – you know, a story, or some nursery rhymes, or you could show him a few pictures in his book.’

  Tessa hovered outside the nursery door, building up her reserves of strength before she dared to enter. It had been hard enough looking after other babies, when each one only emphasized her loss, but Dr Michael Edwards’ child would be the most difficult of all. She made herself walk over to the cot, met the solemn gaze of lustrous dark brown eyes – Michael’s eyes – the luxuriant lashes casting shadows on the cheek. The baby’s hair was also dark, not Hovis-brown or Joyce’s brown, but the same full-bodied shade as hers and Michael’s; hair already wayward, refusing to lie flat.

  ‘This is Tessa, Jonathan,’ Joyce was saying as she picked the baby up, repeating the name Tessa, as if addressing a much older child. ‘Tessa’s come to look after you. Are you going to say hello to her, give her a nice big smile?’

  Jonathan didn’t smile, just stared at her like the infant in the waiting-room – a direct unflinching scrutiny. She couldn’t find a word to say, but stood self-conscious, begging him to accept her, pleading with her eyes and outstretched hand. Jonathan ignored the hand, his face crumpling in a whimper, and clearly on the verge of tears.

  ‘Here,’ said Joyce. ‘Could you hold him for a moment, while I straighten up his cot?’

  Tessa feared her arms would break. The baby was quite light, in fact, but he was weighing down her body with turmoil and emotion. She subsided on the nursery chair, every nerve and muscle tense as she prayed he wouldn’t scream. He was resisting her in other ways, squirming on her lap, arching up his back, jabbing with his hands and feet, struggling to get down. She tried to reassure him, to settle him more comfortably, make her arms a shield and a support. His solid warmth seemed an extension of her own, as if they’d become one flesh and blood – Michael’s blood, fierce and energetic, pumping through his veins. He was dressed in a fleecy stretchsuit in cornflower blue, which set off his dark hair. His mouth was small but mobile, his eyebrows well-defined; the watchful eyes beneath them never leaving hers. He was calmer now, but still wary and suspicious, unsure if he could trust her.

  Joyce retrieved his teddy from the floor. ‘I’d better get a move on. Our teacher’s a bit of a dragon, so I don’t like being late. Tell you what – I’ll go and heat the bottle up, and leave you and Jon-Jon to get to know each other. I’m afraid he’s a bit of a Mummy’s boy. Come on, chicky, aren’t you going to smile for Tessa?’ She beamed at him encouragingly as she crossed the room to the door, her footsteps tapping down the stairs, then fading into silence.

  ‘Michael,’ Tessa said, emphasizing the name, as Joyce had done with hers. It was essential that he learnt it, forgot that stupid Jon-Jon and demeaning names like chicky. ‘I’m not Tessa, I’m your mother.’

  ‘Mama,’ said the baby.

  Tessa sat motionless, scarcely believing what she’d heard. The child’s face had relaxed at last, the mouth no longer trembling and down-turned. He reached out for a strand of her hair, clenched it in his fingers, clamping them so firmly round it, she couldn’t prise them free. He seemed fascinated by the hair, gazing at it, pulling it, tugging really hard. She welcomed the sharp pain. The two of them were joined now, anchored to each other. ‘Mummy’s hair,’ she told him.

  ‘Mama,’ he repeated.

  She felt tears prick her eyes – tears of joy, relief – but fought to hold them back. A grown-up’s tears were probably frightening for a baby. ‘And Mummy’s hands,’ she added, wiggling one to show him. He released her hair to grasp a finger, seemed equally intrigued by it; giving it his full attention, eyes intent, enthralled.

  ‘Mama,’ he insisted.

  ‘He calls everybody Mama!’ Joyce laughed, reappearing at the door. ‘It’s the only word he’s managed yet, and he likes to try it out.’

  Tessa didn’t answer. Joyce was simply ignorant, couldn’t understand.

  ‘Though actually, he’s quite advanced to be saying even that. The tot next door is a whole month older, but she’s still not got beyond a few basic grunts and squawks. Right, here’s your bottle, Jon-Jon. Tessa’s going to give it to you while Mum pops out to learn about the Vikings.’ She slipped the teat into his mouth, then backed away unobtrusively. ‘That’ll keep him quiet. When he’s finished, you can have your little story-time, then he should drop off to sleep. If he wakes and cries, just pick him up and cuddle him. I don’t believe in leaving them to shriek.’

  Tessa muttered some reply, hoping it sounded coherent and responsible. But she had no wish to talk, to dilute this almost-miracle – Michael on her lap, feeding from her, close to her, accepting her as mother.

  Joyce gave a jaunty wave. ‘Okay, I’m off. Good luck! I’ve left the Institute number on the table in the hall. If there’s any problem, you can phone me there, and I’ll shoot back straight away – it’s only up the road. I’m sure you’ll be all right, though. I’ve heard marvellous things about you.’

  Tessa frowned, embarrassed. Joyce was speaking the wrong lines; should be distant and aloof, not full of eager praises. Once she heard the front door close, and the splutter of the car exhaust, she was aware of all her tension draining magically away. Now she was restored at last, as Michael’s mother, Michael’s wife – alone, in charge, unchallenged. The baby’s lips were clamped firmly round the teat, his eyes tight shut, one fond hand still clutching her finger. He sucked noisily, voraciously, with his father’s greed and zest, only pausing to give tiny snorts of pleasure. She shared that pleasure, even echoing the noises, so bonded with the baby that she seemed to be swallowing the milk herself, savouring its sweetness, her stomach gently swelling and distending. It was vital they were
fused, to make up for the weeks of separation, the brutal way they’d been torn apart, lost to one another for so long.

  She watched the level of the milk creep slowly down and down; every mouthful lulling him, as if it contained a tranquillizer. He was no longer threshing on her lap, but peaceful and contented. Once the bottle was finished, he pushed it away, stared up at her with burning eyes, trying to communicate. She, too, had things to say.

  ‘Michael, darling, I hope you’ll understand, but there’s something that I …’ She broke off, glancing nervously around, as if scared that she was being watched; felt strangely guilty as she laid him on the changing table and started taking off his clothes. But she had to see him naked, examine every inch of him, to make sure that he was normal.

  The stretchsuit peeled off easily, though the nappy was more difficult, and she was worried when she removed his vest that he might bellow his objection. But he lay serene and uncomplaining, as if he understood how wonderful it was for her to see him as he’d been when he was born, clothed in nothing but his warm and living flesh. She touched the dimpled creases in his knees, his plumply rounded belly and soft pink pudgy feet – feet which looked too delicate for walking, and should be put in a glass case. She turned him on to his stomach, ran her hand lightly down his spine. Of course there was no lump – she had dreamed it in some cruel horrific nightmare. Her and Michael’s baby would be perfect – exquisite, well proportioned, without the smallest blemish. She gazed in fascination at the tiny unshelled mollusc of his penis; so different from his father’s, so innocent, quiescent. She stroked it with a finger, startled when it stiffened slightly. She had no idea that babies had erections, but this was Michael’s son – his expression one of blissful self-absorption as she continued gently kneading it. They were even closer now – not just bonded – intimate.

  She would have gladly spent all evening fondling his bare skin, but Joyce had said he liked his bedtime routine – a story or a nursery rhyme – and he might start getting restive if she didn’t stick to it. She dressed him with great care, making sure she put his clothes back exactly as she’d found them, then sat him on her knee again, reached out for his rag-book. She flicked swiftly through the pages, tossed it to one side. He didn’t need those silly cosy pictures of teddy bears in overcoats, or bunnies with blue ears. Better to tell him a real-life story – the story of his father – explain exactly how they’d met: that dramatic near-collision in the street – not a chance encounter, but something planned, intended. And her pregnancy was part of it. She had only missed a couple of her pills, yet even so she’d fallen pregnant the first time they’d made love; conceived a child who now united them, fused their genes, their cells.

  When she’d finished her account, the baby repaid her with a smile – a radiant, delighted smile, which she accepted as a priceless gift. It changed his face completely – the eyes brightening as they widened; the mouth relaxing open, showing his still milky tongue, and two tiny teeth at top and bottom. And then the smile became a yawn – a yawn so huge, he gasped for breath.

  ‘You’re tired, Michael, aren’t you? I mustn’t keep you up.’ She laid him in his cot, tucked the blankets round him, stooped down to kiss him goodnight. She lingered over the kiss, inhaling his clean-baby smell of milk and soap and talc; admiring the peach softness of his cheek. His eyes were already closing, another gaping yawn pulling his small face apart.

  ‘I’ll pop back in a little while, to check that you’re all right. And you mustn’t worry when I leave – it’s only for a day or two. You’ll be seeing a lot of me from now on. I’ll take every single chance I can of coming here again.’

  His eyes were shuttered by the lids; one tiny hand flung out, defying the restricting sheet. She touched the hand, closed her fingers round it. ‘Sleep tight, Michael’s son.’

  She switched off ‘Tomorrow’s World’. It was impossible to concentrate, or even to sit still. Dr Michael Edwards had sat in this same chair, punched these same buttons on the television. His feet had lapped the carpet, his hands plumped up the cushions. The whole room was wild and charged with him, yet she somehow couldn’t reach him. There was a barrier between them, like the fish-tank in the waiting-room – a screen of glass preventing her from diving into the water, pressing close to gill and fin. And the glass was slightly warped, distorting everything she looked at, blurring lines and shapes. She realized she was hungry – hadn’t bothered to eat before setting out from home – and had exhausted herself in the last nerve-racking hour or so by continually running upstairs to check on Michael. She was beset by constant fears that he was dead, or maybe trapped in some horrific dream, or wet, or sick, or dirty. Though every time she’d tiptoed in, she’d found him quiet and tranquil, breathing peacefully, his nappy clean and dry. ‘Goodnight,’ she’d said a dozen times. ‘Sleep well.’

  If only she could follow his example – relax, let go, flop out. Instead, she was pacing restlessly around, found herself wandering into the hall, traipsing up and down from kitchen to front door. Perhaps she’d make a coffee, sample the fruit-cake. She mooched back to the kitchen, studying the row of mugs hanging on the dresser. Which one did Dr Edwards use? Would he prefer the chunky earthenware to the blue-rimmed porcelain? Probably both of them had pressed against his mouth, felt the touch of his lips. She longed to be those mugs; to be anything which shared his life or had access to his body – thought enviously of his toothbrush, which could penetrate much further in, mingle with his saliva, taste the heady remnants of his wine. She ran upstairs to the bathroom, locked the door behind her. Here were still more intimate things – wooden bath-brush, yellow sponge. Had they scrubbed his back and thighs, crept between his legs? And the shaving soap and razor she found in the small cabinet – daily they must caress his face, smooch his damp flushed skin. She sat down on the toilet seat, where he too had sat, this morning – private, making smells. She even loved the smells. There was no part of Michael Edwards she would ever shrink from or reject.

  She pounced on a blue sponge-bag on the ledge below the window; discovered Joyce’s things – her tampons and her diaphragm, a tube of contraceptive gel. She re-zipped the bag immediately. The images it seeded drove her almost mad: Joyce and Michael copulating; their naked bodies entwined. She stole into their bedroom, surprised to find the bed so neat; the prim white lacy counterpane concealing the stained sheets and heaving rumpled blankets she’d been seeing in her mind. If only they had twin beds, to keep them separate and apart. She loathed the room – every item in it. Joyce had imposed her taste on him: pink carpet, floral curtains, ruched and frilly lampshades. There was nothing of him left – only his grim smile in their gilt-framed wedding photo. She approached it with a mixture of distaste and curiosity. Joyce’s spaniel eyes were fixed on him adoringly, as they stood arm in arm in a rose-bower; her disaster of a hat – another rose-bower in itself – almost overshadowing the stiff bouquet she was holding like a truncheon. She didn’t look much younger, so the photo must be recent. Had he tired of her in bed yet? Did they do it every night, even when she had her period? And how did …?

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden noise outside. A car was drawing up – not Joyce, at half past eight. She peered out through the curtains, saw Dr Edwards’ Citroën, nosing into the garage. She fled downstairs to the sitting-room, arranged herself on the sofa, trying to look natural, as if she’d been there quite some time. She grabbed the December Ideal Home and started leafing through it, cheeks scorching hot, heart thumping in her chest. Supposing he was angry to see a patient in his house? Or perhaps he wouldn’t recognize her. She was dressed simply, almost austerely, in a plain grey skirt and pastel blouse; had deliberately left off jewellery and make-up. She could hardly breathe as she listened to his key turn in the lock, his heavy footsteps tramping down the hall.

  ‘Joyce!’ he called. ‘Where are you, darling?’

  The apologies and explanations which had been forming in her head shrivelled in an instant. He didn’t even know tha
t she was here; was expecting to be greeted by his wife. The fierce pain of that ‘darling’ was still stabbing through her skull, resounding and resounding like a strident peal of bells. She fought an urge to climb out through the window and make a quick dash home. Instead, she went to meet him, forced a cautious smile.

  His own smile died, replaced by an uneasy frown, then the penny dropped and he shook his head in mock-exasperation at himself. ‘Stupid of me! I’d totally forgotten you were coming. I probably scared you, didn’t I, barging in like that. I hope you didn’t think I was a burglar!’

  ‘No,’ she said, intoxicated once again by the bulk and warmth of his sheepskin coat, its astounding dangerous closeness.

  ‘Joyce did tell me – twice – that you’d be here, but, even so, it slipped my mind. Do sit down. How’s Jonathan? I hope he’s been no trouble.’

  ‘I haven’t heard a peep from him.’

  ‘Good!’ He removed the coat, then stretched out on the sofa, easing his collar and tie. ‘How are you, by the way? I thought you might come back to see me in the surgery – you know, as we arranged.’

  She stared down at the carpet, embarrassed and confused. So he did know who she was, remembered all the details of her case. Was he concerned about his baby, frightened she had harmed it – the girl who’d killed her own child? Could he tell she‘d touched its genitals? Would he round on her in fury?

  ‘I’m fine,’ she reassured him, her traitor voice unsteady. ‘Back to my old self, in fact.’ She must make him see she was completely fit and healthy, conscientious, trustworthy – more than that – indispensable. Now they had this chance to talk without doctor/ patient constraints, they could drop the cool formality and proceed to a more friendly footing. She was already halfway there: admitted to his house, sitting on his chair, so close to him, she could touch his hand.

  ‘Good,’ he said again, glancing at his watch, then heaving himself up to his feet. ‘Well, perhaps you’d like to get off home, now I’m back myself. There’s a bit of mist building up outside, so it’s probably wise to make a move before it thickens into fog. Have you far to go? Beech Close, isn’t it?’