by Judith White
It was a Friday afternoon and she’d just arrived home when the pain in her stomach started to take her breath. She welcomed it; willed against it; was relieved; longed for it not to be true.
She took herself to the shower, shuffling, kneeling on the floor of the shower as the pain intensified, leaning over the plastic stool she’d grabbed for support. The water soothingly hot on the small of her back. She started to bleed heavily, the liverish clots swirling by and slithering under the elevated plug cover, and down the drain. She was a concertina, wheezing out a long groan as her muscles determined to squeeze from her the darling little one. Then she was sure, almost sure, absolutely certain, that she saw him, or her. She saw the lump of different blob hesitate as it was caught for a second at the stainless steel plug cover. She dived to retrieve it, pulled the plug from its place, but he or she escaped, and down it went, down the drain. It was just having a wee pause to peek at her before it left. We could have had fun together, she thought it might have been saying.
And yes, she told it, I love you already.
Had she rejected it or had it rejected her? The little boy or the little girl, the little musician or ballerina, or writer or magician or brain surgeon. Already she’d started making plans, had been fantasising that Simon could be overjoyed. Unlikely. And still the cramps and the bleeding continued on and on, gradually diminishing until she was able to force herself to her feet. She turned the tap off. She dried herself, wrapped herself in pads and a towel and crawled into bed, and she had nobody to talk to about it. Nobody. That was the trouble with secrets. She wanted to tell Eric that she had lost their child. She remembered her desperate search for her keys at the door of the motel unit. They were in her pocket all along. And this wee one had been waiting all along, too. She wanted to rush next door and have another try, but of course she couldn’t, and five days later Simon returned.
Chapter 7
OTHER DIMENSIONS
They lived near the sea. From her window, Hannah could see the mountain lazily swooping up from the ocean, beckoning her to walk through the streets and onto the sandy beach. On this particular day she watched a seagull floating on the water. It seemed content just to be there, bobbing on the swell of ruffled waves, succumbing to the action of the water. Like a duck.
The only water her duck had experienced, apart from occasional rain, was confined to a drinking bowl, handbasin, or a cluttered shallow pond.
That night, instead of bathing the duck in the handbasin, she put him in the bath. He eyed the white shiny enamel, and then looked at her, then at the froth of tepid water pelting from the tap. He tried to escape, but the sides were too high. The woman cooed reassuringly at him. He slurped some water. She fed him torn shreds of lettuce. He nibbled and gulped, then sucked up another drag of water. As the level rose, he started to walk around on tiptoes. Little dainty prances. Then he was afloat. He was incredulous. He gave the side of the bath an elegant push and there he was, gliding to the other side. She turned off the tap. Silence. He was weightless. He was an astronaut in a void of fluid space with the grinning face of the moon peering over the edge of the world. Pushing off again with such an air, his big yellow feet touched the bath as an old lady’s fingers might nudge a friend’s arm as a reminder of something shared. The duck was remembering that, of course, this was what ducks did. The woman felt as though she, too, was hanging there. The white bath, the white duck, the clear water, the silence. She was with the duck in his head, relieved of the gravity of all things. She had an immense sense of joy.
The duck started to wash himself then, his body undulating through the water which swooshed from one end of the bath to the other. He flipped himself upright and flapped his wings. Took himself to the other end of the bath, then back again, surges of water spilling onto the woman’s T-shirt and the floor. Finally he’d had enough. He stretched his neck up to the edge of the bath. The woman took a towel and wrapped him up. The duck flitted his beak over her lips.
I liked that, he said.
Of course you did.
And then at that moment Simon walked in and stood by the door. He saw the leaves floating in the bath water, saw the residue of splats settling on the bottom, saw the bathroom floor flooded and Hannah holding the duckling, closer now, to her chest.
I’m going to clear it up, she said. Look, the disinfectant, the cloth. All ready to clean. Don’t worry.
It’s not that I’m worried about, he said, pulling at his beard. He went away saying no more.
SPLIT DECISION
The next morning she woke up to Simon sitting alongside her on the bed, his hand resting on her shoulder. Her heart jolted. The duck! Something had happened to the duck!
What? What’s wrong?
Ssssh. Nothing’s wrong. Hannah, your nerves are frazzled.
Oh, sorry. But—
It’s a corker day. Have a shower and hop in the car. We’re going for a little tramp . . . to the waterfall, I thought would be nice . . . Then dinner at our restaurant on the way home. I’ve been waiting for you to wake up, but we mustn’t waste the day. It’s already after nine. I’ve made the picnic. It’s all in the car.
He gave her rump a friendly whack.
Come on. Like we used to.
Hannah yawned. Like we used to. It must have been five or six years. This had always been a special outing for them; they’d seen it as an injection of vitality when they’d sensed their lives becoming staid. They’d be invigorated by the wild dangerous sea, the sharp air of the west coast, just being in Nature. The dinner at the end of the day was always intimate, happy.
I’m sorry, Simon, I can’t. I’ve got work to do.
It’s Sunday.
I know, but I have deadlines, if I get behind . . . And I’ve got to sort out the duck for the day . . .
The duck is sorted . . . all clean and in his cage.
What? You put the duck in his cage? Anyway, he needs food.
He never touched the duck. She sat up, reaching for her clothes.
He’s eaten. His box is clean. There’s food in his cage. Everything is organised. I found a couple of snails even. He couldn’t help the self-satisfaction leak from his voice. No excuses.
I can’t, I just can’t. I’m sorry, Simon. You can’t just land this on me.
Whyever not? It’s called spontaneity, Hannah. Remember?
I’m tired and I’ve got work to do. You know what it’s like. You have contracts you have to finish sometimes. She was dressing now, hurriedly. The duck would be fretting, worried that something had happened to her.
She pushed past him, but he took her arm, grasping it tightly.
Look at me, Hannah.
She glanced at him, at his intense earnest face. The wall was more comfortable.
I had a dream last night, he said. Look at me, Hannah.
She looked at his chin, his lips within the grey sleek beard. She could smell the dampness of fresh shampoo.
I dreamt that I was looking for you. We were in the mountains, and you raced on ahead, disappearing around a bend. I couldn’t reach you. I was calling to you, but I couldn’t catch up. When I came to the bend you’d gone. The sky was black, so black. Ahead of me was a track winding through snow, leading down into dense bush. I’d lost you . . . Then I woke up, and there you were, lying beside me.
He moved her so that she was facing him, put his arms around her, pulled her to his chest.
She dropped her head onto his clean crisp shirt. Why? Why, why was it so hard to dissolve into him?
If she let go, she would fall into his dream.
He lifted his hand to her neck, twisted her hair around his fingers, pressed her head closer to his chest.
Slowly she eased away from him. Her hair fell back to her shoulders, he released his arms. She moved away, stealthily, as if she might awaken somebody left sleeping in their bed.
She crept down the stairs, through the kitchen, hurrying now across the deck, down the garden to the duck.
There he was,
chirruping at her as normal.
I’m sorry, Ducko, she said, lifting him out of the cage.
Once inside again, finally, she found a note on the kitchen table. I’m off. Can’t waste a good picnic. Can’t waste a good day. Can’t waste a good life.
Chapter 8
HOMECOMING
My mother came home today, the woman said to the duck.
Hannah was supposed to be working, but she’d taken her laptop outside, to the chair that cut under her legs, and the glass-topped table covered with a wintering of green that she could scrape runnels into with her fingernail. She’d decided to work outside so that the duck could run around on the lawn, out of the prison of his cage.
She’d always hated the cruelty of battery hens. She didn’t want him to become a battery duck, although sometimes she worried that he was living like one. Or a wind-up toy, with a switch that made him walk like a clown, slapping his flippers on the wooden floor inside, or on any flat surface like the paths and deck. When he ran, it was as if the switch was set to a pace too fast for the machine, his whole body flailing out of kilter, one leg almost crossing over the other. Yet there was a gracefulness in his gracelessness, and he never failed to make her laugh. He could make her laugh from a deep happy part of herself, a part of herself she hadn’t accessed for a long time. She’d been like a piano accordion from which the last wheeze had been squeezed, to be clipped up and stored away in a cobwebby cupboard.
And now she was holding him. She’d hoped that he would run through the grass, pleased to be free, poking his beak amongst the leaves and stones. Instead he’d dumped himself at her feet under the chair. She wondered whether she had trained him to be dependent upon her, whether every morsel he ate from now on would have to come from her hand, whether he might die from starvation should they ever be parted.
The wind was fresh and the shadows of the late afternoon were beginning to creep under her skin. The duck nestled against her stomach, edging his head beneath her breast. He let his eyes close, although they shot open again at any sudden noise — a car door somewhere, a nail-gun across the valley.
The computer sat untouched as she studied the changing terrain of the duck. He was half feathers and half fluff now. His back looked like a carefully landscaped triangle of toetoe planted from his tail and halfway up his spine, yellow tufts that stood up amongst the white fluff when he was preening himself, as if a wind was gusting across a tussocky headland. His naked chicken wings were almost concealed beneath a curve of new white feathers. His fat dog-waggy tail was a grubby brown.
Didn’t you hear me? said the woman. She was playing with the remaining yellow fluff on his head, licking her fingertips to sculpt it into a ridge of mohawk. Punk duck.
What? said the duck.
My mother came home today.
Ah yes, he said. I heard that. You’re testing me. I know your mother is dead.
Yes, said the woman. That’s true. But she came home. A woman dressed in black arrived on the doorstep holding an orange rose and my mother in a box in a brown paper carry-bag. She came inside and placed the bag on the kitchen floor. The woman had a cup of tea and a gingernut and we talked about Christmas and then she went away. And there Mum was. A bit like you. You arrived in a bag and there you were.
But I wasn’t dead.
No. But you were in a carry-bag and you smelt as though you were.
Why did I smell?
You’d come a long way in a car. And stayed overnight in Hamilton. Old poos. But I gave you a bath and cleaned out your straw and stuff, and you were soon as fresh as a daisy.
Does your mother smell?
No. You’ll have to meet her. She would have liked you. She always said that after she died she’d like to come back as a seagull.
I’m not a seagull.
I know, but you’re a duck.
I don’t see the connection.
Well, a seagull is feathery like you, with webbed feet and the same shape, more or less. They fly over the sea.
Why did she like seagulls?
She had this idea that they were free. She wanted to be free. She loved the idea of soaring high on a current of wind and just hanging above the world.
The woman looked at the duck. His head was now cocked to one side, with that inquiring eye. It occurred to her that her mother might have been reincarnated as a duck. And this duck. There would be an irony in that. Her mother’s essential self still held prisoner. Free in a way but bound to her. Her wings still undeveloped. Perhaps it was true that death was not a release but a stopping for a moment until the next time. And then a carrying on from where you left off. And perhaps you were always as you had been then, in an essential way, before you died.
Are you my mother? she asked the duck.
Don’t be ridiculous, what are you talking about? I’m a duck. Was your mother a duck, too?
No. She quite liked ducks, though. Yes, she did. We’d go to the park and feed them.
Them?
Yes, lots of them.
Lots? What did you feed them? Snails?
No, bread.
Are there lots of ducks?
Yes, lots. Like me?
Some like you. Some different but the same. But you’re an individual. You’re one duck. They are lots of ducks . . .
The duck was thoughtful for a moment, before he said, Yes. I remember now. Lots of ducks.
ONE OUT OF THE EGG
And Hannah was taken back in time as well, and she can feel rocks under her feet and hands, the gentle warmth of a cloudy summer’s day, and her mother close by with tanned arms and legs, wearing shorts and a flowing blouse. Clambering over boulders. To one side, the sea sloshing around the rock edges; and to the other, grassy cliffs rising to the mottled sky. Back at the campsite on the private farmland, her father is taking care of her baby sister.
They wander on and on, investigating pools and shells and bones until they stumble upon a plump creature with gaping beak crouching amongst the rocks. Her mother is just as puzzled as she is as to what it might be, which compounds the mystery. Her mother, who has the answers to everything, except who made the world and when did the world begin and when will it end. And where does the sky end and what’s on the other side. And . . .
But this earth-bound creature is an enigma. It has black webbed feet and its fluff is speckled with colours of the rocks and sand and driftwood around it. It could be a bird but it is too fat. It’s a mouldy pumpkin. Nothing in their experience relates to it. As they peer at it, seagulls wheel around them, whining and squealing. Fretfully. Aggressively. Some swoop unnervingly at their heads.
They both move away uneasily, pulled onwards by curiosity and absolute contentment, and a whimsical inquisitiveness as to what might lie around each rocky bend. When they finally come to a small bay, they sit on the beach sharing a piece of chocolate — the only food they have. Dainty terns scamper in front of them, leaving footprints in the sand like arrows pointing the way for the journey home. And her mother is suddenly aware that during their oblivion the day has moved on. They scramble the long obstacle-course back to camp, noting the fluffy creature again as they pass, still amidst the cacophonic vigilance of the seagulls. They arrive just as the day is beginning to fade, and there’s her father with ten-month-old Maggie in his arms as he paces the sand by the rocks, his gaze fixed anxiously in their direction.
They’ve been away several hours, lost in reverie, not so much as mother and daughter but as two spirits moving alongside each other in the trueness of their being, in awe of the world in which they live.
WHERE TO GO
And for a little while, Hannah forgot that her mother was sitting there in the box, in the paper bag with the string handle, by the fridge. And then she passed and said hello and wondered where to put her. It was only when she picked up the box and felt the weight of it that she had any sense of it being her. She thought of the times she’d helped her mother up from a chair, or the bath, or a fall onto the floor or in the street �
�� all that weight was there in the box. The lightness that was her laughter, her sense of fun when she had that, all of the lightness that held her upright, all that lightness was gone.
Hannah carried the paper bag with her mother in it to the other end of the room. She considered putting her under the couch, but it seemed disrespectful. Now her mother was here, she just didn’t know what to do with her. It was pretty much how it had been in life, after her mother came to stay when she became ill. She found a strip of sun on the window sill that looked warm, so she placed her there, for the time being, in the box, in the paper carry-bag, looking very much like a dumped shopping bag.
When Simon came home that evening, she waited for him to notice the bag on the window sill, but he was preoccupied with his work. Or seemingly so. Nothing was said. Nothing had been said, either, about his outing to the west coast, about her not accompanying him, though his dream about her had seeped into her mind, as if that barren terrain had been territory they had experienced together, as if his dreaming vision had been true.
After dinner, and when he’d gone to bed, Hannah took her mother to her old bedroom and slid her into an empty drawer. She found herself leaving it open a little, for air. She stood back. Then she took her out again. It didn’t seem right to put her in a drawer. She pulled back the covers of the bed where her mother had spent her time of transition between her independent life and her ensnared life at Primrose Hill, and placed the bag and the box between the clean sheets. She made the bed again, arranging the duvet so that her mother’s presence was a barely distinguishable bump in the covers, a life over and done with, and tucked away.
THINGS HER MOTHER TOLD HER
Don’t talk with your mouth full, don’t be silly, don’t use safety pins if your buttons fall off, don’t squeeze your pimples, how can we expect world peace if we can’t have it at home, don’t lie, don’t answer back, don’t be cheeky, be nice to your grandmother, don’t stare, don’t read with a torch under the blankets, be nice to everyone, don’t pick your teeth in public, don’t cut your nails in public, tidy your room, don’t pull your cheek like that, if a job’s worth doing it’s worth doing well, a little lipstick would do wonders, if you keep your glass full they can’t fill it up again, don’t frown, kiss on the doorstep and then say goodbye, sex is wonderful after marriage, don’t, you must know when enough is enough, don’t be silly, get a haircut or tie it up, mend your holes, keep in touch, be kind, don’t be silly. Be nice.