But when I say, ‘I never knew a baby could be so perfect,’ Felicity frowns.
‘You know, there’s no such thing as a perfect child, or a perfect parent,’ she says.
‘I didn’t say I was perfect, obviously. It’s just … isn’t it my job to think she’s perfect?’
‘I’d say it’s your job to see her,’ Felicity says, ‘flaws and all.’
I consider this for a while. ‘I don’t think my parents ever saw me, except when I was trying to disappear,’ I say.
Felicity leans forward in her chair. ‘That’s interesting. Can you tell me a bit more about that?’
But I can’t, because suddenly I’m crying.
I’m glad Laurel isn’t still in the waiting room when I leave with Rose strapped to me. I walk fast, letting my feet thud the hot pavement, feeling the sweat trickle along my hairline. I start to cross over to the bus stop and force out the thoughts, instead calculating what I’ve eaten so far today and what else I could, should and will eat, when it happens.
Perhaps I’m tired. Maybe Rose shifts slightly in her sling and pulls me off balance. Or I’m too distracted. But as I lift my foot up on the far side of the road, it catches on the kerb and I’m falling, Rose’s tiny skull heading for the road, just like in my nightmares. I shout out and make a desperate lurch to the left. I hit the kerb hard with my elbow, my hand up over the back of Rose’s head, but I was walking too fast and my rucksack is full of heavy tins. The momentum pushes me forward and I feel my fingers crunch against the kerb.
The top of Rose’s head hits the pavement.
‘No!’ I struggle with the backpack, trying to get myself up and check if Rose is OK.
There’s blood all over my hand and I don’t know for a minute if it’s coming from me or her. Cold, sick horror floods through me, slowing my heart down. The dots start to swarm and I grind my teeth together and force them away. Rose is screaming her head off.
‘Are you all right?’ A woman has rushed to my side and attempts to pull Rose up and out of the carrier, which makes her scream even more.
I twist away and manage to get my backpack off, then unclip Rose and lean her forward over my arm. There’s a graze on the back of her head. It’s small and faint, but it’s there.
‘I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,’ I whisper to her, but my voice is shaking and she senses my fear because she’s really bawling now. I start to cry too.
The woman pats my arm. ‘Don’t cry, love. She’s OK, just had a little bump, is all. I know these sling contraptions are all the rage these days, but I’ve never understood what’s wrong with a pram. See, there, she’s settling down now. I reckon you both got a bit of a fright, didn’t you?’ The woman pats my arm again on my good side.
When I get up I wobble.
The woman sucks in air through her teeth in a thoughtful smack. ‘You’d best get that seen to – it might need a stitch,’ she says.
I look down and realise blood is dripping from my elbow on to the pavement.
Behind the woman is a queue of people waiting for the bus. A girl, younger than me, smoking and looking bored. Another girl, with a buggy, who’s texting and doesn’t look my way. I’m thinner than both of them. An older woman with bags of shopping nestled against her ankles who gives me a hard stare and a tut.
‘I think you’d best take the number six the other way up to the hospital and get yourself and the little one checked over. Just to be safe,’ says the woman who helped me up. ‘But don’t worry – they’re tougher than they look, even at this age.’
The bus pulls up and everyone files on.
The woman gives me a nod and a smile as she gets on.
‘Thanks,’ I croak out, but the doors are already shutting.
I limp over to the other side of the road, my knee stinging where I banged it on the way down. I sit at the bus stop, because my legs feel strange, like they might not be connected to my body.
I can’t stop whispering how sorry I am to Rose, or fussing over the graze on her head. I find a muslin and press it to my elbow. When I’ve got some of the blood off, which is awkward because I still have Rose in my arms, I see it’s not that bad after all. And now Rose has calmed down, she seems fine. I look again at the graze. It’s tiny, barely bleeding at all.
If you take her to the hospital, they’ll report you.
The voice seems strong, clear. Coming from somewhere in the vicinity of my shoulder.
But what if Rose is hurt?
I pinch my bottom lip between my fingernails, over and over.
She’s not. She’s fine. But you won’t be, if you take her to hospital.
The number six arrives and the doors open.
I stand up, but dots crowd out my vision again and I’m not sure I’ve even got the right change.
‘Well? You getting on or not?’ the bus driver says.
Eventually, I take a step back and shake my head.
The bus pulls away, leaving Rose and me standing in a cloud of exhaust fumes.
Chapter 20
4 WEEKS
Rose is fine. She’s absolutely fine. The graze on her head fades after a couple of days and I comb her silky down over the tiny red mark it leaves behind. Her cord stump, the place where she was attached to me, has healed over and been replaced by an impossibly neat little belly button.
We don’t go out much, but that’s because:
A: the lift is busted again and I’m not chancing the sling.
And B: it’s been raining all week.
So much for the summer. There are baby things drying all over the flat, hooked on doors and radiators. The place is starting to smell musty, but when I open the windows, the wind gusts rain through and soaks the sleepsuits hanging on the arm of the sofa. At least it’s watering the flowers in my window box, because I’m in no state to remember. I’m running out of pretty much everything.
I stare out of the window at the dull drizzle. The sky looks low and heavy, as if all that rain is dragging it down on top of the world like some huge, grey duvet. Despite the rain, the air is close, muggy.
Joanna is due in a couple of days to do a visit and an ‘assessment’, which she hasn’t done before. I’m guessing it’s because I’m on my own with Rose now. I get on to Google to figure out what this assessment might mean, but all I can find is a bunch of stories that make my throat squeeze tight with fear.
I manage to give the kitchen area and bathroom a scrub-down with some washing-up liquid, but then that runs out and I know I’m going to have to use the sling again. Or ask for help, one of my least favourite activities. I could ask Dad, I suppose – he’s emailed from work a couple of times – but I can’t bring myself to make the call. Mum has left a couple of messages on my phone, but I deleted them without listening. I’ll have to face her sooner or later, but it may as well be later in my opinion.
Rose pulls up her legs and grunts in a way that means a poo explosion is about to be unleashed. I’m tired. Really, really tired. I change her nappy, again, my arms moving on their own and my head still stuffed full of thoughts. How did I manage to drop her? Should I have taken her to the hospital? Does this mean I’m a bad … I shut that thought down.
Rose wriggles and kicks with her legs and manages to smear poo along the edge of the changing mat and on to the patterned rug.
I swear – I just can’t stop myself. I wrestle her into her new nappy, ignoring her cries, her little legs bending up like a frog’s. I chuck the nappy into a nappy sack, but she kicks one more time and manages to knock it on to the floor, poo side down.
‘Great. Just great,’ I mutter.
Rose starts to cry.
I clear up the mess as best I can with the dregs of the washing-up liquid, but it only smears the poo in a yellow streak over the rug. I feel a million times older than I ever thought possible. Rose is working herself up into a fury, and it takes every ounce of control to stop myself from shouting at her to shut the hell up and let me think.
I bundle up the hal
f-packet of wet wipes I seem to have used into the flimsy blue nappy sack and shove it in the bin, which stinks of days’-old nappies and food scrapings, wash my hands and scoop Rose up to feed her.
As she settles down and her cries turn to happy little grunts, a wave of remorse spikes me between the ribs and flows up so my scalp is prickling with it.
How can you be so impatient? Some mother you are.
‘I know,’ I whisper out loud, to myself, to Rose. To Nia.
Back in the hospital, when they put her on me, I was so sure she was mine, that I should keep her. I never stopped to think what it would all mean: the crying, the lack of sleep, the nappies and formula. Never having a second to myself to think. Rose’s need. Sometimes I don’t know if I can cope with how much she needs me for everything. I look at the way she searches for me; how she curls tight and safe on my chest and slips into that baby sleep, trusting. It sends this rush of warmth through me, knowing I’m her world.
But then I start with the what ifs? What if this is all a huge mistake? What if I can’t look after her? It’s all too scary, so I weigh myself again and feel a flare of triumph at the number. Nia pats me on the shoulder, like I’m a good girl.
There’s a tap at the door: Robin.
I’ve been ignoring his knocks, but I can’t bear these four walls any more.
‘Just a minute!’ I call out.
I run to the kitchen and put the book I’ve resurrected, plotting all the numbers of my life – weight, calories, waist and thigh measurements – in a drawer, then open the door.
‘Howdy, stranger,’ Robin says.
‘Hey,’ I say, and it sounds more like an admission of defeat than a greeting.
I go into the living area and slump on the sofa.
Robin follows, his nose wrinkling.
‘It honks in here, I know,’ I say.
‘Well … maybe a bit. Do you need me to take the bin down?’ he says.
I go to shake my head, but then turn it into a tight, embarrassed nod.
‘Won’t be a sec,’ he says.
He rustles around in the kitchen then disappears with the stinking bin bag. In a few minutes he’s back, flicking on the kettle, then goes into his flat for some milk when he sees I’m out.
‘The cupboards are a bit bare, Ms Hubbard,’ he says.
I don’t answer.
Rose is now asleep. I ought to put her down for a proper nap, but recently she’s started waking up when I try and move her and it’s not worth the screaming fit she’ll pitch if the transfer goes wonky.
‘I heard Rose crying earlier,’ Robin says, his voice gentle. He hands me a cup of tea and sits down. ‘Actually, I heard her quite a bit last night too. And the night before that.’
‘If you’re here to complain, you need to get in line – the other side’s got in first,’ I say. I’m aiming for light-hearted, but it comes out knackered. Also, I’m pretty scared of the man next door.
‘You know I’m not. I just thought perhaps it would do you good to get out for a bit?’
‘Can’t. Lift’s busted. Sling’s no good.’ My eyes are burning like I doused them in bleach or something. They keep closing on their own. I force them open and try and focus on what Robin is saying, then realise he’s not saying anything, just staring at me.
‘OK. Right, here’s what we’re doing. I’ll watch Rose while you get your head down. When was the last time you had more than a couple of hours’ sleep in a row?’
‘Dunno. Don’t remember.’
‘Give her to me. If she wakes up, I’ll take her for a walk in the buggy. Here we go, come on, Rosie Posie.’
I try to protest but it comes out in a mumble.
The next moment, Rose’s weight is lifted off my lap and I sink thankfully into sleep.
When I wake up, I’m in bed. Robin must have carried me. I hope he didn’t think I was too heavy. Or too light … Right now, it seems there’s no weight it would be OK for me to be.
It’s dark. I feel like I just slept for twenty-four hours straight. I lie there, listening to the sound of Robin moving around the kitchen, chatting away to Rose. I think he might be telling her about some geeky sci-fi programme. I really ought to go and rescue her, but I’m enjoying the feeling of waking up on my own. For what seems like the first time in eternity, no one else is in the room. No one wants me. For a minute, I actually smile.
The need to simply lie here on my own battles with the knowledge that I have to get up, that I’m nearly out of nappies and formula and it’s not fair on Robin, though he doesn’t sound like he’s bothered. He’s so good with Rose. It seems easy for him, unlike me. How’s that fair? I mean, most nineteen-year-old boys would be breaking out in a cold sweat at the thought of dealing with a baby, not making it look so simple. But then Robin’s pretty capable.
I roll out of bed. I feel stiff all over, like I slept in one position and now I’m having trouble remembering how to move again. Like the dead, as they say.
‘Hello!’ Robin says. ‘I was going to come and wake you. Your dinner’s nearly ready.’
Rose spots me and goes from mildly diverted by whatever lecture Robin was giving her to a howling rage machine in approximately three seconds flat. So much for no one needing me. But today it’s not a comforting thought. It’s more like a scarf tied too tight around my neck, the ends trailing on the floor, ready to trip me up.
I plug a bottle into Rose’s mouth and she hooks her hand round mine. She’s so warm and soft. How can I be having doubts about her?
‘Right, I just need to grate some – woah!’ Robin shoots an impressed look at Rose, who’s up and over my shoulder and has just let out an epic belch. ‘That’s a big noise for such a sweet little baby,’ he says and touches her on the cheek. ‘Oh. I think she got some sick in your hair.’
‘Figures,’ I mutter and lay her down to wriggle about.
Robin’s made chilli wraps with bowls of salad, Parmesan and mayo to mix in. He ladles his filling on and brings the wrap up at the sides, then folds it under, like an envelope, before taking a huge bite. I look at my own plate doubtfully, then copy his, minus the cheese and mayo. Mine falls apart as soon as I take a small bite, orange grease coating my fingers. I hold the wrap up and watch the drips glisten on the plate.
Fat, Nia says, and her voice pinches at me. But it also gives me this familiar feeling, like too-small shoes moulded into second feet.
I wade through a few mouthfuls and can feel them lodged under my ribs, like they’re trying to work themselves back up. I hate this feeling more than anything.
Robin is staring at me, with this fake-casual expression, head on one side.
‘So … I was thinking,’ he says. ‘Why don’t we go somewhere tomorrow? Get out of here and take Rose someplace new?’ It’s there again, that confidence. How come he’s not terrified at the prospect of taking her somewhere new?
‘Like where? Hang on a sec.’ I go to the bathroom and rinse my mouth to get rid of the chilli taste, then look in the mirror. There’s a greasy orange streak on my chin. I scrub it hard.
When I go back into the living area, Robin politely ignores my red chin and says, ‘What about Sharland Wood? We could have a wander around, take a picnic.’
I’m about to make an excuse – I need to get some shopping in and finish tidying up properly – but something makes me glance up at the wall we painted what seems like a million years ago, and there’s a swooping sensation inside, like a gap is opening up and I’m falling into it. All the rain has brought the damp back. Black patches of mould are starting to reappear through the paint in the top corners of the room. I look at the mould, and the yellow stain on the blue rug, right near Rose’s head, and then turn to Robin.
‘OK. Why not?’ I say.
He grins.
Then I add, reluctantly, ‘But first, would you be able to help me with the buggy? I’m kind of out of, well, everything.’
‘I did notice,’ Robin says.
Robin takes me shopping with
the buggy in the morning. He steers like a pro round the shops, making revving noises while I stock up on nappies, formula, cleaning stuff and, grudgingly, food. Mainly noodles and fruit.
‘Are you sure you’ve got enough? There’s not much here,’ Robin says.
‘Oh yeah, I’ll pop out again in the week,’ I say.
Robin doesn’t look convinced and I wonder when I became so … unconvincing. It used to be so easy. But he lets it slide.
At the till there’s a woman with a little boy of maybe three. She stares into space while he writhes in the trolley.
‘Want Bob the Builder,’ he whines, fingers stretched out towards the exit where there’s a tatty yellow digger ride.
The woman sighs and hands him a bag of apple slices.
He hits out and they scatter on the floor.
‘Oh for heaven’s sake,’ she snaps, then bends to pick them up.
The little boy starts crying harder and Rose’s eyes flutter open.
‘Don’t get any ideas,’ I tell her, and I’m only partly joking.
I watch the woman push the overflowing trolley and the screaming boy, her back hunched over. I try and fast-forward through time, to when Rose might be crying for a stupid ride, but can’t. Is this what it will be like? It seems impossible. The future seems so frightening with her in it, and she’s changing so fast I don’t know if I can keep up. Her neck seems less wibbly now; the other day when I was holding her she pulled right back and stared at me, and just as I was marvelling at her, the effort of holding her head up got too much and she crashed nose first into my collarbone. I nearly cried along with her, thinking I should have been ready for it, should have caught her head before she hurt herself.
Back at the flat, I get out stuff to make a Marmite sandwich to take on the picnic.
Robin shakes his head, saying, ‘I already got some stuff from Aldi. We’re having a proper picnic.’
I don’t want to speculate on what that involves so I let him disappear off to his flat while I feed and change Rose and pack her bag.
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