Felicity lets the silence stretch for a while, then sighs. ‘Let’s just make the lists, shall we?’
I stare for a while longer, then turn my eyes up to the ceiling. ‘Whatever. Fine.’
NIA
Pros:
(Felicity is already grumbling at this)
Pros:
What I believe I get out of it:
•Being thin
•Being safe (‘What does safety mean to you?’ Felicity says. I stare at the word ‘safe’ for a long time, then write the next point)
•Nia keeps the world away
•Being in control – I’m in charge (Felicity makes a noise about this, but then I remind her I’m supposed to be making the list, not her)
•Attention (this is Felicity’s suggestion, which I only add after a long argument)
•Having A Purpose
•A distraction
•Makes me special, different
•I’m good at it
•I don’t know how to do anything else
Cons:
(Felicity sighs again)
Cons:
What it has cost me:
•Nothing (another argument)
•Nothing
•Missing school
•Losing my friends
•Having to be in hospital
•Hurting my family
•Hurting myself
•It might will kill me one day
(Long, long pause. And then I write:)
•It might hurt Rose
‘Can you tell me a little more about this last one?’ Felicity says, but I fold my arms and glare at her, and wisely, she doesn’t push.
My hour is nearly up. It’s taken me this long to get those few points and they don’t begin to cover everything. Not even close. I think about the notebook in my drawer at the flat again, my own personal unit crap and not-so-crap list. It’s starting to occur to me I never actually thought about why I was in hospital in the first place, about what put me there. Or that maybe there’s other crap things about Nia apart from being in the unit. I grip the sides of my arms hard enough that it starts to hurt. No way am I saying that out loud.
‘I think we should revisit this next week,’ Felicity says.
I bite my lip, because what I really want to do is take a huge black marker pen and scratch lines all over the words on the flip chart. This is all stupid. Except, it’s also made me think a bit. Trouble is, from where I’m looking I have no idea which side is winning. And even though I know that Rose should count for so much more than anything on that list, somehow it’s not as comforting a thought as it should be. It also makes me feel a tiny bit … trapped.
7 WEEKS
Rose is crying. The sound of it fills the flat, my head. My arms ache with holding her, pacing in tight circles around the poo-stained rug. It feels like we’ve been here forever, her and me.
The guy next door bangs on the wall.
‘Come on, sweetie, stop crying, please,’ I say.
I don’t know what’s wrong with her, with me. I can’t seem to sleep even when she does. I wish there was a remote control for life so I could put it in reverse. I wish I was the baby and someone would come and look after me.
Rose keeps crying and I can’t help it; a horrible rage is building inside me, along with the noise, until I think I might explode. I suddenly have a vision of letting Rose fall to the floor, anything to stop the crying. I put her down very slowly on the rug and go into the bedroom and lean over the bed, trying to shut my ears against her piercing cries, pulling air in and out of my lungs and wishing with everything I have for sleep.
I can’t do this.
I’ve tried everything: feeding, changing, burping, songs, TV to distract her. Nothing is working. Maybe she hates me.
Another bang on the wall; he’s really hammering at it.
A shout: ‘Shut that baby up.’
I feel like battering his door down, thrusting Rose into his hands and shouting, ‘You bloody try!’ and then running far, far away, getting a train and just disappearing.
Maybe I hate her. How can this be possible when I love her so much?
I just need some sleep. My head is so fuzzy.
Rose is still screaming in the other room, but I can’t make my feet move. And I think, I don’t want this. I never wanted this. I was right all those months ago, when I thought I should get the abortion. Why did I change my mind in the hospital? Why did I think I could look after her? I can’t even get her to bloody sleep.
The sound of it builds to a crescendo and there’s nothing but white noise in my head.
Nia joins in, the usual chant: Fat, disgusting bitch.
If I believed in God, I’d be praying round about now. But I don’t. I go back into the living area and I put my face close to Rose’s and I hiss, ‘Shut up! Just shut up.’
Needless to say, this makes her cry more and I pick her up and slump down on the floor with her, appalled at myself. She wriggles and screams in my arms.
What is wrong with you?
I feel like Nia is watching me, watching and laughing in a dark, smoky voice, snaking around the light fitting, floating in the mould flecking the walls.
I think I might be losing my mind.
There’s banging on my door now, then voices shouting in the corridor. I think I hear Robin. I open the door, chain on, Rose in one arm, and see Robin’s profile, the guy from next door squaring up to him. Robin’s as tall as the next door man, but way skinnier and he looks so young, like his namesake in Batman. Too young to step up and be a superhero. Rose is still crying, but quieter now, exhausted little bleats like a lamb. The next-door man says something and then goes back into his flat, slamming the door so hard I feel the whole flat shudder. Robin’s shoulders slump and he leans against the wall for a second, his chest going up and down quickly, then turns and peers through the gap in the chain. He has shadows under his eyes. It’s nearly one in the morning.
‘I’m sorry. Are you OK? I’m sorry. She won’t stop crying,’ I say in a voice that sounds like death and then I burst into tears.
Robin comes in, takes Rose and settles her down. I feel sick and shaky. Dried out. I sit on the bed, knees hunched up to my chest, and pinch the fat all the way down the backs of my thighs. I’ll have bruises in the morning, but it serves me right.
‘She’s down,’ Robin says in a whisper from the doorway.
‘Thank you.’
He sits next to me on the bed. ‘It will get better.’
‘Will it? How do you know that? What if … ?’ I can’t finish the thought. It’s one thing to think I’ve made a mistake, keeping Rose; it’s another to say it out loud. And I do love her. I do, I do, I do.
Robin puts an arm around me and I let him pull me close, so my ear is resting against his chest. I wonder if that’s what Rose likes about him: his heartbeat is steady, not stop-start-splutter like mine.
After a while his other arm comes across my shoulder. I look up into his face, the moonlight glancing over it through the open curtains. He pushes my hair back from my forehead and then leans down and touches his lips to mine, only for a second, then pulls back.
‘Robin …’ I begin.
‘Get some sleep. I’ll pop round tomorrow,’ he says.
I lock the door behind him and drag the Moses basket inch by inch through to the bedroom, then finally lie on the bed and fall asleep without bothering to close the curtains.
When I wake up, Rose is making cooing noises in her basket. I scrub at my face with the back of my hand. It’s already nearly morning, the dawn light making everything warm and orange. I look at the clock: 5 a.m. That can’t be right, can it? That means Rose has slept for four hours.
I lean over and steal a glance at her. She’s gumming away at one fist, looking delighted she’s managed to get it in her mouth. She fills up the whole basket; I really need to get Dad to come over with the cot. Like he said he would ages ago.
I risk leaving her there while I go
to the loo, and then come back and scoop her up, resting my cheek on her warm head. It strikes me that she’s not even classed as a newborn any more. Maybe this is the start of something new.
‘Sorry,’ I whisper.
I make a silent vow I’ll never lose my temper with her again, never question my decision to keep her.
We fit together, Rose and I. We have to.
We watch the sun come up together.
* * *
I wait until eight, as it’s Saturday, and then send a text to Dad.
Hi Dad. Any chance you could drop the cot off sometime? H x
I’m surprised when my phone beeps almost immediately.
I’ll be there in a bit, Dad x
He must be wanting to escape home.
It feels like Rose and I have been up for years when he finally knocks on the door, though it’s only nine.
He has one end panel of the cot in his hands and looks a bit red in the face.
‘Your lift is out of order,’ he says.
‘Oh yeah. Probably should have mentioned that,’ I say.
He gives me a wry look. ‘Where do you want this?’
I get him to put the end in my bedroom – there’s nowhere else for it to go.
‘Might be a bit of a squeeze,’ Dad says. ‘Any chance of a cuppa before we get the rest? And a cuddle with my granddaughter, of course.’
I plonk Rose in his arms and watch them out of the corner of my eye as the kettle boils. Dad is holding Rose up at an angle which is asking for trouble. I want to say, ‘watch her head’ and ‘don’t drop her’ and ‘careful’, and I hear echoes of Mum’s voice over the years, telling me not to do this and to be careful of that. A tiny, tiny part of me might be starting to get why she says some of the stuff she does; that need you get with a child, to protect. Maybe a little bit.
The next moment, Rose has puked on Dad’s trousers. I rush over with a packet of wet wipes and he mops himself down good-naturedly.
‘I forgot they do that,’ he says.
‘Did I?’
‘You were always being sick,’ Dad says. ‘You had colic or whatever they call it; you’d scream for hours. It’s no wonder …’ He stops and I look at him, my head on one side. ‘So, shall we see about the rest of this cot?’
‘You haven’t had your tea yet.’
‘Ah yes, perhaps in a bit. What about asking that young man from next door to lend a hand?’
I feel a bit guilty going to Robin so soon after last night. Also awkward because we sort of kissed and I’m not sure if it was a spur-of-the-moment kiss, or a pity kiss or what. And I don’t know if I liked it and whether I’d like to kiss him again.
Robin’s up though and happy to help. It takes them a couple of trips to get the cot up the stairs and then there’s a bit of banging and mumbled swear words as they try and put it together. Finally, it’s done. I’m practically going to have to climb over it to get in and out of bed and I’d have to move it altogether to open both wardrobe doors.
‘Looks great!’ I say, because it’s no one’s fault except mine we’re in a minuscule flat in the crappy bit of town.
Dad seems to be having the same thoughts because he frowns. Though he doesn’t suggest we come home. Probably for the best.
He wanders off to look for more things to fix and Robin turns to me. ‘You like it?’
‘Yeah, I do. It makes everything seem more … permanent.’ I say it absently, without really realising what I’ve said, then want to suck those words right back inside, where they belong.
Robin gives me a shrewd look. ‘That’s a good thing?’
Maybe it’s because of that sort-of kiss, or his heartbeat last night, steady as a metronome, but for once I don’t talk around, and just say, ‘I think so. It’s scary though.’
‘I guess it must be. I can’t imagine all the responsibility.’
‘Ah, I’m sure you’d make a great dad.’ I smile.
‘I need to get off – lots to do,’ he says, and he’s off out of the bedroom with me staring at his retreating back and cursing myself for being stupid. He must have thought I was fishing for a father for Rose … I put the back of one hand against my cheek and it comes away hot.
With Robin gone, it’s just me and Dad, with Rose on his lap.
‘Any biscuits?’ he says hopefully, when I hand him his tea.
He nearly drops Rose when I produce a packet of Rich Tea. I don’t have the heart to tell him Robin brought them over a couple of weeks back, in case I needed a snack when I was feeding her. They’ve stayed in their packet ever since.
‘You having one?’
‘I’m all biscuited out,’ I say and drop my eyes to drink my tea.
Dad fusses with Rose, jiggling her about on his knee and straightening the bib she’s got around her neck to catch all the spit-up milk and drool.
‘Dad?’
‘Mmm?’
‘Do you think I could have had reflux or something? When I was tiny?’
He’s still looking at Rose, not me.
‘It’s just you said I was sick and screamed a lot. Perhaps it was reflux – I read about it online. Maybe I wasn’t a difficult baby,’ I say.
He looks at me. ‘Who said you were a difficult baby?’
‘Mum did. Loads of times.’ I’m pretty sure Dad’s heard her say it at least once. I try and remember which Family Therapy sessions he actually showed up to, and what he said, but get only blank space.
‘Well, I suppose you did cry a lot and your mother didn’t … Well, it was tough for her. She had a touch of the baby blues – I think that’s what it was. And it didn’t help that I had to be away for work so much.’
‘You mean like the baby blues day-four thing?’ I say and shudder, remembering how I turned into a ball of tears. Stupid hormones, making you feel stuff.
‘I think it went on longer, a few months maybe,’ he says.
‘She had postnatal depression? Why did no one tell me about this? Why do you think she had … ?’
Dad’s gaze, which has been split between Rose and me, sharpens and he sits up straighter. It seems like he’s trying to look everywhere but into my eyes, like he doesn’t want me to read what’s in his. ‘I don’t know about all these terms – reflux, post-whatever depression. She had a difficult time. Things were … difficult. But she was fine after a while. And she adored you.’
I snort.
‘She did. She does. It’s not been easy for her, you know. She –’
‘It hasn’t been easy for me!’ Suddenly my voice is getting louder and higher, all the years of not talking scrambling over themselves, trying to get out. ‘Do you have any idea what it was like on all the units? How scared I was? My best friend died in front of me.’
It’s the first time I’ve said it so bluntly and the words seem to swing back round, smack me between the ribs.
But Dad’s face is careful, remote.
I take a deep breath, about to go on, but then I stop. What’s the point?
Dad hands Rose back to me silently. ‘It’s not been easy for any of us, love,’ he says, with a final tone in his voice. Then he turns to look at the ceiling. ‘Are they going to do anything about this damp?’
I open my mouth, then shut it. Part of me wants to finish raging, to hurl every insult I can think of at him, so that he’ll stop and listen. So he’ll see me. But I don’t.
Instead, I say, ‘I’ll get on to the council about the damp. Get them to send someone out.’ It’s on my to-do list, except I hate speaking to them. Last time I tried phoning, the woman more or less laughed at me and said there was a backlog. I got the impression they’d be getting round to the Yewlings in 2050 or so.
‘Great. It’s not good for the baby. In the summer it might be all right, but you can’t have her in a damp flat all winter. That’s no place for a baby. She could get ill.’ He stands up to go. ‘Your mother misses Rose. You should call her.’
I grunt a non-committal response.
‘Let me know
if you need any money,’ Dad says.
‘I’m OK, thanks,’ I say, even though this is not really true.
I catch a relieved look on his face.
As he goes up the corridor, all I want to do is run after him with Rose and shout, ‘Don’t leave us here alone. We need someone to look after us.’
But there’s only me. And I don’t.
Instead I shut the door and finish the rest of the Rich Tea biscuits, then quietly, despairingly, get rid of them again, the only version of a binge Nia lets me do. I tell myself it’s just this once.
Chapter 22
8 WEEKS
I go to the library to choose more books for Rose. The alien one got boring, so now I take the buggy and load it up with five or six at a time. She seems to like the rhyming ones best, or ones with really bright pictures. That’s what I reckon, anyway.
On the way to the library I keep thinking about the look on Dad’s face when I asked about Mum last week. There’s something he isn’t telling me, I’m sure of it. But I won’t get anything out of him; he’s barely replied to my texts except to offer more money, which I declined. Somehow, I don’t want to take money from him.
I do call Mum though. Dad was right about one thing: Mum missing Rose. We meet up in a cafe in town because I don’t want to go to the house and she hates the flat.
As soon as she sees Rose her face gets this starved look and she reaches out like she can’t stop herself. Guilt twists in my stomach as I hand Rose over.
Mum cradles her and gazes down like she’s forgotten how to speak. Eventually, she looks up at me, her eyes overly bright.
‘She’s grown so much. I can’t believe how fast they change.’
Rose looks the same to me, but then I see her every day. I sit down. Mum is still stroking the side of Rose’s head. Rose smiles at her and I can see the way it lights Mum up. She sits Rose on her lap and chats to her, showing her a napkin, jingling her bracelet in front of Rose’s entranced eyes. Very faintly, I feel something inside me starting to soften, the way butter might if you take it out of the fridge.
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