Go to Sleep

by Helen Walsh

  I try to censure James but the words melt to nothing. Truth is, I’m pleased to see him. A familiar face. A link back to when life made sense.

  He gives Joe a knowing look, winks at me. ‘Tell you what though, Rache, never had you down as one for the Brothers.’ He registers my embarrassment, fires me a knowing smile. ‘That’ll raise a few eyebrows round The Gordon, y’know?’ He wafts a bunch of weedy flowers at me. ‘Put these in water for you, yeah?’ He spots a vase on the black girl’s bedside – she’s sleeping silently, those fabulous lashes like ripcurls. James tiptoes over and retrieves the vase. ‘Don’t be looking at us like that. I bought these with my own dough, you know.’

  I observe the wilting flowers.

  ‘Hope you didn’t spend too much on them.’ And he’s sharp, James. He catches my tone, thinks about objecting then flashes me a grin. I smile back at him and it feels good, it feels so good to be laughing again. I hold out my hand. ‘Thank you.’

  He accepts the peace offering.

  ‘I just thought, like . . . everyone’ll be bringing in swag for the little fella.’

  ‘That’s very thoughtful of you, James.’

  He sits down on the bed and stares closely at Joe.

  ‘So. How was it then? The thingio?’

  ‘It was . . .’ I just make the appropriate face and nod my head very slowly.

  James laughs. ‘You look like you’ve been dug up.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Any time, girl. You know you get it straight from Jay Mac.’ He spots the digi-cam on the side cabinet, picks it up. He switches it on, aims the lens at Joe. My shoulders are already stiffening in anticipation of him waking, but I don’t stop James from filming my son. I don’t want to break the moment. It feels nice. ‘Me mam used to do this, you know? Make fillums of us when we was asleep. Probably the only time she could stand us, to be fair.’ He laughs, remembering something. And then his features cloud over. I twig at once.

  ‘How is she? Little Lacey?’ He shrugs, shirks the question. ‘James. Is Lacey okay?’

  He hangs his head. ‘She’s not so little, is she? That’s the thing . . .’

  I understand. I understand all too well, and I’m starting to see why James has come. Yet my mind, my leaden, aching brain, will not let me compute the basics; that James needs help here. It’s no good. I just cannot process this urgent chemical fear into any kind of focused strategy. Faye’s voice rattles through the vacant chambers of my subconscious.

  ‘It’s not our problem, Rache – and it’s certainly not yours for the next six months at least.’

  I dangle my hand out to James. He takes it carefully, as though it’s made of gold leaf, and very gently squeezes. I hold his hand tightly, and don’t let go. We sit like this until Joe begins to stir. He’s developed this miniature witch’s cackle, a cough-cough-cough like an old crank-start engine that threatens to burst into action any second. Martyred, I drop James’s hand, reach into Joe’s cot and scoop him up, so tiny I can dip my fingers behind his neck and lift him to my breast one-handed. I wink at James.

  ‘If I don’t get to him within five seconds, he’ll make me pay. Just you wait and see.’ And right on cue, Joe starts to shriek. Along the ward, other babies start to stir, mothers tut and curse me. I breathe in deeply and hold it all down, steeling myself for another lengthy trial. ‘You should go now, James. I have to feed him.’

  But I don’t feed him. I can’t make myself do any of this shit-simple stuff in the right order; I don’t even know where I am for sure. I start to cry, shaking my head and wiping the snot away.

  ‘I’m fucking useless. I only fed him an hour ago.’

  James looks astonished.

  ‘So? He’s not hungry then, is he?’ He holds out his arms. ‘Here. Give us a go.’

  And I know that everything about this is wrong; even the way he’s framing his offer, like it’s his turn on a new toy. But he’s taking Joe in his arms now, and I truly don’t think my head can stand much more of this seething white noise. Five minutes, that’s all. Just give me five minutes to level myself out.

  Joe stops crying just like that. His eyes snap wide open and his tiny shoulders give a little shudder as he stares up, mesmerised by James.

  ‘What did you do to him?’ I say.

  James just shrugs, winks at me, then he’s off down the ward holding Joe close to his face, chatting away at him. I smile at them, grateful to begin with, but with a pang of anxiety as they peel round the corner, out of sight. Moments pass. My heart starts to pound. I think about pressing the buzzer. I could if I wanted to. I could just reach up and press it. But I don’t. I don’t want him back – not yet. That horrible noise in my head pinches down to nothing now and I’m floating, I’m drifting. Just five more minutes.

  Daylight scratching at the curtains.

  They’re still not back.

  I reach for the buzzer but my arm’s a dead-weight. Can’t even raise a finger.

  Joe? Come back. Come back to Mamma.

  *

  ‘Rachel? Is everything okay?’

  What? Where? Did I sleep, then? Outside the peal of a church bell is calling the faithful to worship, people are going about their everyday tasks, rolling backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, careless and unaware. My recollection of the world outside is vague and elusive. Whatever I want to think or do or visualise, my unconscience puts on file for later. How has that happened in the space of, what? Two days, three? The world beyond these walls flickers like a black and white movie, elegiac, unreachable, and I am a shrunken, fretting silhouette, a minor character trapped behind the glass screen. I ache to get out of the brightly lit ward with all its ringing chaos, but when? How will I survive out there? Not alone, I fear; not without sleep.

  ‘Rachel?’

  A midwife is stood at the half-drawn curtain, beaming softly like an apparition. I offer some groggy groan of acknowledgement.

  ‘Are you all right there, love? You buzzed me.’

  ‘I did?’

  There’s Joe, perfectly at peace in his Perspex cot. The flake of a dream flits through me. James. Did I dream that? I try to hold on to it, give it substance. The midwife is looking at me, worried. God knows what my own face must be doing. I’m trying to smile, trying to show her that all is well with Baby and Mum, but her face is all significant nodding and a false, overly-sympathetic smile she seems to save for me. She snaps the curtain shut behind her, arranges herself on the edge of the bed, but she doesn’t have to say a thing. I know what she’s thinking. I can tell by the smile, the way she slips her hand over my wrist.

  ‘It is okay, you know,’ she says. Tight, insincere smile. ‘This.’

  She forces another hit of bright, carefree cheer into the smile and the voice. ‘Whatever you’re feeling, darling – we’ve all been there.’

  I fight back the teary outburst already stinging my eyes. I’m embarrassed by my inability to dissemble, but I don’t want to get in to it with her, to break down, to confess. I want to give her nothing. And yet . . . I so want to let go. I want to liberate my chest and my guts from this tense, straining fear. I ape her vacuous smile.

  ‘I’m fine – really,’ I say.

  ‘You’re doing really well, darling. You should be so proud of yourself, persevering like this.’ She jerks her head at the ward beyond the curtain, lowers her voice, as though the Secrets of Motherhood are about to be revealed. ‘Most women have given up by now, you know? Opted for the bottle.’

  I think about this, give pause to the notion of ‘most women’, embodied by the other mums on the ward; the world-weary middle-aged, the smug-marrieds, the hard-faced teenagers. Those young girls, with their matey banter and their constant chirpy chatting with their babies would have you believe they’ve already forgotten. How can that be? For some, mere hours have elapsed since labour and already the mental wounds have hardened into scar tissue. That has to be an act, a show of strength? Surely, when they get home and get real, these young mums, babies
themselves, will slide down the wall and sob their guts out in the face of black, endless fear? But I know they’ll be fine. Sure, they’re kids, but they’re equipped for this – you can see it. Motherhood is a calling at which they will not merely survive, but excel.

  I sense that the midwife is getting impatient; there’s a change of emphasis to her words, a change of tone. ‘And you know the third night is always the worst, don’t you?’

  ‘Huh? I’ve been here three nights?’

  This seems to placate her, this show of weakness.

  ‘Yes, darling.’

  ‘But – the bells?’ She hasn’t an earthly idea what I’m talking about, I can tell from her tight-stretched smile. ‘The church bells?’

  She gives me an indulgent pat on the wrist – just one, emphasising her ‘you think you’re going mad, but you’re not’ routine.

  ‘All blends into one long, woozy, loveliness, hey?’

  ‘But why am I still here? What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘Oh, sweetheart! There’s nothing wrong with Baby. It’s just your blood pressure was a little high yesterday and then we were still waiting on the doctor to test his hearing.’ A little rub on the back of my hand – meant to be reassuring, but it feels like she’s trying to scour the truth out of me. ‘And I’m guessing the last thing you want is another little chat about the “baby blues” from me, yes? You’ve heard all you want to know about that.’

  This irks me beyond all rational justification. Ah yes, the ‘baby blues’, that harmless throwaway mantle, conjuring images of glamorous new mums breaking down over their lattes as they ponder where their size eights went. What I’d give to worry over weight. Because this thing I’m burying, that keeps pushing up to the surface no matter how I try to suffocate it – this isn’t bound up with any change or loss or nostalgia for some former selfish self; and it isn’t blue, either. It’s dense and evil and black as tar. When Joe holds me hostage with his demands, pushing me way on out beyond the limits of my own battered endurance, my thoughts give way to fantasies of deserting him, handing him over to someone who won’t resent him, someone who will love him in the way he deserves to be loved. And sometimes my imaginings are much, much worse. Last night, my head lolling down, jerking up, my thoughts gave way to not just ending it, but how I’d do it. How I would call the whole thing off. For me. For him. This woman might mean well, but she has no idea. None.

  ‘What you’re feeling right now, Rachel –’ the Smile – ‘it’s totally normal,’ she says. ‘That’s what we’re here to stress.’

  I try to hold back. I can’t.

  ‘Normal? If this is normal, if any other woman has felt this way before, or even come close to it, then . . .’ I flounder, unable to express my bewilderment at the sheer anger raging through me. My ribs rise right up, fall down and I try again. I focus on her, all grown up and ready to learn. I pitch my voice calm and level, but I don’t dilute the vexation. ‘Why was nothing mentioned about this at antenatal classes?’

  She laughs and squeezes my hand.

  ‘Because –’ Tense, stagey, rehearsed smile – ‘it is nothing, darling. Because it’s normal. To give overdue emphasis to this would be to plant unnecessary anxieties where, for the most part—’

  I jump in. ‘Where for the most part, most mothers will give birth to perfect, normal babies and sail blissfully out of these corridors thinking blissful thoughts?’

  The hand clamps down on mine, strong now, stern.

  ‘Come on now, Rachel. Believe me, sweetheart –’ If this smirking automaton calls me ‘darling’ or ‘sweetheart’ again I will behead her with one violent swipe of the breakfast tray – ‘when you look back on this whole beautiful journey, I promise you, darling, you won’t even remember these first few . . .’ She tails off to nothing. My demented black-ringed eyes must be looking at her with violence, with horror, possibly both. She tries again. ‘Once you get home, once you get into a rhythm with Baby, you’ll barely remember these first few days. You won’t, darling! And in time all you will remember are the good bits. This beautiful, gorgeous little man here.’ She flashes a little look at me. I nod and force a timid smile, try my very best to seem reassured as she lurches towards the climax of her sermon. A little faux-chuckle and she leans forward, gives me a tiny, matey prod. ‘Why else do you think all these women keep coming back again and again, having more and more?’

  I won’t, I want to say. And if I could turn back the hands of time . . .

  But, unaccountably, there’s something about her fecundity, her jovial good faith in the very essence of motherhood that thaws somewhat my frigid mood. I sigh hard, and with it I fly the meekest of my misgivings up the pipe.

  ‘I keep telling myself it’s because I haven’t slept.’ I smile at her.

  Her neck tenses before she can check herself. She tries to look tender; it comes out as a grimace.

  ‘What is, sweetie? Keep telling yourself what is?’

  ‘Maybe once I’ve slept. Really slept, I mean. Maybe then I’ll have clarity.’ As worn out as I am, I can see she’s impressed and possibly reassured by my use of ‘clarity’. I try to give an impression of thoughtful concern; tender self-awareness. But the part of me in control can’t prevent the dark side coughing out what’s on my mind. I look her in the eye, and I say it: ‘Maybe I’ll stop thinking these thoughts?’

  ‘What thoughts, Rachel?’ Her poise has slipped. She’s uneasy and unsure. She withdraws her hand to her lap, a reflex action that she’s quick to temper, knocking a stray thread from her tunic before placing her hand back on my wrist, but barely holding it there now, conscious of the skin shivering between us. ‘What kind of thoughts?’

  And now I don’t want to tell her any more. Tears are nettling my eyes. I shake my head, do my best to resist.

  ‘Hey, sweetie. You can tell me – that’s what I’m here for! Tell me what thoughts you’ve been thinking, darling.’

  ‘Home. I just want to go home. Please?’

  I shift my focus on to Joe, make a paltry pretence of fussing over his blanket. I can feel her scrutinising me. I dry my eyes and shut up shop. I don’t even make eye contact, now. When I look up again, she has gone.

  Darkness is pressing at the windows. Most of the other mothers on the ward have gone home, their beds awaiting new arrivals. Tomorrow, as soon as the doctor has been to check Joe’s hearing, they’ll let me go. It’ll be just me and Joe. Alone in the house. The thought fills me with dread. The tea lady hauls her trolley to the top of the ward, collects the empty cups.

  ‘Get some sleep, love,’ she trills. ‘Be the last chance you get before you go home.’

  But Joe has other plans. He cries and cries. I roll over and ignore him. His crying amplifies into one trembling, quavering, hideous bout of prolonged and unbearable sobbing. I drag myself up and out of bed, heavy of heart, and pluck the tiny rebel from his cot. I pace the ward, rock him, swaddle him, sing to him, beg him.

  ‘He’s starving,’ a girl screams from beneath her covers. ‘Fucking feed him!’

  And as much as the playground bully in her voice incites me to stand up to her, I know she’s right. Joe is starving, but he won’t take my breast and he’s not just rebuffing it, he’s outright recoiling from it, his cries growing more and more demented each time I push myself towards his angry mouth. Is he rejecting my milk or is he rejecting me?

  * * *

  I take us off to the bathroom, lock ourselves in. I stare down at his snarling, betrayed face. His wild, disoriented eyes dart back at me, tiny livid red face squashed tight in its tantrum. It’s no good. I look down on the thrashing Joe, crying so passionately his whole body is vibrating. I lower my face to his.

  ‘Go on! Cry all you like. What are you going to do?’

  He yells out with renewed violence, the sheer force of it rippling down his backbone. I hold him right up to my face and cry back at him. This completely freaks him out, his rasping cries screeching out so loud now that they treble out into one shrill
and dissonant note. It maddens me. I can’t stand it. I think of James. If he was here now, he’d soon shut him up. Shut him up. I start to cry. Hands trembling wildly, I wrap Joe in a towel and, unsteadily, place him in the sink, ensuring he’s bound tight by its perimeter. I plug my ear holes with toilet tissue and try to take deep breaths. Still I can hear Joe’s tormented wails, but it’s tolerable through the muffled delay of my ear stops.

  I confront myself in the mirror – wild-eyed, dishevelled hair, dark depraved patches around my eyes telling out my pain. I squeeze a nipple gingerly. Nothing. I pinch tighter and squeeze again, and this time a rich yellow jet sprays the mirror in one fierce phallic spurt. I am producing! It’s all there, my breasts are bursting with it, so why will the fucker not take it? Too frightened to venture back on to the ward and incur the wrath of those girl-mothers and their perfect, sleeping babies, I stay holed up in the bathroom while Joe wails on.

  And suddenly, from nothing, the first slashes of dawn are tearing at the purple-blue night sky. Did I sleep, there? Did we? Reading my thoughts, Joe moves to quash my hopes, readying himself for another outrage. I’m dragged sideways by a sudden wrench of desperation. I have no choice, here; I have to have him sated and settled before daylight exposes us. We can’t stay here, in the washroom. And we can’t stay in this place a day longer, either. Joe and I have to be discharged today – Joe and I. I assure myself he’s settled and secure in the padded dip of the sink. I steal back to the ward, pocket the loose change from my purse and take a lift to the ground floor. He’s left me no choice.

  The hospital shop is not yet open. I stand at the huge window next to the revolving doors and let the first fingers of sunlight poke my chest. The slowly stirring city looks beautiful in its remoteness, and it pains me that I’m no longer a part of it. A flickering blue-white strip light judders behind me, throwing the view outside into darkness. The shutters of the shop clatter open, but I stay there by the doorway, fantasising about how easy it would be to just step outdoors and walk away from all this. Only the computerised chime of the till reins me back in, reminding me why I’m here.