An Unremarkable Body

by Elisa Lodato

  He looked at Jenny and then back to me. I stood still, ostensibly awaiting his next move but, in truth, it was his loyalty I wanted. He knelt down before me and put his hands on my shoulders. I felt my feet sink further into the carpet. ‘We will go to see Mummy and your baby brother soon. I promise.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘In a few days. She needs time to get better.’

  ‘Why does she need to get better?’ I asked.

  ‘Having a baby is very difficult, and sometimes it can make you feel poorly. So she needs to get some rest, and hospital is the best place for that. OK? Does that make sense?’

  I nodded the assent of a powerless child.

  ‘Why don’t you go downstairs with Jenny now,’ he said, looking up hopefully in that direction, ‘and eat your dinner? I’ll be down in a little while, OK?’ I walked out of the room before Jenny could put her hands on me again. We walked downstairs in silence, to where my inedible omelette awaited me.

  My father returned to the hospital that evening to drop off some clothes and toiletries. Jenny put me to bed, reading me several more stories than usual, perhaps in atonement for her behaviour earlier. I accepted her offering and the later bedtime because I wanted to be awake when my father returned. I thought he might have more to say and, if he thought I was asleep, his words might be more truthful. But I must have fallen asleep because when I woke, with a start, the house was dark and silent. I got out of bed and went into my parents’ bedroom, expecting to find my father asleep, but he wasn’t there. Instead I saw Jenny, lying on her side on my father’s side of the bed. Her hair was splayed out on his pillow and in her arms was one of his jumpers, held close to her sleeping face.

  It was the following week before my father took me, as promised, to visit my mother in hospital. He came to collect me from school, stopping to talk to the other mothers in the playground, many of whom demanded the headlines of my brother’s birth with practised expectation. My father gave them what they wanted – weight, gender – and promised to confirm the name soon. He behaved as though nothing was wrong, that my baby brother didn’t have a name because he and my mother couldn’t agree and not because they hadn’t spoken since the birth. I clung onto his hand, happily skipping towards the car, and made the facade plausible because I was so relieved to be finally on my way back to my mother.

  We navigated the reception, a lift and several long corridors made bright and hygienic by shiny linoleum. It seemed incredible to me, as I walked beside my father, that we might find my mother in such a cold and efficient place. Our search eventually brought us to a garish curtain and, like a conjuror, my father pulled it back to reveal her. She was sitting up in bed and took a deep, joyful breath when she saw me. She didn’t look at my father, was oblivious to him as he walked towards the cot on the right of her bed to peer at the baby. I took a few steps in her direction and noticed she was trying to stop her face from contorting as she inclined her torso towards me. I felt frightened by all that had happened to her since she last kissed me at the bottom of the stairs. All that had brought her to this place. She held out her arms and extended her fingers, impatiently.

  I reached up with my hands, careful to avoid her sore bits. My hands ended up in her armpits, where the soft white cotton of her nightdress gave way to the moist, saggy skin. I looked up at her face and noticed her hair was flat and greasy.

  ‘Come up here,’ she said, patting the bedcovers beside her. I tried to get up, but the bed was too high. I gripped the bedcovers and tried lifting my foot to get some kind of purchase, but it was too difficult. My mother looked over to my father, who had lifted the baby out of his cot and put him to his shoulder. They still hadn’t said a word to one another.

  He walked round the bed in obedience to my mother’s silent request, but decided I should have the option of at least meeting my brother first. He knelt down to show me Christopher. I looked at his pursed lips and tiny palms – at the boy who had tried to break my mother – and continued scrambling up to my mother’s side as though my life depended on it.

  ‘So tell me all about it,’ she said. ‘What have you been up to?’

  ‘Miss Jeffrey told the class you have a new baby and everybody clapped. And Michael told me you had to push him out of your moo-moo.’

  She smiled and, looking over at my father, said, ‘The baby didn’t come out of my moo-moo. He got stuck. So they had to make a hole in my belly and pull him out that way.’

  She looked down at her soft, deflated stomach and pulled the covers away. I could see the bandages beneath the thin white cotton.

  ‘Is that where they had to cut you?’ I asked, probing the edge of the bandage gently. She nodded. My father watched us both; he looked like he was holding his breath. ‘Tell Mummy what happened in the playground today.’ My mother looked at me expectantly.

  ‘I fell over!’ I said, revealing my scraped knee.

  ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘I was playing hopscotch with Isobel and she wanted me to let her win but I wouldn’t.’

  ‘And how did you hurt your knee?’

  ‘I was jumping from five and six to seven.’

  ‘And she pushed you?’

  ‘No, I slipped. But she didn’t help me up.’

  ‘Oh dear. My poor little one.’ Though it was my knee that was sore, her fingers were immediately busy about my face: she was lifting the hair around my hairline and allowing it to fall as she ran her fingertips down the contour of my face. When she got to my chin she pulled my face forward slightly and kissed me, gently. ‘I’ve missed you so much,’ she said, terminating my chronicle of the playground.

  The baby began to cry, bobbing his head on my father’s shoulder. ‘Kath,’ he said, ‘I think he’s hungry.’ My mother kept her eyes on me but reached out for the baby. My father leant in close and placed Christopher gently in her arms. He put his hand on her shoulder as she unbuttoned her nightdress.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m feeding the baby,’ she said, suddenly exposing a huge red nipple. Her face twisted in pain as Christopher made contact. It lasted a few seconds, all of them silent and suspended, before she opened her eyes and looked for me again.

  My father remained close, leaning over her shoulder. ‘Is it getting any easier?’

  ‘Not really,’ she said quietly. Coldly.

  ‘Can I do anything?’

  ‘You could leave me alone with Laura.’ He straightened up and reluctantly withdrew his unwelcome hand. He’d received the answer he was expecting. The fictitious joy exhibited earlier in the playground was gone, and in its place a growing – and more realistic – misery.

  ‘I’ll go and get a coffee. See you in a bit.’

  My mother and I chatted as Christopher fed, and together we assumed some kind of flawed normality. I ignored the sucking demands of a new baby brother and she ignored the crisis in her relations with my father. The incision in her abdomen was not the reason their marriage failed, but I can see now that she simply didn’t love him enough to get past it.

  Breasts were unremarkable.

  By the time my mother and brother came home a week later, Helen had already moved in.

  Helen and my mother met in primary school, and remained close their whole lives. Helen taught History to a sprawling mass of recalcitrant youngsters in Hounslow, west London. An arts graduate, she trained to become a teacher in the early 1980s. Arming herself with lesson plans and noble intentions, she was determined to take her knowledge to the kids who needed it most. But after half a term in the classroom, she quickly dispensed with metaphorical armour and employed more tangible ones: sarcasm and detention. I admired her no-nonsense approach to life. She used honesty to cut through layers of bullshit in a way that made her strong and formidable. And after Christopher was born, my mother needed strength.

  Her arrival, with a small suitcase the Saturday after his birth, was signalled by Jenny’s abrupt jump from the sofa – where we had been sitting togethe
r – at the sound of the doorbell. My father was upstairs. Jenny walked to the other side of the room and craned her neck at the side of the bay window to see who was at the front door. But she wasn’t fast enough, because within the space of a minute Helen had used a set of keys to enter, boldly and without hesitation. Jenny stood where she was and waited for the incursion.

  I was surprised and excited to see her. Having Helen in the house presaged my mother’s imminent return. She put her suitcase down in the hallway, resting it against the bottom step, and walked into the living room where I was still sitting.

  ‘Hello, monkey!’ she said with borrowed enthusiasm. I could tell she was wary – that she didn’t know exactly what she was entering. And then she saw Jenny standing in the bay, almost behind one of the curtains. ‘Jenny. Hello.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Is Richard about?’

  ‘He’s upstairs. Having a nap.’ Helen nodded slowly. She returned her look to me, as though she didn’t know where to begin, and sat down heavily on the sofa. Jenny didn’t move but looked towards the hallway and at the staircase, willing my father to come down. When the silence became unbearable she said, ‘I’ll just go and wake him up,’ and left the room quickly. As she stepped over Helen’s suitcase to go up the stairs, Helen said quietly to no one in particular, ‘You do that.’

  ‘Are you going to sleep over?’ I asked, thrilled by the sight of her suitcase.

  ‘Yes. Is that good news?’ I poked my arm through the crook of hers and squeezed myself against her.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘How many what?’

  ‘How many sleeps?’

  ‘Oh – I’m not sure. You’ll have to ask your mum that. As many as she needs me here for.’

  ‘Can you sleep in my bedroom?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t you have a tiny little bed?’

  ‘It’s a big girl’s bed.’

  ‘Not big enough for this big girl,’ she laughed, patting her chunky thighs. ‘I’d bust your bed. And then where would you be?’

  My father came down the stairs, stepping over and wide of Helen’s suitcase. He picked it up quietly and put it against the wall. Jenny followed a few paces behind. ‘Helen. Hello. Kath didn’t mention you were coming.’

  ‘Did she not?’ Helen stood up. ‘Well, she’s asked me to come and help. With Laura and the baby. I hope that’s OK.’

  ‘Yes, of course. No problem at all. But what about work? Aren’t you still teaching?’

  ‘I am,’ she smiled. ‘But Kath seems to think I can drop Laura in at’ – she looked behind my father for Jenny – ‘Sue’s in the morning and then drive to work. I should be able to do it.’

  ‘Can I make you a cup of tea?’

  ‘No thanks. I’m about to head off to the hospital and collect them.’ The colour drained from my father’s face. He looked as if he’d been slapped.

  ‘You’re doing what?’

  ‘She asked me yesterday afternoon. When I went to visit. Look, it’s no big deal – I’ll go and get them and bring them back here.’

  ‘I think I should be the one to bring them home,’ he said firmly.

  ‘No, Richard. I don’t think you should.’

  My father spoke over his shoulder to Jenny. ‘Could you take Laura into the kitchen, please?’

  They held their silence until I was in the kitchen and the door had been closed behind me. The exchange, whatever it consisted of, didn’t last long. Within a few minutes, Helen joined us in the kitchen and asked if I’d like to go with her to the hospital. She pushed my shoulders gently towards the front door and, as she helped me into my coat, turned my body so I could put my other arm in. I had a direct view into the living room, where my father was sitting on the edge of the sofa, his head in his hands. He looked totally demoralised. Helen turned me back to her sharply so she could do my buttons up and then opened the door, ushering me out into the September sunshine.

  My mother’s bag was packed and she was busy stuffing some dead flowers into a small bin when Helen pulled back the garish curtain. She smiled and began walking towards us, dressed in a loose shirt and baggy trousers with slippers on her feet. Christopher was sleeping peacefully in his cot, oblivious to the arrangements taking place around him.

  ‘Shall we wake him up?’ Helen asked.

  ‘I think we’ll have to. Can you carry him?’

  ‘Of course I can. Who’s going to carry your bag?’ Helen asked, eyeing the bandages over my mother’s abdomen.

  ‘They’re sending a porter with a wheelchair for me. It can go on the back of that.’

  ‘Right, OK. Laura, do you want to come with me down to the car, or wait here?’

  ‘She’ll wait here,’ my mother said, and turned to pick up the small warm body that was Christopher. He pursed his lips at the interruption but didn’t open his eyes. Helen took him gently from my mother and pressed him to her shoulder, holding him in place with her left arm as she slid her protective right hand up his back and onto the furry dark hair at the base of his head.

  While we waited for the wheelchair, I asked my mother if Helen could sleep in my bedroom.

  ‘No, sweetie. She’s going to sleep in my room.’

  ‘But what about Daddy?’

  ‘He’s going to sleep upstairs for a while.’

  ‘Why?’

  She looked at me, long and steadily, before answering. ‘Because your brother is going to be waking in the night. He’ll need feeding at all kinds of funny times. So it’ll be better for Daddy if he isn’t woken up.’

  ‘But what about Helen? She’ll be woken up.’

  ‘Helen doesn’t mind. And it’s only for a little while, until I’m feeling a bit stronger.’ My immediate concern was that I’d been overlooked to share a room with Helen, but I was also dimly aware that my father’s banishment upstairs was unusual. And unsettling.

  My father’s car was on the gravel in front of the house, which meant Helen had to park on the road a few doors down. We emerged from the car slowly – a feeble procession – and shuffled along the road with Helen at the front holding Christopher. I walked behind her and ahead of my mother, who took small, considered steps. She kept her head down, sometimes holding onto the wall to steady herself. I kept looking back every few seconds, making sure she followed.

  My father was waiting for us at the end of the path, the front door wide open. There was no sign of Jenny. He blocked Helen’s entry to the house with his body and bent his knees to take Christopher from her. Helen looked behind for my mother and stepped to the side to wait for her. My father’s face broke into a smile when he saw me and moved so I could go inside.

  ‘I’ll go and grab the bag from the car,’ she said to my back as she returned to the road.

  My father knelt down with Christopher and presented him to me again. ‘What do you think? He’s a cracker, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, Daddy, you’ve already shown him to me.’ He pulled me close to him and kissed my ear. ‘I’m just so pleased to have my best girl and my best boy home.’ He stood up and smiled as my mother finally walked up the path with Helen behind her. He put his hand out to help her up the step but she held the wall instead and paused to catch her breath. She looked at how he was holding Christopher and said nothing.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked, putting his hand on her back surreptitiously as she stepped past him.

  ‘OK. Better.’

  ‘I’d have come to get you, Kathy,’ he said as he waited for Helen to come in before closing the front door. ‘You didn’t need to trouble Helen.’

  ‘It’s no trouble,’ Helen said quickly.

  ‘I’ll make tea and you can get into bed. Helen, I’ve put your bag upstairs.’

  My mother was leaning against the bottom post of the banister. She looked exhausted. The C-section had left her particularly weak, but the blood transfusion had also triggered an allergic react
ion; her ankles and thighs were red and itchy and covered in hives.

  ‘Please,’ she was breathless, ‘can one of you help me upstairs?’ Helen made a move but my father was quicker. ‘I’ll help you,’ he said, handing Christopher to Helen and taking my mother’s hand. She put her weight on it immediately, pausing at every step to plan her next move. My father stood beside her, happy to support his wife in some way. Helen, Christopher and I went into the kitchen where she proceeded to make tea. My mother must have waited until she was in bed before delivering her instructions on the new sleeping arrangements, because just as Helen and I sat down at the kitchen table, we heard the dull thud of drawers shutting and doors slamming with barely repressed violence. Helen closed her eyes and said nothing. I sipped my milky tea and waited; just as thunder must follow lightning, we waited for shouting. But there were no raised voices. Just the sound of my father walking quickly up and down the stairs to the second floor. He had been ordered up to the top of the house. His acquiescence was angry – we heard his quick step down to the hallway and the unstoppable bang of the front door as he got into his car and drove away. Helen stood up as though my father’s departure had been planned from the beginning.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I asked.

  She put her hand out to me. ‘Come on, monkey. Let’s go upstairs and see Mummy.’

  Helen put Christopher down in a Moses basket positioned on my mother’s side of the bed and made sure she was propped up comfortably before going back downstairs to locate the painkillers and antihistamines she’d been prescribed. I sat at her feet and rubbed cream onto the red patches. She twisted her ankles under my touch, as though she were purring inside, willing my nails to dig deeper into her angry skin.

  Helen moved her things into my mother’s bedroom and slept beside her that night and for many nights thereafter. She helped her to sit up in bed for feeds, lifting Christopher from his cot into my mother’s practised arms. She sat beside my mother, with her arm across her shoulders, as the ducts in her engorged breasts carried milk to the many openings at the tips of her nipples. Nipples that were red and cracked from Christopher’s hungry mouth. Helen enabled her to love, and go on loving, her baby. And she reminded my mother how to love and take care of herself again. Every morning, as I trudged sleepily into the bathroom to wee, Helen – all dressed for a day of teaching – would crouch beside the shallow bath my mother was sitting in, and, as my mother stared into the middle distance, squeeze a sponge over her warm, soapy shoulders. To shield me from my mother’s morning sorrow, she used to greet me cheerfully.