Feels Like Maybe

by Claire Allan

  If I bit my tongue any harder, I was pretty sure I was going to bite the damn thing right off.

  “Yes, Mother. It takes loads of love, and I have that to give.”

  “How will you manage?”

  “To love her? Easily.”

  “No, how will you manage your career and a baby. A baby needs her mother.”

  I fought back the urge to laugh. My mother may not have worked when we were little, but I couldn’t hand on heart say she had been there for us.

  “I have childcare arranged. There is a crèche close to the shop.” There was an audible intake of breath at the word crèche.

  “I’ve been down and spent the morning there, Mum. They seem very lovely.”

  “It wasn’t like that in my day,” she muttered.

  “Yes, well, I have to support us and I can’t do that and be with her all the time.”

  “If you had a partner you could.”

  “Really? Gosh, where do I buy one of those, Mum?” I couldn’t hide the annoyance from my voice any longer.

  “No need for cheek,” she answered, feigning upset.

  “I’m not being cheeky, Mum, but if I could have a partner don’t you think I would have one? I didn’t choose to do this alone.”

  “Didn’t you? Sleeping around like a tramp.”

  It stung, thinking that was how she saw me. To think she knew so little of me she believed I would just casually sleep around.

  “I wasn’t sleeping around. We were together for three years.”

  “And you never brought him home? Give me a break, Aoife, and stop your lies for once.”

  “I’m not lying, and is it any bloody wonder I wouldn’t bring him home to this?”

  I would have got up and stormed out at that stage, were it not for the fact I had a baby attached to my left boob. Damn. I couldn’t even do dramatic exits any more.

  

  Chapter 20

  Beth

  They call it the two-week wait. I logged onto my computer and onto the website which had become home over the last year and a half. Logging in I typed a message. I knew my ‘friends’ online would understand. At least I could talk to them. They didn’t know my name. They didn’t know who I really was. To them I was just Betsy Boo – a woman who was on day 15 of her cycle and trying once again to get lucky.

  I wasn’t alone when I logged on. They understood. They got why this was so totally consuming. And when it got too much, I’d allow myself to lurk on the parenting boards. I’d read the pregnancy stories and birth stories and see people move from expectant mothers to loving new mums and I would promise myself that one day I would be posting the stories of my labour and birth and regaling all those people with stories of my baby’s first feed, first trip out and first time sleeping through the night.

  I was so prepared for when it happened that I was able to provide lists of must-haves for Aoife when she went into hospital.

  It was too early for symptoms. I knew that, but then again some people say they just know, don’t they? They feel different. Life changes at the moment of conception.

  “We did the deed last night,” I typed. “Keep your fingers crossed. Babydust to all.”

  It was twee, of course it was. Babydust to all. If only it were a matter of a tiny sprinkling of fairy dust.

  I was reading through the latest pregnancy announcement when the bell over the door tinkled again. I heard Heather greet the customer, and a familiar voice said hello back.

  Stalker Man was on the scene.

  “Crap,” I muttered under my breath.

  “Is the owner here?” he asked Heather and she nodded in my direction.

  “How can I help?” I asked, maintaining my most business-like face.

  “I just wanted to apologise for being so snappish with you the other day,” he said. “You were right, I was wrong to interfere. You probably think I’m some kind of mad stalker person.”

  “Not at all,” I lied. “Apology accepted. And I’m sorry too. It’s been a bit of a mad month.”

  “With the new baby and all?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Is your friend not back yet then?”

  “No. Not yet. A couple of weeks, I think.”

  He nodded and I realised I’d done it again – revealed personal details that I really shouldn’t have.

  “Anyway,” he said, “I’ll be off. I just wanted to apologise. I run the new gardener’s and florist’s on Gardiner Street by the way. Here’s my card, if you ever need a gardener to help with any of your projects.”

  “Gardiner Street? Well, you’ve got the location going for you anyway!” I offered and shook his hand, staring at his name, Tom Austin, embossed in italic writing on his card. “And again, sorry for being rude the other day.”

  “It’s forgotten,” he said and left.

  “Ooooh, who’s he?” Heather cooed. “He’s dreamy.” She stared out the door after him.

  “You’d be best to stay away,” I warned. “He’s a little weird.”

  I sat down again with the pretence of working on another mood board, but instead finished typing my post onto the internet site.

  

  Chapter 21

  Aoife

  Mum stared at the clock and I stared at Maggie’s head. The silence was almost unbearable.

  “It’s not what you think, you know,” I said eventually. “We really were seeing each other for three years. It just never reached the stage where I could bring him home.”

  “You were embarrassed by us then? Now that you have your fancy life in London.”

  Her words dripped scorn. Couldn’t she see the irony of her accusations? It was she who was embarrassed by me.

  “No, Mum. It wasn’t like that. He never loved me. I thought he did and I was foolish. I didn’t plan to get pregnant. It just happened and when it did he ran for the hills. I was hoping he would come round, that he would be there for us, and that’s why I put off telling you. That, and I knew you’d be mortified.”

  She took her eyes from the clock and looked at me and my child. It should have been a heart-warming scene – a new mother breast-feeding her baby. She just shook her head.

  “I thought more of you, Aoife. I always knew you were flighty, but this? I thought you would have more sense than to get yourself in trouble.”

  “Things happen, Mum, and I’m just trying to make the best of the situation.”

  I took Maggie from my breast, her eyes heavy with sleep and put her on my shoulder to wind her. Looking at my mother, I knew I had to make this right for Maggie if no one else.

  “Do you want to hold her? You can wind her if you want.”

  “Best you do it, Aoife. I’m out of practice.” She got up to put the kettle on. Walking to the kitchen she turned back, stared at us both and said: “I hope she doesn’t give you half the bother you’ve given me.”

  I think it was about then that the red mist descended. A day before, I would have wailed and cried about the injustice of it all, but suddenly this wasn’t funny any more. Give her bother? I’d never given her a day’s bother in my entire life.

  Walking to the kitchen, rubbing Maggie’s back, I demanded: “What do you mean ‘bother’?”

  She looked a little stunned. She was used to my tears, but not to this.

  “Now, come on. You know. You’ve always been a little high maintenance.”

  “In what way?” We weren’t going to skirt around the issue this time. We were going to get to the bottom of this if it killed us.

  “You know, just wanting stuff, demanding stuff, whingeing.”

  “No, mother, I don’t know. I’ve never wanted anything or demanded anything. I went to school. I did my best and as soon as I could I got the hell out from under your feet and I’ve not been back under them since I was eighteen. I’ve done very well for myself, thank you, without demanding anything.”

  “Now, Aoife, we both know that’s not true. As a child you were the clingiest urchin in the street. Yo
u were always in my face, looking for attention, for hugs, for approval. I couldn’t turn sideways without you there.”

  Her words floored me, because much as I may have actually been a needy child, surely the whole point was that I was a child at the time and she, for my sins, was my mother.

  “You weren’t supposed to turn sideways without me, Mum. You were my mother, you were supposed to be there to reassure me.”

  “All the time? Why couldn’t you just have got on with things like Joe? He was never the bother you were.”

  “Oh yes, the golden child – still living five minutes away and expecting you to iron his shirts!”

  “Both Joe and Jacqueline are very busy, you know.”

  I had overstepped the mark. By criticising her son and heir, I had put her on the defensive.

  “God love them,” I said, with a healthy dose of fake sincerity. My brother and his wife wouldn’t know busy if it bit them in the arse.

  “Enough, Aoife, there’s no need for that tone.”

  “The way I see it, Mum, there is every need for that tone. What has Joe got that I don’t? Why do you care about him so much more than you care about me?”

  “You’re talking rubbish, Aoife, whining again, looking for affection.”

  “Is that so bad?” My voice was wobbling now. “I’m your child for God’s sake!”

  “You’re a grown woman and you made your bed and you might as well lie in it.”

  I wanted to swear. I wanted to lash out. Years of anger and frustration were welling up inside me. Instead Maggie burped, loudly, bringing up most of her feed.

  As I walked out of the room to change her, I heard my mother mutter: “You should have given that child a bottle.”

  I took Maggie upstairs to what used to be my bedroom and sat there wondering if my mother had been right? Was I a demanding child? I remember being desperate for a sign that she actually did love me. How ironic – that was the very thing that turned her against me all the more.

  As I changed my wriggling child into her clean clothes, I heard someone come up the stairs. I braced myself for Part Two of my battle with Mum – no doubt I was using the wrong brand of nappies and the wrong size of clothes for Maggie.

  Instead the door creaked and Dad was standing there, looking at Maggie with a faint smile across his face.

  “She’s a wee smasher,” he said.

  “I know,” I answered. “I wish Mum thought the same.”

  “She’ll come round,” he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed, taking Maggie’s tiny fingers in his strong hands.

  “Why does everybody keep saying that? You, Joe, Anna, Beth. You all seem to think that she will thaw but I don’t think that’s possible.”

  “Your mother is not the witch you think she is, Aoife.” He lifted Maggie, cradling her in his arms as if she were a delicate piece of china.

  “Was I a needy child, Daddy?” I looked straight at him.

  A look of confusion spread across his face. “What do you mean?”

  “Did I crave attention? Was I always on at you two?”

  He paused, taking a deep breath. “What makes you say that?”

  “Mum. She said I never gave her a moment’s peace.”

  He sighed. “Aoife, your mother doesn’t always mean what she says.”

  “Well, what does she mean then? I’ve spent the last umpteen years trying to figure her out and the only conclusion I can come to is that she simply doesn’t like me.”

  “She loves you, Aoife. She loves you so much. She has only ever wanted the best for you.”

  “She has a funny way of showing it.”

  “And you have a funny way of showing her you love her back,” he said.

  And the man had a point. I expected love from my mother. I expected unconditional love from her because it was my birthright as her daughter, but I’m not sure I ever offered it back.

  *****

  When I was a young girl, I did everything with my daddy. It was an accepted fact in our house that it would always be me and Dad against Mum and Joe. That’s how it always worked, even down to teams for Trivial Pursuit. Now my father was telling me Mum had loved me all along and Mum was telling me I’d never given her a minute’s peace. It just didn’t add up.

  “I don’t understand,” I said simply.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” Daddy replied.

  *****

  We wrapped Maggie up and put her in her pram. My father insisted on pushing. It stunned me. Two days ago he could barely look me in the face and now here he was pushing Maggie, his chest puffed up with pride.

  I linked his arm and we walked towards St Columb’s Park.

  “Your mother only ever wanted the very best for you, Aoife,” he began. “When she had Joe, she wanted so desperately to have a little girl. I can’t begin to tell you how happy she was when she had you. You were an awful baby. Colicky, crying all the time. Your mother was exhausted. I mean, Joe was still a toddler – and a wee demon of one at that – and you, well, you would never settle down for her. You had her squealed out during the day.”

  I blushed, as though I felt responsible somehow even though I was only an infant at the time and my crying was hardly on purpose.

  “I would come home and find her exhausted, the house a mess, and you know your mother – the house was never a mess. You would be there, screaming, your wee legs curled up tight to your tummy and I would lift you and the crying would stop. Your mother was beside herself. All day she had walked the floors with you and nothing would appease you and all I had to do was smile and you would start gurgling.”

  “I always was a daddy’s girl,” I smiled.

  “And it broke your mother’s heart,” he answered and I felt guilt swell up inside me.

  “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

  “I know that,” he soothed, “and your mother knows that now, but she was addled with hormones back then. You must know what that’s like.” He nodded at Maggie. “All she could see was that she didn’t get the dream daughter she’d hoped for and you seemed to love me more than her.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. I just looked at my father, amazed at this story – horrified that I’d managed to push my mother away from me at such a young age without even trying.

  “I’d say, knowing what I do now, she was a bit depressed. Post-natal or whatever they call it these days,” my father added.

  I could hardly believe I was hearing my own father talk about post-natal depression. Men didn’t talk about such things – and sixty-year-old Derry men most certainly didn’t.

  “Of course in those days, it wasn’t talked about as much as now. Funny really, half of Derry was on anti-depressants and tranquillisers due to the Troubles. They would share their wee Roche 2s and 5s like they were Smarties, but no one talked about what it felt like when your baby cried all night. It seemed insignificant when half the town was being blown to smithereens. The upshot was that your mother felt she had failed with you and she shut herself off. It wasn’t fair on either of you.”

  “Has she ever talked to you about it?”

  “God no. You know your mother. She would die if she knew we were having this conversation.” He started to blush. “I was watching the Loose Women one day and they were talking about it and the penny dropped. I don’t normally watch it, but I was waiting for the news, you know.” He spoke quickly, his embarrassment written all over his face and I wanted to hug him and tell him how I loved him from the bottom of my heart. But he walked on, rabbiting to himself about daytime telly as he went.

  By the time we turned and started heading for home, I didn’t know what to think any more. Part of me wanted to make it up to Mum in some way.

  It made more sense to me now – how she shunned me, how she didn’t want to be hurt. Even though I knew she had to be over it by now, I knew why she couldn’t handle me bringing a crisis – especially a pink tiny baby one – to her door and I wanted to make it right.

  Bu
t, on the other hand, I knew what it was like to have a tough time with a baby. Being a single mum wasn’t easy – I knew that the day Maggie was born. Coping with the crying and the nappy changes – the relentlessness of it all on my own – hadn’t been easy and no, I hadn’t been perfect as a mum by a long shot but I knew that I would do my best to make it up to my daughter. I wouldn’t hold it against her for her whole damn life.

  Dad opened the door for me and I pushed the pram up the steps to the hall.

  “Make sure you leave that thing out there – I’ve hoovered!” Mum hollered. I wondered momentarily if that “thing” she was referring to was me, Maggie or the pram. No, I chided myself. I must not think negative thoughts. It was not her fault.

  We walked into the room and she was sitting staring at the TV, which wasn’t even switched on.

  “Nice walk?” she asked my father, her gaze never meeting mine.

  “It was lovely,” he said. “Maggie seemed to love the fresh air.”

  “She’s two weeks old. She’d love anything,” Mum sniffed and went back to watching her imaginary television programme.

  My resolution to be nice and play fair was wavering further. I took a deep breath. “Would you like to hold her, Mum?” I had to stop myself from qualifying my offer with reassurances that Maggie wasn’t at all colicky like I had been and that she wasn’t likely to send her into a tailspin.

  “Maybe in a wee while, Aoife. I’m going to put the kettle on.”

  She was doing that a lot when I was about.

  “Sure I’ll do that, Mum. Here, you really should hold her. She’s asleep and no bother at all.”

  “Look, you know me. I’m fussy about my tea. I’ll hold her in a bit.”

  I could feel tears pricking at the back of my eyes. I knew now why Mum had been hurt, but she shouldn’t take it out on Maggie who had done nothing in her life to hurt my mother.

  “She doesn’t bite,” I blurted out and Mum looked shocked. “I’ll make the fecking tea so just sit down and hold your granddaughter.” My voice had adopted a menacing tone and Mum sat down without further argument.