by Emily Gunnis
‘Rosie would like to come and have a chat with you, if you’d like that?’
I nod. She smiles and writes down the readings.
I smile, unsure of how to express how indebted I feel to this stranger. I cough, and this time the pain is intense. The nurse leans me forward as I struggle to catch my breath. I feel like it is never going to end. The pain feels like tiny knives stabbing in my lungs.
‘Thank you,’ I manage, breathlessly. The nurse hands me some water.
‘You’re welcome. I think you may need to be on oxygen – your levels have dropped. I’ll mention it to the day team.’
As soon as she goes I will Rosie to arrive at my bedside. I’m terrified to be alone in this place. On this ward. Hearing patients cry, being unable to get out, is bringing it all back.
That when they took me from the beach against my will then pulled me out of the ambulance into the hospital I was suddenly back there, being dragged, screaming for my baby, through the entrance of the Victorian Gothic building.
Along the endless red stone corridors and on to a locked ward where weird women in various states of undress cackled and pulled at my clothes and hair with their scrawny hands. Where I was left, for weeks, staring at the barred windows in a never-ending cycle of sedative-induced nightmares and half-awakeness, utterly alone, as I am now, with no idea if I would ever get out. ‘You can get in easy enough,’ one of the women would say to me, twisting her raven-black hair through her dirty fingernails, ‘but you can never get out.’
‘Hello. I brought you some tea,’ says Rosie. She is wearing a baby blue coat, with a flower pinned to her lapel. She sets two tea cups down next to my bed.
‘Thank you for coming,’ I say slowly. She has long blonde hair which is always falling out of her ponytail. And she is wearing a light pink cardigan which looks so soft I want to touch it.
‘We were all very worried about you. We didn’t know where you’d gone. How are you feeling?’ She leans in and takes my hand.
‘A bit better,’ I lie.
‘Why did you take yourself off like that so suddenly? If you’d waited until the end of my shift, I could have come with you.’ Rosie winks at me, in the way she always does when Bart is making crude jokes.
‘I wanted to be alone,’ I say, simply.
She nods and smiles gently. ‘The nurse who has been looking after you said you’ve been talking about your daughter. You’ve never mentioned her to me.’
‘I wanted to, it’s hard talking about her,’ I say, as Rosie leans in.
‘When did you last see her?’ Rosie asks.
‘When she was five days old.’ I feel my voice shake.
She pulls up the chair next to my bed and takes my hand in hers. ‘I’m sorry.’
My chest tightens and I feel breathless again. ‘I find it so hard to remember her. I didn’t hold her for long, but she was inside me for nine months so I knew her, even for that short time. I try so hard to recall her tiny body, her smell, her sea-green eyes. But all I really remember is the fear.’
‘Fear? What were you fearful of?’ Rosie picks up her tea and blows into it before she takes a sip.
I look at Rosie, her innocent eyes frowning, concerned. I don’t yet know how to trust her with the truth. ‘From the moment I discovered I was pregnant, I just felt intense fear that something bad was going to happen.’
I take a deep breath and look away. How do I begin to explain to this girl how I lost my mind? I am ashamed, still, and afraid. But she is my only hope of ever seeing my daughter again and I know somehow that I have no choice but to trust her.
‘Fear of the birth, was how it started.’
Rosie nods encouragingly and so I continue.
‘For as long as I can remember, I always had feelings of intense panic just reading or hearing women talking about childbirth. As a young woman I remember thinking if my husband wanted desperately to have children, then I could see only two possible outcomes for me: I would die during childbirth or I would become “mad”. As it turns out, it was the latter.’
I try to smile, though I know it’s not appropriate. She doesn’t return it but gives a slight nod. I am talking too much and another round of hacking coughs take over. Rosie stands and leans me forward, giving me a glass of water when I finally finish.
I twist a stray thread from the blanket on my bed around my finger until it turns white and try to focus on the words rather than the memories.
‘When the contractions really began in earnest I couldn’t cope with them and I began to panic. It was the first time in my life that I faced the terror of being certain that I couldn’t go on and yet there was no way back. It just kept getting worse and worse, for hours and hours, no baby came, the pain tore through me. And as day turned into night I knew that before the morning came I would go mad.’
I cough again. The pain in my chest is getting worse and, when it finishes, tiredness takes over. Rosie pulls my covers up and when I fall asleep I dream that I am standing at the water’s edge, holding my baby, and a wave higher than the cliffs behind me is coming for us and there is nothing I can do.
Chapter Ten
Rebecca
Friday, 14 November 2014
Rebecca heard the door buzzer and hurried to the window. A red Fiat was parked on the road opposite her house. Her heart lurched. Jessie had finally arrived.
As she hurried along the chequerboard tiles of her hallway, her eyes fell on the photo albums on the hall table which she had dug out that morning. Just flicking through the black-and-white images of her and Harvey in the garden at Seaview Farm holding baby Jessie in her arms, she was struck by the haunted look in her eyes. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to look at the photos for decades, such was the strength of the emotions they brought back, but this wasn’t about her. Her eldest daughter was having a baby, and she needed to understand what her mother had been through having her – however hard it was for Rebecca to go back there.
‘Hello, Jessie!’ she said, opening the front door. A gust of cold air swept in. Jessie stood on the doorstep holding a small bunch of tulips. Her blonde hair was neatly blow dried, and her green eyes sparkled as she handed over the flowers. She wore a navy wrap dress around her bump which was smaller than Rebecca would have expected for someone who was eight months pregnant, and also looked alarmingly thin, and rather pale, but Rebecca managed a warm smile as she took the flowers which Jessie held out. ‘Come in, it’s bitter out there.’
‘Thank you for the flowers.’ Rebecca leaned in to kiss her daughter on both cheeks, immediately feeling awkward, as she always did around Jessie. An image of Iris flashed into her mind’s eye, a complete contrast to Jessie, sweeping into her house on a wave of chatter and laughter, her arms filled with bags she’d throw on the floor at her mother’s feet. Jessie and Rebecca always danced around one another, their conversation stilted, their chemistry out of synch. She longed for just a fraction of the easiness she had with Iris for her and Jessie, but perhaps now things would begin to change. Perhaps that was what today was the start of. She could only hope.
Rebecca smiled at her daughter. ‘You look beautiful, darling. Can I get you a cup of tea?’
Jessie smiled shyly and began following her mother into the kitchen. ‘Do you have any decaf? I’m trying not to drink caffeine as it doesn’t help with my anxiety.’
Rebecca immediately started to worry about what she had to offer her elder daughter. Jessie hadn’t been to her house for over a year and she was losing touch with what she liked. She chastised herself for not going shopping and instead spending the morning pacing and panicking about Jessie not turning up. ‘I don’t have any decaffeinated, but I might have some chamomile somewhere. Oh dear.’
‘That’s fine. I’m not a big fan of chamomile. I’ll just have a glass of water.’
‘I’m sorry, Jessie, I should have thought. I can pop to Tesco, it’s just round the corner.’ Rebecca started towards the door.
‘Honestly, it’s not a
problem. I don’t really drink tea.’
Rebecca took a breath and tried to stop herself from fussing. It was just a cup of tea, but it seemed to represent everything that was off in their relationship. She and Iris couldn’t function without tea; they’d sit for hours on the sofa, their legs curled under them, putting the world to rights. Often they would talk about Jessie, if either of them had heard from her or seen her, and how much they wished she was in their lives.
‘Water it is. Still or sparkling?’ said Rebecca, smiling and trying to warm the slight frost between them as Jessie followed her into the kitchen.
‘Tap water is fine, thanks.’ Rebecca noticed her daughter look around the room, pausing at the various photographs on the wall, black-and-white images of Iris and her father, John, in various holiday locations. One, pinned to the fridge, of her and Iris in fancy dress, pulling faces for the camera, seemed to catch her attention.
One lone photo of Jessie stood on the kitchen windowsill, from their day trip to Brighton, the last time Rebecca had seen Liz. She had asked Liz to take the photo so that she would have some memory, some moment to cling to that wasn’t dominated by Jessie’s stepmother. They had stood in front of the angry grey sea on the cold January day, Rebecca with her arm awkwardly around her daughter, Jessie’s limp by her side. Rebecca had beamed at the camera while her daughter had managed only a weak smile.
‘There you go,’ said Rebecca, handing Jessie a glass. ‘Shall we go into the sitting room?’
Passing the hall table, Rebecca lifted the photo album and propped it under her arm.
‘I dug out some pictures of when you were a newborn. I thought you might like to see them.’ She kicked herself for the insensitivity of her words. Why was she having to ‘dig out’ pictures of Jessie when there were pictures of Iris everywhere?
But she knew why. The pictures of Jessie as a newborn took her back to a time she hated being reminded of. A time when she had been frightened she wouldn’t be able to get through the day and was filled with so much terror, every waking moment felt as if she were about to fall off a cliff. When she could barely open her eyes from the sheer exhaustion of existing, thinking any moment she was going to die, yet too terrified to fall asleep because of the nightmares that lay in waiting.
‘Did you want to sit on the sofa? You’re probably tired. I didn’t offer you any food – sorry, would you like a biscuit?’
‘No, I’m fine, thank you. Your house is very cosy,’ said Jessie. ‘I’ve never really noticed before. Probably because it’s so bloody cold outside.’ She looked at the room where Rebecca spent most of her time at home, collapsing with a gin and tonic after long, brutal shifts at the hospital. It wasn’t a stylish room – it was rammed with cushions, oversized lamps and shag-pile rugs – but she loved it and it was home. But far from taking her daughter’s comment as a compliment, it only served to fuel her sadness that she hadn’t spent any time here with Jessie.
Jessie sat down on the sofa and let out a little sigh. Rebecca hovered for a moment, wondering if she should sit next to her, then, not wanting to crowd her, opted for her favourite armchair opposite. Jessie smiled wanly and Rebecca thought she might be about to cry. Her heart ached for her. The few steps between them felt like an uncrossable chasm. She longed to walk over to her little girl, to wrap her arms around her. But it wasn’t what Jessie wanted. What her daughter needed from her was answers, and honesty, not superficial physical contact. Whether she had the strength to give them to her remained to be seen.
‘So, do you mind me asking who the lucky man is?’ asked Rebecca cautiously. ‘I don’t want to pry.’
‘Adam, his name is. He’s a travel photographer. We haven’t been together that long, about eighteen months. The baby was a bit of a surprise – a happy surprise.’
‘It’s so wonderful, and I’d love to meet Adam one day.’ Rebecca wanted to say more, but waited for Jessie to take the lead.
Jessie took a sip of her water and smiled awkwardly. ‘I don’t think Dad likes him much.’
‘Really? What makes you say that?’ Rebecca tried not to pounce on the confidence Jessie had shared with her.
Jessie shrugged. ‘Dunno, it’s just a vibe, really. You can just tell, can’t you? It’s a chemistry thing.’
‘I’m sure he likes him really,’ said Rebecca, cringing at her superficial attempts to stick up for Harvey.
‘Adam’s away a lot with work. I think Dad worries he won’t be around for all the tough bits – you know, if I’m not coping too well.’
Rebecca frowned. ‘Has he said that?’
‘No, you know Dad, he doesn’t say anything outright but his silence speaks volumes. He’s just never given me the impression he likes Adam much.’
Rebecca knew exactly what her daughter meant. Any attempt at openness brought Harvey out in a rash, which was why his marriage to Liz and her obsession with ‘getting it all out in the open’ had at first baffled her. Over time, however, she had realized that Liz was, in fact, one of those dangerous people who would jump at the opportunity to discuss anyone else’s faults at length but would storm off if you dared to confront any of hers.
‘And you’re due in about four weeks?’
Jessie nodded. ‘We’re having a home birth, in our flat in Chichester.’
‘Good for you,’ Rebecca managed, the memories of Jessie’s birth, which she had worked so hard to suppress, slowly starting to creep back in. ‘So have you got a birthing pool?’
‘It’s coming tomorrow. Adam’s gone on a photo shoot to Nigeria for a few days. He’ll put it up when he gets back.’
Rebecca could see why Harvey would be worried about Adam going so far away so close to the birth. She could imagine him disapproving of Jessie’s partner jetting off all over the world for his work and leaving his daughter alone with the baby. As far as she knew, Harvey had never left Seaview Farm, at least for all the years she’d known him. ‘The cows don’t milk themselves,’ he would say if she suggested even a night away.
‘How lovely that he gets to travel for his work. And are you still working at the press agency in London or have you found something local to Chichester?’
Jessie smiled. ‘No, still trekking up to London. I’m not very good at making life easy for myself. I guess it’s in my genes.’
Rebecca smiled cautiously, unsure if this was a dig at her.
Jessie went on. ‘I’m still at the same press agency. I like it, I’m hoping to go back to work after a few months and put the baby in nursery. But I’ll see how I’m doing.’
‘I’m sure you’ll do brilliantly.’ Rebecca’s smile went unreturned as Jessie looked down at her hands. She looked exhausted and weighted down with worry. Rebecca was concerned that Jessie had already decided she was going to struggle terribly after the baby was born. As if it was a foregone conclusion. She hesitated. ‘I’m not sure what your dad has told you, but I’m sorry if he’s worried you. Just because I didn’t cope too well, doesn’t mean you won’t be able to. I was fine with Iris.’
‘Yes, I know. Everything was perfect with Iris.’
Rebecca felt a stab of defensiveness and bit her lip. There was so much bubbling below the surface, but she needed to take anything Jessie threw at her today if they were going to make any progress at all.
Rebecca chose her words carefully. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that it won’t necessarily follow that because I struggled, you will.’
Jessie shrugged, and Rebecca felt suddenly ashamed of herself. Jessie had come to her; she needed to just listen, not shut her down. She was clearly worrying, and her body language was alarming Rebecca. Her movements were slow; her body, though slim and frail looking, appeared to be a huge burden to her. Yet her eyes and words were darting, her mind clearly working on overdrive. Now Jessie was in front of her, it was obvious to Rebecca that she was very subdued. She was nervous and anxious.
‘Sorry, Jessie. I don’t want to dismiss how you’re feeling. I just don’t want you to t
ake it as a definite that you’re going to have any kind of postnatal depression. My mother didn’t.’
‘How do you know?’
Rebecca baulked, surprised, and shook her head. ‘I would have known if she’d had depression when I was born, Jessie, or anything like it. We were very close.’
‘That doesn’t mean she didn’t keep things from you – to protect you. Look at you and Iris,’ she said quietly.
‘What about me and Iris?’ said Rebecca cautiously.
‘You’re close but you don’t talk to her about the night your parents died. Everybody has secrets,’ said Jessie quietly. ‘Anyway, it was psychosis, not depression.’ Jessie looked up and locked eyes with Rebecca.
‘How do you know that? What has your dad told you?’
‘I know a lot more than you think.’ Jessie continued to glare at her in a way that made Rebecca feel uneasy. ‘Who was it said that history is a set of lies agreed upon? Napoleon?’
Rebecca rubbed her temple and tried to push down the acute sense of foreboding she was feeling. She wished she could have talked to Iris about Jessie’s call, but that would have felt disloyal somehow. It felt as if she had jumped into this head-first without checking with anyone the best way to manage it. It was too much, too soon, as if she was holding something extremely fragile in her hands.
‘I’ve come here because I want us to have an honest conversation for once, Mum.’ Jessie looked close to tears.
‘Well, I was never officially diagnosed.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s complicated. I don’t know if it’s helpful to go into it.’
‘I knew this would happen. I shouldn’t have come.’ Jessie stood up and walked towards the door.
‘Jessie, please.’ Rebecca walked over to her daughter and took her hand. ‘I want to help you, I really do. I’m really happy that you’re here. More than happy, I’m overwhelmed. It’s just this is all very sudden. I haven’t had a chance to think.’