Apple of My Eye

by Claire Allan

  My heart races to try to match the beat of this tiny heart. I think of how I’ll hold her, rock her to sleep. Sit in the nursery in the house – a nursery I couldn’t provide for Eli when she was little – and sing nursery songs, whisper prayers, give gentle kisses on a soft head that smells of milk and baby powder and innocence.

  Innocence. That’s what this baby is to me. A chance to start again. To help my daughter be the best mother she can be. To have another little person in my life who loves me dearly.

  ‘Baby sounds perfectly healthy to me,’ Dr Laurence declares. ‘That’s a good, strong heartbeat.’

  Eli thanks the doctor as she sits up, wipes the gel from her tummy and pulls her top back down.

  ‘I told you everything would be okay,’ she says to me.

  I just cry. This is everything I wanted and more.

  I can’t let anything – not even those stupid emails – stand in my way.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Louise

  I struggled to fight the panic when the pregnant woman disappeared. I wondered if I was being punished. After two nights of waiting for her to come home, I started to get on edge. It wasn’t a bad ‘on edge’ at first. To begin with, I was excited. I wondered if I’d guessed her due date all wrong. Could she have gone to hospital already to have the baby? That wouldn’t have been ideal, but I could have worked with it. I supposed. Brought my plans forwards. Or waited until the baby was a bit older. Not ideal, but not awful. As long as the end result was the same.

  But then I worried that something might have gone wrong. With her or with the baby. I knew it could happen. God knows I knew it could happen. I had flashbacks to the sombre shaking of heads. The sympathetic looks of medical staff. Me wishing that they’d just let me bleed out and die with him.

  But life wouldn’t be that cruel to me again. God and the Blessed Virgin wouldn’t be that cruel to me again. I’d prayed. I’d petitioned them. I’d lit candles. So many candles. The sacristan had eased me away from them, urged me to leave some for other people’s intentions.

  I’d called the hospital – both the antenatal ward and the postnatal ward – and asked to speak to her. Told them I was her sister. I knew they were confused when they told me she wasn’t a patient. That they thought a sister should know these things, of course. But I played them off against each other.

  ‘Oh, my mistake. Maybe she’s still in antenatal,’ I told the gruff-sounding nurse on the postnatal ward.

  I told her opposite that perhaps she’d gone straight to delivery.

  I didn’t care, foolishly, if I sounded mad. I knew I had to control my actions. Not bring attention to myself. But that time was different. Where was she? At least I was reassured that my baby hadn’t been born yet, or was on the way, or was in danger.

  But I wondered where she was. I thought about asking him, but that would’ve set alarm bells ringing afterwards, surely. So I said nothing. Decided to try to find out about her family. Find out who they were and where they were. Widen the net, because it simply couldn’t go wrong.

  I wouldn’t allow it to go wrong.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Angela

  The doorbell rings shortly after half past five.

  Kate. In all the emotion of hearing my granddaughter’s heartbeat, I’d forgotten that she was going to call over.

  ‘Oh, Mum,’ Eli says. ‘Can you tell her I’m sleeping or something? I don’t think I’ve the energy to talk to anyone.’

  It’s another one of those occasions where I’ll have to be cruel to be kind. Sometimes I know her better than she knows herself. Mother always knows best.

  ‘Ah now, Eli. This could be just the thing to lift your spirits. Talking to an old friend. I’m sure you’ve a lot to catch up on.’

  I ignore her protests and walk to the hall, where I see the shadow of Kate and her son through the stained glass of the door.

  With a smile on my face, I welcome them both and invite them in.

  ‘I brought some cupcakes from the bakery,’ Kate says, handing over a small square-shaped box.

  ‘And my mammy says these flowers are for you,’ the little boy standing by her side says, thrusting a bunch of carnations at me with great affection but little grace.

  Dark hair, bright blue eyes, a big open smile. What a beautiful little boy he is. I can’t wait until there’s a child running around this house again. That innocence and cuteness.

  I crouch down so that I’m close to his height. ‘Well, thank you very much, young man. They’re lovely.’

  ‘Mammy, can I have a cupcake?’ he asks, taking his gaze from me and staring adoringly up at his mother, who laughs.

  ‘I’m sure you can, Liam. In a moment. Let’s go and see my friend first.’

  Liam nods and smiles, scuffs his trainer-clad feet together. ‘Okay, Mammy.’

  ‘Well you’re a very good boy, so I think we can definitely get you a cupcake, and maybe a nice big glass of juice or milk, too.’

  ‘Milk, please,’ he says, his big blue eyes staring up at mine once again.

  ‘Oh, Kate, your little boy’s a dream.’

  She tilts her head and smiles in that way proud parents do when they don’t want to appear too boastful.

  ‘You might think differently at bedtime,’ she laughs.

  ‘Enjoy the bedtimes, Kate. Soon enough they don’t want you near them at bedtime, or any time, really! I used to love reading Eli her bedtime stories. It was such a special time. Now, little man, how about you come with me and I’ll get you some milk, then we can make a cup of tea for your mammy and Eli.’

  ‘Is Eli your friend, Mammy?’ he asks Kate and she nods.

  ‘She is indeed. We used to go to school together, just like you and Darragh.’

  ‘She’s in the living room,’ I tell her, adding in a whisper that she’s a little out of sorts.

  Kate frowns. ‘I’ll see if I can help.’

  ‘Now, Liam, how about we get these cakes out on a nice plate and, you know what? I think I might have some crayons and paper somewhere. Maybe we could draw some pictures together. I’m not very good though. You might have to help me.’

  ‘My daddy says I’m very good at colouring between the lines,’ he says solemnly.

  ‘I bet you are,’ I say, leading the way towards the kitchen. ‘You look like a very smart boy to me, indeed.’

  ‘I know how to write my own name and everything, and I’m not even at big school yet.’

  ‘Wow!’ I say, delighting in spending time with him.

  There’s nothing I like more than spending time with children. There’re so trusting. So innocent. So malleable.

  ‘Why don’t you sit up at the table and I’ll get these flowers in some water and then we can do some colouring.’

  ‘And eat our cupcakes?’

  ‘Of course,’ I laugh. ‘You can have first pick!’

  I fill a vase with water and put the bunch of carnations inside. I’m not a big fan of carnations. They look cheap. But I remind myself it’s the thought that counts and I need to play nice. Then I fill the kettle and take out the tea things.

  ‘Now,’ I say, moving around the kitchen and opening a few drawers, ‘let me find those crayons.’

  I know I have a packet somewhere from when a friend visited with her grandchildren. Finding them, I put them and some paper in front of Liam, pushing his chair closer to the table. Then I take out a glass and pour him some milk.

  ‘Here you go, young man,’ I say, allowing him to pick a chocolate-topped cupcake from the box Kate has brought. ‘I’ll just bring this tea through to your mammy and then we can draw together.’

  He looks up at me and smiles, his front teeth already coated in chocolate cream.

  I don’t spend any real time in the living room. I just put the tea tray down and notice that the girls are talking. Really talking. Kate is holding Eli’s hand in hers. This is all exactly what I’d hoped for. I feel a certain, I don’t know, smugness maybe, rise in me as I
walk back to the kitchen and sit down opposite Liam.

  I pour myself a glass of milk, just like his, and take a big bite of cupcake, making him laugh at the chocolate icing around my mouth.

  ‘What do you think we should draw, Liam?’ I ask.

  ‘Hmm,’ he says, an exaggerated ‘I’m thinking’ expression on his face that makes me laugh. ‘Well, my mammy and my daddy and my granny all say Santa’s coming soon, so maybe we could do a Christmas picture.’

  ‘Ooh, that sounds good,’ I say, watching as he picks a red crayon from the box and starts on an outline of a very round Santa tummy. ‘Have you written your letter to Santa?’ I ask.

  ‘My mammy helped me because I don’t know all my letters yet.’

  ‘Your mammy sounds great. And what’s Santa going to bring you?’

  ‘Erm … a new bike, and a helmet to be safe, and a TV for my bedroom if I’m really good.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve been very good, Liam,’ I say, watching him colour in Santa, his tongue poking out at the side in concentration.

  A TV in a child’s bedroom, though? I can’t help but judge. So much for spending time on bedtime stories instead.

  I start work on a drawing of a Christmas tree, pointy corners, bottle green. I’ll draw a star on the top if I can find the yellow crayon.

  ‘What’s Santa going to bring you?’ Liam asks, blue eyes bright.

  ‘Well, if I’m a really good girl, Santa’s going to bring me a new baby to live in this house with me forever,’ I tell him.

  His eyes widen. ‘Like a baby brother or sister? My mammy says I might get one those next Christmas. Do you have a baby in your tummy then? My auntie does and her tummy’s all big like Santa’s.’

  ‘Well, my wee girl, Eli, who is your mammy’s friend, has a baby in her tummy, too. And I’ll be this baby’s granny.’

  ‘But babies don’t live with their grannies,’ he says, eyeing me up and down.

  He’s a smart kid.

  ‘Sometimes they do,’ I tell him. ‘If their mammies want to come and stay, too. But, Liam, this is a big, big secret, so we must keep it to ourselves or it might not happen.’ I put my finger to my lips, mime a ‘shh!’.

  Liam does the same, a glob of thick chocolate cream sticking to his finger as he does so.

  Maybe it’s foolish of me to say so much to a three-year-old. I instantly feel guilty. But I couldn’t help it. I’m excited now, you see. And it just had to come bubbling out somewhere. I might be getting a brand-new baby to come and live with me …

  My baby and her baby, under my roof.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Angela

  I’m flicking through the TV channels trying to find something that Eli and I can watch together, when she appears at the door, ashen-faced.

  Immediately, I wonder if everything’s okay with the baby, even though it’s only been a few hours since we heard that lovely heartbeat.

  ‘Eli, what is it? Is it the baby?’ I ask as she walks to the sofa and sits down, looking for all intents and purposes as if she doesn’t have the strength to stand any more.

  She blinks at me, shakes her head. ‘The baby’s fine,’ she mutters. ‘It’s not the baby.’

  I notice she has her phone in her hands and my heart starts to thump. Has she been speaking to Martin? What has he said?

  ‘Work,’ she says, cutting through my thoughts. ‘Rachel called when I was upstairs. I’ve to go to a meeting about what happened with Mrs Doherty tomorrow. Her son’ll be there. And the management team. Oh, Mum. I’m going to lose my job, aren’t I? And my licence. What if the police are there? And I have to see Rachel. Be professional around her. I can’t …’

  I see her spiral towards another panic attack. She feels out of control. I know that feeling only too well. When everything seems like it’s too much. When you want to run and hide.

  ‘We’ll get through this, I promise,’ I tell her, trying to reassure her the best I can. ‘Just keep breathing. Just try to stay calm. Breathe with me.’

  Her breath comes in staggered spurts. Shaking, trembling out breaths, a pause, a sucking of air inwards. As if she’s forgotten how to do the most natural of all things. I encourage her to count inwardly as she inhales, to let her breath go as if she’s whispering. To centre herself.

  ‘No one’s infallible, darling,’ I soothe. ‘No one. They’ll see sense. They’ll understand. They’ll forgive you and move on, because you didn’t intend to harm anyone.’

  Part of me wonders if I’m trying to reassure myself as much as her.

  *

  Eli’s on edge all evening. Like the proverbial cat on a hot tin roof. She asks if she should phone Martin, tell him about the meeting. He’ll be worried, she imagines. Or maybe he’ll be too angry to talk to her. She looks distraught at that thought.

  I ask her it if it’ll make her feel any better. Will he be able to help or will talking to him just remind her of her marital worries? If he’s angry, as she fears, could it make everything worse for her?

  She eventually agrees it’s best to leave it for now. She’s tired, her head is sore. So I suggest an early night and I make her a cup of tea, slipping in a sedative pill to get her as good a night’s sleep as possible. Once she’s asleep, I switch her phone off and unplug the house phone. I don’t want anything disturbing her. Tomorrow will be a big enough challenge.

  *

  As we set off towards Derry shortly after nine, she yawns. I wonder if I gave her too strong a dose. I hope she’ll be ‘with it’ for her meeting. I must stop and make sure she drinks a coffee, even though she’s already had one and shouldn’t really have another. I want her to put her best foot forward.

  Her union rep will meet her at the hospice. Rachel will be there, too. Eli admits she feels sick at the thought of seeing her.

  ‘I don’t know how I’ll be able to look at her,’ she tells me. ‘I know it’s not definite that she’s been seeing him, but …’

  ‘I understand,’ I say. ‘But it’s important to keep focus on why you’re here today. Don’t let her win, Eliana. Don’t let her see you crumble.’

  ‘She’s always been a good friend to me, or I thought she was. She was my ally and now how am I supposed to trust her to have my back when I can’t even trust her with my husband?’

  I wish Eli could see that Rachel could never be a real threat to her. Eli outshone her on every level. I remember her at Eli and Martin’s wedding. She got sloppy drunk and snivelled all over her slice of wedding cake. Someone took her home early, gently leading her from the restaurant before her mascara ran any further down her cheeks.

  Later, Eli told me that Rachel’s marriage had recently ended and she was having a hard time. I didn’t care. There’s no excuse for making a show of yourself in public, and certainly not at your friend’s wedding. If you can’t behave in public, you belong indoors.

  ‘Let’s take it all one thing at a time – one step. Concentrate on work today. Treat Rachel as a colleague and try as hard as you can to block everything else out.’

  She gives me a weak smile, goes back to looking out of the window.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Louise

  Everything was in place. Our new home. Temporary accommodation until the baby was born. I’d even sold my car – got little more than scrap money for it, but when I’d taken my savings out of the credit union, I was able to buy a replacement. It wasn’t much better, but it got us to our new home without too much trouble.

  I’d already parked that new car outside the flat I’d be staying in until the time was right. It was pretty bleak there. The heating didn’t work, for a start, and there was a smell of mould around the place, no matter how often I tried to air it.

  The carpet felt damp and sticky under my feet, and the mattress on the single bed in the flat’s sole bedroom was heavily soiled. I’d covered it with blankets, then planned to sleep in a sleeping bag on top of those. I’d make do. The main thing was that it was cheap, there’d been no secu
rity deposit required and I could leave with little notice. The landlord hadn’t even asked for ID. I could’ve been anyone. Untraceable.

  All that was left to do then was to hand the keys to what had been my home over to Peter. He was going to put it up for sale and had given me a lump sum in lieu of my share of the equity. It wasn’t a fortune, but it’d pay the rent on my new place for a few months, by which stage I hoped I’d have myself settled with some form of income of my own. I planned to take a book-keeping course. Learn a skill I could use from home so I wouldn’t have to leave her.

  Still, something inside me held off a little. The pregnant woman still hadn’t come home. I couldn’t make that final move until I knew where she was.

  I followed her husband, hoping for some clues, but his pattern didn’t seem to change.

  He looked less well-cared-for. Unkempt at times, even. But he came and went as he always did.

  All my digging, using all the resources I could find in the local library, including the local love for gossip, only uncovered that she wasn’t from here originally. She was ‘from upcountry’.

  Was it possible she was just away visiting family? Surely her place was at home, with her husband. Waiting for this baby to arrive.

  My arms were aching by then. I needed to hold my baby. I needed to feel the warmth of her body against mine. I needed to smell her sweet baby smell. I needed to feel the soft rush of her breath as she exhaled through rosebud lips. I needed to feel the brush of her downy hair against my lips as I kissed the top of her head. Feel her movements. Hear those sweet gurgling noises babies make. Alive babies make.

  I needed to know what that was like with my own child. I needed to block out the memory of a kiss that felt all wrong. Of a baby who didn’t wriggle or breathe. Whose lips were still like rosebuds but blackened. No pink cheeks. Just a pale grey. Almost blue. No breath. No warmth. Just this awful coldness that felt wrong.