by Emma Glass
He is hot in my arms. I loosen the blanket around him. His suck has slowed down and he is drinking steadily. I dab away the little dribbles of milk that escape from his lips. I glance over at Dad who is quietly snoring in the bed. The TV glows but is muted, there is a long advert for an exercise video playing. There is a soft hum and whir from the monitor and muffled sound of bleeping from the room next door. I’m glad Dad didn’t wake up, I selfishly wanted a quiet moment and a sit-down.
I gently run my fingers over Buddy’s head, his hair is soft and cottony. He drifts in and out of sleep, his sucking slows, nearly stops, and then he pops like a bubble, wakes up to drink some more, tries to push against the heavy dreams that draw his eyelids closed. It is all too much for him in the end. His head rolls back and he surrenders the bottle in favour of sweet sleep. With my finger I touch the tip of his chin. His pink mouth still sucks a bottle in his dreams.
He smells sweet and sour and soapy. I raise him higher in my lap. His neck is nestled into the crook of my arm. I rock him and I feel like singing. In this holding, I am healing, he is dreaming and I feel content. This is where I’m supposed to be. This is why I’m here. A sick baby on his way to being well. On his way to being well because of surgery, medication, holding, sleeping, something. I wish I knew which one it was because then we could do more. Save more babies. Sometimes none of it works. I think about this all of the time.
I cradle the baby. I touch his arm, feel the flesh through the thin vest he is wearing. The vest is speckled with milk and splattered with other unknown stains. I will change him before I put him back in his cot but I want to sit here a while longer. I place my hand on his belly, feel it full, rising and falling. In sleep he abandons his limbs. He is weighty and weightless at the same time. The warmth of his flesh melds with mine, no distinguishable start to him or end to me, we are the same, we are rolling together, slowly swaying in a hypnotic, sleepy trance.
I picture the little puddle of milk inside him, rippling rings on the surface, starting small in the centre of his stomach with a gurgle and then growing outwards, widening circles. I step into the circle with him in my arms, the air presses against me, heavy, thick and warm like wading through melted marshmallow and it is hard to walk with marshmallow on your shoes.
You come to pick me up from work in your car. Excitement tingles through me when I see you, leaning over the steering wheel, grinning at me through the windscreen.
We kiss like the world is ending because it is.
You drive fast and I laugh and shriek with bumps and sharp corners. We know these roads like we know our own skin. You drive with one hand loosely on the steering wheel, one hand shifting between the gear stick and my knee. I turn on the radio and settle on a song I can sing too. You grin when I hit a high note. I reach to touch your cheek. A song from childhood plays. We both say at the same time it reminds us of our fathers.
These are the roads my father drove, pointing out pheasants, falling stone walls, shooting ranges. I would stare up at the clouds moving with us through the valley. My father would point with one long finger, close one eye like a sniper and I would shout POP. We were cloud bursting. And it rained, it rained, it rained.
In the daytime we rush through green, always green forests. In the night-time we race past the aching white skeletons of trees wrapped in wreaths of grey leaves, ragged wood with knotweed faces, mouths opening coldly. The headlights flash and I glimpse her hanging in the darkness, floating in patches of mist. Perhaps she has always been with me.
With you I am not scared of her, not scared of anything. This is how we used to feel. Fearlessly speeding around the bends, with the windows rolled down, with my hair blowing in the wind. Driving through the long summer nights, the dream days, dream haze, I remember nothing but laughing, the warmth of your touch, this is the happiest I have ever been in my whole life. But the touch has turned cold, there is ice in your fingers – but these are not your fingers and the hand is on my shoulder and not on my knee and it is not tenderly touching, it is sharply pinching. Slow down, slow down, we are going too fast. Her fingers tighten on my shoulder, the brakes are not screeching but she is screaming. You slam on the brakes but it is too late.
I know what is happening but it is too late. I know what has happened.
I look down, past my empty lap, to the floor. I see the little arms and the little legs splayed. The broken body, the broken bones, white as milk, soft as chalk.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to Alexandra Pringle, Todd McEwan and Lucy Ellmann for seeing what I can’t see, for your encouragement and belief in me. Thank you to Allegra Le Fanu for your time, hard work and ability to frame my writing articulately and beautifully. Thank you to everyone at Bloomsbury for gathering up my dreams and binding them into reality.
I would like to thank my wonderful agent Niki Chang, I am so grateful that we found each other. Your dedication, ambition and work ethic is inspirational. Thank you for just being there.
Thank you to my family for their love and support, always. Thank you to my mother Christine for inspiring me to become a nurse and for being endlessly caring and compassionate.
Thank you to Tom for holding me when I am too exhausted to stand up any longer, for easing my doubtful mind, for spending each day with me.
Anna, Tim, Harry and Hugo, I am thankful for your enthusiasm, openness and friendship. I remain in awe of your talent.
The list of colleagues and friends I have worked with throughout my nursing career is long, but I would like to thank the Lauras, Ellas, Jennifers, Rachels, Hollys, Melitas and MJs for working alongside me, giving time, kindness and care in often challenging circumstances. I feel blessed to work with you.
I would like to acknowledge the musical genius of The National, Rufus Wainwright, Joanna Newsom, Solange, La Dispute and Fleetwood Mac whose music carries me into the light and enables me to write boldly and truthfully.
A Note on the Author
EMMA GLASS was born in Wales in 1987 and is now based in London, where she writes and works as a children’s nurse. Her debut novel Peach was published by Bloomsbury in 2018, has been translated into seven languages and was longlisted for the International Dylan Thomas Prize.
@Emmas_Window
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First published in Great Britain 2020
Copyright © Emma Glass, 2020
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A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: HB: 978-1-5266-0107-0; EBOOK: 978-1-5266-0109-4
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Glass, Rest and Be Thankful