by Leah Mercer
Lily reaches out to touch Charlotte’s arm. ‘If I can be the same kind of mother to Liam as you are to Anabelle, I’ll be happy.’ She wipes her eyes. ‘God, I’ve turned into a big ball of mush since becoming a mum! You warned me this would happen – how I’d be overwhelmed with emotion. It’s just so amazing, isn’t it? How you can feel so much love for someone, so quickly?’
Charlotte nods, struggling to find something to say. Was it like that for her, too – yet even more intense, since Anabelle was so ill? Charlotte always found the idea of loving something instantaneously strange, even if it was your child. Sure, there must be an instinctual connection, but to swoon with love the second you set eyes on something? Love grows – that’s how it had been with David, anyway. She’d liked him straight away, of course, but you had to be sure of something before committing yourself. The first few months they’d dated had been so intense that David had often jokingly asked if he’d passed her probation period yet.
‘Right, enough sap,’ Lily says. ‘I have five million questions written down to ask you. I’ve read every one of those parenting books at least twice, and I still don’t have a clue what to do when he cries. Is he too hot? Too cold? Hungry? Needs winding? I know it’s still early days, but I really need your help.’
Charlotte shakes her head, trying hard to hide her disbelief. Lily has questions to ask her? God, she’s the last person on earth to dispense advice right now. She needs to tell Lily that, unfortunately, she’s about as much help when it comes to babies as, well . . . as she used to be, but she still can’t bear the thought of Lily’s reaction. Besides, it’s nice to see Lily being so chatty and open with her now, and the last thing she wants is to stop that in its tracks.
But before she can open her mouth, Liam starts screaming. As Lily juggles him from shoulder to shoulder, he deposits what looks like the whole of his feed down the front of Lily’s shirt.
‘Oh, God.’ Lily hands the baby to Charlotte and runs to the loo. Liam starts shrieking, and Charlotte stares helplessly as he turns bright red, his little fists bunched into two balls as his cries escalate. What should she do with this thing? She starts to bleat out a nursery rhyme dredged up from the depths of her memory, but Liam’s crying only intensifies; not that she can blame him. At David’s last Christmas party she’d emptied the room during karaoke, although that could have been down to the fact that it was after 9 p.m., not her hideous singing.
‘Thank God I brought a clean shirt,’ Lily says. ‘I’m definitely starting to learn!’ She reaches out for the baby again, who immediately quietens in his mother’s arms. Charlotte watches as he settles against her friend’s chest, his eyes sinking closed. Had Anabelle nestled in her arms, warm and heavy like Liam is in Lily’s? She tries her best to summon up the memory of a bond so strong that she put her life on hold to spend every second with her daughter, but she can’t come anywhere close.
Lily’s phone bleeps, and she digs it out of her pocket. ‘That’s Joseph – he’s waiting outside. We’d better make a move,’ Lily says, manoeuvring her baby back into the sling. ‘Thank God you showed me how to do this thing. I hadn’t a clue.’
‘But you just got here!’ Charlotte says, her heart sinking. ‘Ask Joseph to come up. I can get you some coffee, and—’
‘Coffee?’ Lily looks at Charlotte like she’s just offered cocaine. ‘I can’t breastfeed and have caffeine, remember? Liam started sleeping much better after I cut that out. Joseph said he’d only be ten minutes, and I’m about ready to drop. I would have got here sooner, but Liam did a huge poo, I had to try to change him in the car, and . . .’
Her voice drifts over Charlotte as she follows her friend down the stairs and out into the street, where the sun is now peeking through the clouds. She plods back up the stairs, the silence of the flat seeming even heavier after her friend’s departure.
She picks up a grubby muslin that Lily has left behind, holding it out from her in case the smell should reach her nose. Her friend looks absolutely knackered, but then who can blame her? She’s only a couple of weeks into motherhood with a baby that won’t stop crying. But despite the exhaustion, Charlotte can’t forget the look on Lily’s face when she soothed Liam: the absolute tenderness and joy wiping away all traces of frustration and fatigue. Lily’s achieved what she fought so hard for: to be a mother. And by the looks of things, she couldn’t be more delighted.
Charlotte stares once again at the family photo where she’s gazing at Anabelle with the same beatific expression Lily had worn. She must have felt that rush of love . . . a rush that washed away her former self, convincing even her oldest friend that she’s changed – and that she’s delighted with her new life, too. She had become another person. How much more proof does she need?
I’ll try one more time to get David to talk about the past few years, Charlotte decides. And if talking to her husband doesn’t help, she’ll book an appointment with a consultant. She needs to get back to the mother she was and abandon this strange in-between state. Why bother hanging on to an outdated version of herself when that person could never exist in this new reality, anyway?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
13 November
I can’t believe how these nine months have flown by. This time tomorrow, I’ll be wheeled into surgery to give birth. The midwife looked at me apologetically when she confirmed last week that my baby was breech and I’d need a C-section to deliver, but I wanted to punch the air in victory. I settled instead for a giant grin, which grew even bigger when the midwife raised her eyebrows at me. Did she expect me to mourn the loss of the natural birth our antenatal instructor had mooned on about? On what planet is a natural birth hyped up to be a wonderful experience – the best for both mother and baby – as if feeling shitloads of pain could catapult you into the stratosphere of World’s Best Mother? ‘I love you so much I’ll put myself through pain for no reason’ sounds more moronic than beatific, at least in my books. Brewing a baby in my body is enough.
A caesarean is way more convenient, more predictable and controlled. Not for me, the element of surprise . . . no living in fear my waters would burst during a work meeting. God, I can just imagine Vivek’s horror if my bottom had started leaking. This way, I knew exactly when to start my leave and what to expect from the whole birthing process. No rush to the hospital and no pushing for hours. I’ll be scrubbed and given a shot, my belly cut open, baby removed and placed on my chest. Sure, it might take longer to recover. But I’d trade an increased recovery time in a second for an element of control. I’m starting as I mean to go on.
Keeping David at the non-business end is an added bonus, too. For a while there, he was threatening to film the birth. Shudder. As if watching my body stretch to unnatural, surreal proportions as it attempted to squeeze a child from its cavities is something I’d want to see in glorious Technicolor, let alone remember.
And although I know it sounds a little ridiculous, I can’t help but be proud of my girl, too. Because she sounds like me: stubborn and strong. She wants to be born her way, dammit, and she ain’t shiftin’ for no one.
Just like a good, strong woman should behave.
God knows I’ve had to be strong these past few months, and I’m proud of how I’ve kept it all together. Despite repeated trips to Vivek’s office to reassure him I’ll be back with bells on, as my pregnancy has progressed and my stomach has grown bigger, I’ve been shifted more and more to the back. When I’ve been out on pitches, I’ve sensed potential clients’ eyes sliding over me and on to the next person in the room, like my baby bump has negated my presence. I’ve spoken up louder, showcasing my experience and knowledge that much more, then addressed the baby in the room by making it clear this child won’t take me out for long – it doesn’t subtract from my future value.
I managed to fit my remaining maternity appointments around work meetings, I never once left the office early, and over these last three months I’ve secured more clients than at any other time in my career. But when my mate
rnity cover was hired – a man years younger than me and nowhere near as experienced – straight away, a big account I’d been itching to pitch was transferred over to him. I couldn’t help feeling a little . . . threatened, even though this man has nowhere near my expertise or track record. My place in this company has always been more than secure; my route to the top practically guaranteed by Vivek. Now it feels like I’ve been shoved on to a road to another place, and despite my attempts to get back on track, I keep getting knocked off.
Leaving the office for the last time today – heading towards the Tube and knowing I won’t be back for at least a month – was such a strange feeling. Even though it was past seven on a Friday, my department was working just as hard as ever, showing no signs of slowing for the weekend. I shut down my computer, pushed back my chair and walked between the work stations. People were on the phone, busily typing up pitches and reports or rushing from one place to another. I could have announced my departure, but I didn’t want to make it more evident – anyway, I’d be back before long. I slipped into the lift, telling myself over and over again that everything would be fine, despite the anxiety and worry rising inside.
This strange sense of vulnerability is making me even more determined to return to my job as quickly as possible and reclaim what is rightfully mine after so many years of working there; after so many years of proving myself. Having a baby won’t subtract from my value. I’ve managed to juggle everything during pregnancy, and I’ll do the same with motherhood, too. And on those rare occasions when Lily’s words from our disastrous meeting all those months ago – how I won’t be able to work; how I won’t be able to travel – manage to find a way into my brain, I tell myself she’s wrong. I will. Of course I will, with a partner like David set to take over.
I’m ready to take this exam and ace it; ready to take on motherhood and all it entails. I’ve used every spare second of these nine months to get myself to this point, even lying awake at night to previsualise life with a child: how David and I will juggle the night-time feeds, how I’ll get ready for work on time, the baby sensory classes I’ve already enrolled us in on the weekends to help bring our baby on. We’ve even attended antenatal classes, revelling in our secure preparations, feeling miles above the rest of the bewildered parents-to-be.
Our bedroom is stuffed with everything our baby will need from the second we’ll bring her home straight up to her first birthday: Moses basket by the bed, cot in the corner, change table beside it, with drawers packed full of the cutest little clothes you’ve ever seen and stacks and stacks of nappies. Our exhaustive research into the best pram – a project we embarked on with huge enthusiasm and dedication – culminated in a hulking black frame in the corner that will be hell to lift up and down the stairs, but will provide the best support for our daughter.
It was a rather rude awakening to realise how much baby gear one tiny child will need, but every time I look at the detritus of our formerly ordered flat, I remind myself this chaos is just for the first few months when the newborn’s needs are so intense. Once things have settled, maybe we’ll look into two-bedroom flats in the area. If I keep getting commissions the way I have been for the past three years or so, we should be able to afford something.
This is our last night, just me and David. Tomorrow, we will have our child – a perfect, tiny baby nestling in our arms. David is practically vibrating with excitement, riffling through the contents of our hospital bag with a huge grin on his face then striding over to the Moses basket and staring down, like he can’t wait to place our baby inside it. And a couple of days from now, we’ll be doing just that.
I’m eager to get started. Now that all the preparations are behind us, now that we’re ready and the moment has come, I can’t wait, either. Inside me, our daughter is ready, too. This pregnancy has been trouble-free, and my body has done what it should. We’re not stepping off into the unknown: we’re striding into our family’s future, full of confidence and love. I’m not even scared of the surgery. Why should I be? It’s been done a million times before, and our doctors know what they’re doing.
We’ve got this.
Together, we’ve got this.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
‘She’s finally out.’ David rubs his eyes as he emerges from the bedroom and picks up the TV remote. It’s been another long evening of trying to get his daughter to sleep, and Charlotte doesn’t blame him for wanting to relax in front of some brainless telly.
Not tonight, though. Tonight, they’re going to talk, even if she has to tie him down to the sofa and yank his mouth open. Her gut twists that it’s actually come to this. Never in a million years would she have imagined the need to contemplate physical force just to exchange a few words with her husband.
She grabs the remote before the TV comes to life. ‘Can we have a chat?’
David looks down at her with the stony expression she’s come to recognise every time she tries to engage with him. He sits beside her, his long legs stretched out as if they’re itching to run away. Maybe she will need to tie him down.
Charlotte sighs and turns towards him. Christ, he’s not even facing her, he’s staring straight ahead as if the telly actually is on. ‘Look, I’m not any closer to remembering anything. And you did say we could talk, right? Maybe going through some things from the past will help jog my memory.’ She pauses, waiting for a response, but the only change in David’s face is a muscle jumping in his jaw. That’s new – she’s never seen that before. Has Anabelle’s traumatic birth really affected him that much? It’s not unexpected, she guesses, given how much it’s changed her, but it was three years ago and Anabelle’s fine now. David’s always so positive, so upbeat. Why does he look so . . . beaten and resigned?
‘Do we have any photos of me pregnant?’ she presses on. ‘With a bump or something?’ If Anabelle’s birth was so distressing, perhaps talking about her pregnancy would be all right. It seems surreal that her stomach stretched so much to accommodate a baby. Pictures might make it feel more real.
‘No,’ David replies almost curtly, still gazing at the blank TV. ‘No photos. You were always trying to hide your bump in your work clothes, and you practically fell into bed as soon as you got back from the office.’
Charlotte nods slowly. Sounds about right. In a way, it’s good to hear she hadn’t dropped her proprieties just because she was pregnant, although of course she hadn’t known about Anabelle’s condition then. Maybe things would have been different if she had.
David’s shuffling to his feet, but Charlotte tugs him back down. ‘What about ultrasound photos of Anabelle? Do we have any of those? When did I first feel her kick . . . or hiccup, or whatever?’ Way back in the recesses of her mind, she recalls hearing some women on the Tube talking about how weird it was when your foetus hiccupped. It’d sounded like something straight out of Alien to Charlotte.
‘No.’ David’s face tightens. ‘I wanted to get some, but you had a client meeting to rush off to.’
‘Oh.’ Charlotte bites her lip. God, that’s a little . . . hardcore. Of course she’d had to meet her clients’ demands, but this was her baby. How many chances would she get to have photos of something she was growing in her womb? Still, ultrasound photos were hardly a matter of life or death. If the baby needed her for something critical, she’s sure she’d have been there.
‘So everything was good up until the birth?’ she asks tentatively, not wanting him to shut down.
‘Everything was perfect, as far as we knew. It was after—’ David cuts himself off, his eyes blinking as if trying to push away whatever images are swirling in his head.
Charlotte reaches out to grab his hand, a wave of sympathy and love washing over her. Her poor husband – he’s been through so much and these memories seem to be bringing it all back again.
‘David, let’s do something. Let’s go for a walk, go to the pub, I don’t know – see if there’s a film playing somewhere.’ She speaks quickly before he can interrupt her and rejec
t the idea. If he won’t talk to her about the past, the least he can do is talk to her . . . and getting out of this flat might help. She’s starting to go stir crazy.
‘Come on, get your jacket.’ She smiles and tries to pull him up, but he’s looking up at her like she’s lost her mind and is babbling in a foreign language. ‘What?’ she asks, his expression unnerving her.
‘Charlotte,’ David says, his tone incredulous. ‘Have you forgotten about Anabelle?’
Oh, shit. Charlotte’s heart drops. Well, yes – she had forgotten the little girl sleeping in the next room; she’s forgotten she even has a daughter! Of course they can’t just grab their coats and leave. Those days of spontaneity are well behind them. A sense of loss sweeps over her that she’ll never be that carefree again.
‘Okay, well. We can have some fun staying in, then.’ She raises her eyebrow suggestively and climbs on top of him, desire rising as she straddles him. They haven’t made love since the accident, and – from what she remembers – going that long without having sex must be a new record for them. There might be some emotional barriers, but they must still make love, right? That’s always been sacred for them.
But David lifts her off him and turns away. ‘I’ll just go check on Anabelle,’ he says, and before she can answer, the door to the bedroom has shut behind him.
Charlotte sits still, trying to absorb what’s just happened. Her husband doesn’t want to talk to her. Her husband doesn’t want to go out with her. Her husband doesn’t even want to make love to her! She understands reliving the past might be painful, but they’re not in the past now. They’re in the present.
Charlotte gets to her feet and crosses to the window, the empty pavements outside making her feel even more alone in this world. I’ll book that appointment with the consultant as soon as possible, she decides. Maybe her husband can’t – or won’t – help her remember, but a doctor might. And if regaining her memories will make life now less painful, then she needs to do just that . . . and fast.