The Puzzle of You

by Leah Mercer

  Excitement filters into her at the thought. She and Lily haven’t been away together in ages! Even before they had children, Lily stuck to her fertility schedule, while Charlotte was often too busy working then relaxing with David. But they don’t have those obstacles now, do they? They can leave the babies with their husbands and escape.

  It would be good to get away, too, and do something outside of London. Charlotte used to love leaving the city every once in a while, even just for the day. Driving back along the motorway, with the high-rises glowing orange as the sun set behind them . . . something always stirred inside her, reminding her that for all the countryside’s virtues, this was her place.

  Well, until they move to the suburbs, that is. Her heart sinks just thinking about it.

  ‘Oh my God, remember that time you booked us a weekend away on one of those last-minute discount sites? Where our “secret top-grade hotel” turned out to be a caravan in the middle of a field?’ Lily laughs.

  ‘And where the “spa” was actually an outdoor mud bath . . . well, more like mud puddle,’ Charlotte recalls with a snort. That weekend should have been a disaster, but she and Lily had a blast rolling around in the mud as rain poured from the leaden sky. Their caravan had no heat, no TV and a toilet that barely flushed, but somehow the time had flown by as they made their way through the stack of board games and trashy paperbacks while sipping the paint-stripper cocktails Lily had concocted.

  ‘I promise it’ll actually be posh this time,’ Charlotte says. ‘With heating.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Lily’s voice is hesitant. ‘Right now, Liam starts crying if I put him down for even a second. It’s hard to picture being away from him for that long. But maybe in a year or two, when I’m finished breastfeeding. Some mums in my group are planning on breastfeeding as long as their kids want to. I’m not sure I’ll go that far, but I am aiming for two years.’

  Charlotte tries to stop a yelp from escaping. Two years? What about work? Lily loves her teaching job, and despite her constant complaints about her students, they love her, too. Charlotte’s seen the little notes and cards they give her at the end of each school year, surprisingly touching for secondary school hooligans. ‘You’re not planning to go back to teaching?’ The question pops out before she remembers that perhaps she should already know the answer.

  ‘We’ll see,’ Lily responds. ‘I want to savour these early years – they’ll only come around once. I love my students, but I don’t want to be pulled between them and Liam. I don’t want to be a crap teacher and a crap mother, and to be honest, I’m not sure I can do both well.’ She pauses. ‘Most of the mums in my group think the same way. Only one is going back to work after three months, and we all feel so sorry for her. I can’t imagine being away from Liam all day, every day.’

  Only one is going back to work? Shit. Charlotte had thought her all-in attitude towards motherhood was an exception, propelled forward by her daughter’s tough start. But maybe there are more women out there like her than she’d thought – women who haven’t been through what she has and who still want to give their all; women who’d had good jobs and a full life before kids.

  Women who prefer to put ‘mother’ as their primary occupation.

  Surely it hasn’t always been like that? Charlotte thinks back to her own mother, who went on a work trip to Kenya for three weeks when Charlotte was only a few months old – she still has the doll her mother brought back somewhere. And her mother wasn’t alone. Her mum’s friends were similar, heading off for nights out and leaving their children in the care of teens who were barely out of childhood themselves.

  Her mother. As Liam’s cries filter down the phone and Lily hurriedly says goodbye, Charlotte wonders when she last spoke to her mum. She’s been travelling on and off since the accident, and despite an elaborate game of phone tag (typical for the two of them), Charlotte has yet to tell her of the memory loss. It’s always been like that: whenever Charlotte had a problem, she’d go to her father for help and support. After his death, she would turn to Lily . . . and then David. Her mum was the one to provide practical advice and workplace strategies, not emotional support, and Charlotte was fine with that. They may not have had a typical lovey-dovey mother–daughter relationship, but her mother was a great role model. She was the first to encourage Charlotte to work harder, to never take no for an answer, and to never let anyone derail her from her chosen career path. Charlotte had tried her best to emulate her – with success.

  What did her mother think of her daughter now that she was a stay-at-home mum? Would Charlotte have talked to her about how happy she was being a mother, or would she have shied away from disappointing the woman whose drive and ambition she’d always admired?

  Suddenly Charlotte feels the urge to talk to her . . . to someone who knows what it’s like to want more from life than procreation. She pulls up her mother’s contact and hits ‘Call’, praying she picks up this time.

  ‘Charlotte!’ Her mum’s smooth voice comes on the line. ‘Long time no talk, my dear. I’m sorry, it’s been absolute craziness over here, as per usual. How are you? How’s my granddaughter?’

  ‘We’re all fine,’ Charlotte says, pleased that, despite the passage of time, some things have remained the same. For as long as she can remember, it’s been ‘absolute craziness’ at her mother’s office. ‘Well, some of us more than others.’

  ‘Oh?’ Charlotte can hear her mother clacking away on her laptop; she’s always been the queen of multitasking. Charlotte would be offended, but she knows her mum can do half a dozen things at once much better than someone focusing on one thing at a time.

  ‘I was in an accident a few weeks ago,’ Charlotte says. ‘And, well . . . I can’t remember anything from the past four years or so. I mean, not getting pregnant, not having Anabelle, none of it.’

  ‘Crikey,’ her mum says without missing a beat, and Charlotte smiles. Typical Mum, taking everything in her stride. ‘Have you been to the doctor, just to make sure everything’s okay?’

  ‘I have,’ Charlotte answers. ‘A top neurologist in Harley Street, who told me the memories may or may not come back. All I can do is wait.’

  ‘Well, that’s helpful,’ her mother says with derision.

  Charlotte laughs. Exactly what she’d thought. God, it’s good to talk to her. ‘I know. And I’ve been trying to carry on as I did before the accident, but . . . it feels so weird. I mean, I feel like I’m living someone else’s life.’ Her voice tightens as frustration churns inside, and tears fill her eyes. ‘It sounds like I was incredibly happy, staying home with Anabelle. But right now, I can’t help feeling I’ve thrown away everything I used to want. And I miss it, you know. I miss going to the office, the meetings, everything. I miss being me.’ The words leave her mouth in an anguished cry, and a tear streaks down her cheek as she realises just how much she means them.

  ‘Oh, my dear,’ her mum says in a soft voice, and for an instant, Charlotte would give anything to have her mother’s arms around her, even though she can’t remember the last time they hugged. ‘It must be an incredible adjustment for you right now. I can’t begin to imagine. How are you holding up?’

  Charlotte sighs. ‘I’m trying. I’m doing everything I can to remember being a mother, why I wanted to stay home. But . . .’

  ‘But?’ her mum prompts.

  ‘Well, there are some good bits,’ Charlotte says in a rush, as if to justify what she’s about to say. ‘I mean, Anabelle’s a great kid. And it is nice to see the outside world in daylight. It’s fun doing silly stuff with her.’ Charlotte smiles as she thinks of the slug painting and the fun they’d had with flour. Anabelle’s bright face flashes into her mind, and a warm feeling goes through her. ‘But just staying home . . . it’s not enough. I wish it was, but it’s not.’

  Her mum laughs. ‘It wasn’t for me, either.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Charlotte’s mouth drops open. ‘You never stayed home with me – not for a long time, anyway. You were back
to work after weeks.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true,’ her mum says. ‘But within a few months, the company made me redundant. I was the easiest candidate, since I’d come back from maternity leave, even if I wasn’t off for long. I was home with you for a few months while I looked for other work, and I have to say that those few months – even with your father around – were the most challenging of my life. I was chomping at the bit to get back to work, although your father said he could find a job and let me stay at home.’ She pauses. ‘That doesn’t mean I loved you any less, that I didn’t care about your future, or that I was any less of a mum. It just means that that set-up wasn’t for me.’

  ‘Oh, I know,’ Charlotte says quickly. ‘But I was happy before the accident, you know? Happy with this life. It was for me.’

  ‘Perhaps you were content,’ her mum said. ‘But things change, and there’s no right or wrong way to be a mum. You need to do what you think is best for your family . . . and for you. You may have a child – a child who had a difficult start – but you are still a person in your own right. I sometimes wondered if you’d forgotten that, although you rabidly denied any suggestion of it. Maybe this is your chance to remember.’ She laughs. ‘Bad choice of words, but you know what I mean.’

  Charlotte nods. ‘I do know what you mean.’

  There’s a voice in the background, and her mother sighs. ‘Right, I’d better go,’ she says. ‘Call me later, if you want. We can chat more then.’

  Charlotte clicks off, gazing over at Anabelle as her mother’s words run through her head. There’s no right or wrong way to be a mum. Is she right? Does every woman need to make their own way forward through the tangle of clashing identities, needs and wants to strike a balance that works for them? Charlotte knows with absolute certainty now that she can’t stay at home with her daughter any longer, but is it possible to embrace her career with the same pre-kid fervour and be a mother at the same time, or – as Lily worries – will she fail at both? She’s only really starting to learn how to be a mother again.

  She pictures herself living the life her mum did: rarely seeing her daughter on weekdays, working late into the night and flying off for weeks on end, and something twists inside her. How would Anabelle cope? Would she miss her mother and cry for her at night? After all, the little girl has been with her non-stop since she was born, barring those few days after the accident. Charlotte watches as she happily shoves a dolly’s hand into her mouth. She’ll adjust – that’s what people always say about kids, isn’t it? That they’re so adaptable? As her own mother did for her, she’d be providing Anabelle with a brilliant role model.

  And as for David, well . . . he might be distant, but hopefully he’d jump at the chance to bond with his daughter again by taking over some of her care, as he did after the accident. Maybe Charlotte going back to work will ease some of his guilt about Anabelle’s condition, too. Or maybe not? She sighs, wondering again if they will be able to reconnect.

  She’ll miss the time she’s spent with Anabelle, Charlotte realises suddenly. But it’s time to take her life off pause. Maybe her memories will come back in a gush or a trickle. Maybe she’ll never remember those few missing years. But there’s one thing she knows for sure: this life of absolute motherhood isn’t for her, any more than it was for her mother.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  14 May

  Already it’s been six months since Anabelle was born . . . six months of fear, of worry, of guilt, of love. Six months, and my world has changed beyond all recognition.

  Life goes on outside the flat. The buses heave past the window, their brakes squealing as if in pain. Green leaves have sprouted on trees, and pollen dances in the golden sun. Heavy grey skies give way to blue, and bare shoulders and legs appear in place of winter woollies as people hurry to work.

  But instead of blossoming like the world around me, I’m still in winter mode: wrapped up snugly, keeping what’s dear close by. My life consists of these four walls. I know every squeak of the floorboard that threatens to wake Anabelle, and my eyes have traced each crack in the ceiling as I wait for her to sleep. I know the number of steps from our bedroom to the lounge and back again, as I jiggle her back and forth, back and forth. I know how the patch of sun moves from the front window to the back, telling me what time it is without me even looking at the clock.

  This is my domain now, mine and my daughter’s, with David like a guest in our household. He hasn’t spent the hours here each day like I have – the hours I hadn’t, either, before Anabelle was born. He doesn’t know the dog that barks each day at eleven o’clock, or the thunk of the post at two. These daily markers anchor my day, and they’re all foreign to him.

  He doesn’t know Anabelle like I do, either: the shuddery sigh that means she’s succumbed to sleep, or the high-pitched squeal when something delights her. She is a subject I’ve studied exhaustively, almost as if I’m going to be tested. Her latest check-up shows I’ve passed: her weight and development are right on track, she’s wonderfully chubby, and the stronger she gets, the more the sharp pain of what I’ve done eases. So far, I’ve managed to sidestep the consequences of my carelessness, and I’ve never been more thankful.

  David seems happy to hand her care over to me; he’s finally moved aside. Where before he’d attempt to give her a bottle, now he looks at me when she cries. He doesn’t try to take her out to the park without me, and he doesn’t dress her without consultation on temperature, weather and general atmospheric pressure. He doesn’t give me that look any more when I worry if she’s ill, or not eating, or that she feels a little warm – a look I still can’t decipher.

  He’s stopped trying to get me to go out, too. I have to give him credit: he persisted for a while after the disastrous Valentine’s Day, only backing off when I told him he could book us dinner at the Ritz and I still wouldn’t go; that nothing he could offer would tempt me away from my daughter. The words were harsh and I regretted them the instant they were out, but his kindness was killing me. He wouldn’t be kind if he knew what I’d done . . . or, rather, what I should have done.

  We haven’t made love since Anabelle was born. And now that I’m over those exhausting newborn days, I do miss him – miss the closeness and intimacy – but I still can’t open myself up. The heavy weight of guilt pressing down on me is only just starting to shift, and the thorn inside my heart is twisting less . . . or maybe I’m getting used to it. I can breathe now and look around; I can fill my lungs instead of gasping with my eyes shut tight. But I can’t move towards anything other than my daughter, and it’s easier to push him away and tell him I’m tired. Half the time, he falls asleep on the sofa. Not wanting to disturb me and Anabelle, he ends up staying there all night.

  Miriam keeps going on about baby groups, play dates and music classes. She even printed out a schedule of all the activities in the area, highlighting ones she thinks I’ll enjoy and talking about the benefits of meeting other stay-at-home mothers. The phrase made me jerk: is that what I am? Although I’ve quit my job, I’ve never really thought of myself like that, and something about the words made my gut shift uncomfortably.

  Even if I am a stay-at-home mum, I can’t picture myself striking up friendships with the mothers I see when I do take Anabelle out, on those rare occasions when the sun actually shines: all bouncy hair, immaculate make-up and back in their skinny jeans already. I’m lucky if I can fit a leg into mine, but then losing weight hasn’t exactly been high on my list of priorities. I couldn’t care less how I look right now. I’ve even started growing out my hair so I don’t need to hit the hair salon every six weeks like I used to. Anyway, I don’t need more company. Anabelle and I are happy together, just the two of us.

  The only person I’ve seen more than a handful of times is Lily . . . Lily, who’s still trying to have her baby. I’d feared our friendship was over, but she’s surprised me by dropping in every few weeks, bearing gifts: soft toys for Anabelle, bubble bath and chocolate for me (chocolate devoure
d; bubble bath still unopened). She stares at Anabelle with a mixture of such envy and longing that I have to look away. I understand, in a way I never did before, how lucky I am to have my daughter. Seeing Lily is a harsh reminder of how flippant I was about having children, and how woefully negligent I was with my daughter in the womb.

  In her eyes, I am different now. I’m not the person she met over dinner just a few months ago . . . the woman who was heading back to work after just six weeks. Six weeks! I’m a mother – a mother who almost lost her child, and she treats me with gravitas, asking question after question about Anabelle’s health and how she’s getting on, telling me how much she admires my total dedication to my child. It almost feels like she’s put me on a pedestal, as if my desire to protect my child, that fierce maternal instinct she thought I lacked, will somehow inspire her body to procreate. I hope it can. If anyone deserves it, it’s her.

  After each visit from my oldest friend, I’m left feeling off-balance, like there’s a mismatch between what she’s seeing and what I actually am. Because my decision to quit my job wasn’t just down to a desire to be with Anabelle. That was a huge part of it, of course, but it was also down to guilt – guilt, and a fear that I might let that job hurt my daughter again. Stepping away from Cellbril was a kind of atonement, a way to prove to myself that I am worthy of my daughter, despite my earlier actions.

  Six months later – six wonderful months cocooned with my daughter – and I’m only too happy to have left that world. I had to, for me and for Anabelle. I’ll never regret it. But lately, in the dark of night when everything is silent and it’s just me awake, I get out of bed and pad to the kitchen – past David on the sofa – and stand there, gazing out the window. I stare at the life on the street below, and I remember striding down the pavement in my high heels, the potential of the day pulling me forward. I remember feeling my brain buzzing, my phone bleeping.