The Puzzle of You

by Leah Mercer

  ‘You know, like running and stuff. Making your muscles work. It’s good for the brain.’ She catches her daughter on her next slide and corrals her into her trainers, then goes into the bedroom to look for her own. They must be here somewhere. She may not have been very sporty over the past few years, but she must own some form of sporty footwear? Not that she and Anabelle are going to do anything hardcore, but it’d be nice to wear proper footgear for once.

  She roots around in her wardrobe, uncovering some Spandex leggings and her Brighton Colour Run T-shirt, smiling at the memory. She loves running alone – she always gets way too competitive if she’s alongside someone else – but this time, she’d cajoled David into doing the run with her. It was an untimed race and the whole point of it was to have fun, jogging and skipping through a cacophony of colour. They’d gripped each other’s hands as paint rained down on them, staining their faces, arms and legs until they looked almost like alien creatures. The sky was bright blue, the sea sparkled in the sunshine and gulls wheeled above them. It was like a dream, and they barely noticed when they crossed the finish line. They would have kept going forever, if they could, in that perfect state.

  Tears fill her eyes now, and she takes a deep breath. Things had been perfect. So why had they decided to have children? They must have thought they could integrate a child seamlessly into their lives; and maybe if Anabelle had been born healthy, they could have. But she wasn’t, and they didn’t. Instead, they’ve ended up miles apart – soon, quite literally. Before she can wipe them away, the tears spill down her cheeks.

  ‘Mummy, what’s wrong?’ Anabelle crawls on to her lap and winds her arms around Charlotte. ‘Does something hurt?’

  Charlotte leans into her daughter, breathing in her warm soapy scent as the emotions inside her quieten. She rocks Anabelle back and forth, feeling the little girl’s limbs relax into her as the tight knot inside her relaxes, too. She’d known she could calm Anabelle, but she hadn’t realised her daughter could calm her, too. The warm heavy weight of her body is beyond comforting, unlike anything she’s ever experienced.

  ‘I’ll be okay,’ she says, hoping that’s true. It has to be true, because she needs to hold it together – not just for herself now, but for Anabelle, too.

  ‘Right.’ Charlotte forces a smile. ‘Let’s get going.’ She laces up her Converse trainers, having been unable to uncover her proper running shoes, then takes her daughter’s hand and they head outside. As she races Anabelle down the pavement, she thinks that while it might not be the 10k run she used to do every day, at least she’s running again . . . this time with her daughter by her side.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  25 December

  It’s Christmas, and this one couldn’t be more different to last year. Back then, I was so shrouded in the trauma of Anabelle’s birth and the exhaustion of the newborn phase that I barely knew what day it was and clung to our routine like a lifeboat. Today, I have submerged us in a sea of Christmas, eager to celebrate what we have; eager to highlight the difference between then and now.

  Eager to show that at last, I’m ready. I am all in . . . all mother.

  This feels like our first real Christmas as a family, even if our daughter is over a year old now. I can barely believe it, but then I watch her stagger across the floor to grab a shiny ornament, and it’s obvious she isn’t the tiny, translucent infant who nestled in my arms. And although many mums say they wish they could turn back the clock, I wouldn’t go there for anything. I can’t, anyway. I’m nothing like that fearful person, terrified I couldn’t keep my daughter safe. I was right to be scared, as it turned out. But now, well . . . that woman is gone. She has to be. There’s no other way.

  Anabelle’s first birthday, just days after her release from hospital, felt like a birth day for me, too: a new beginning, a fresh start. I’ve made horrific mistakes, but that’s all behind me. It’s still early days, but I’m slowly starting to close the gap between how others see me (the ‘wonderful mother’) and how I see myself; how I feel about myself. I will become that wonderful mother if it kills me.

  It was a small birthday party – I didn’t want to excite Anabelle too much – with just David, Miriam and me. Mum had a meeting at work and Lily was still teaching, but Miriam turned up with bells on . . . literally. I couldn’t believe it when she jingled in dressed as a clown, but Anabelle loved it.

  Watching Miriam with my daughter has made me appreciate her in a whole new way – well, appreciate her, full stop. I love how she drops everything to help her granddaughter; how she’s always been there to lend a hand, even when she’s not actually needed. How she sat in the hospital room recently with me, when David had to go to work and the days stretched, long and lonely, at Anabelle’s side. How she never forgets to bring Anabelle’s favourite rice cakes when she visits, and how my daughter’s face lights up when she sees her grandmother. Her children and her family are her world, and it’s something I need to learn. Something I am learning.

  I never thought I’d look up to Miriam as my role model. I’d always considered Mum the ultimate one to emulate. But . . . my heart gives a pang when I think of how little she knows about her granddaughter, and how she doesn’t seem bothered. The birthday gift she sent was the same thing she gave us when Anabelle was born (a super-soft bunny with The Velveteen Rabbit book), and Anabelle was as perplexed by her Christmas gift of brush-and-comb set as I was, given there’s still hardly a hair on her head.

  I don’t expect Mum to make Anabelle a top priority. I know what she’s like, because I was like that, too – or I would have been, if things had been different. But I’ve chosen another route now, a path that follows Miriam’s rather than hers. A path where my child is my world, now and in the future.

  So this Christmas is all about Anabelle. I went a bit overboard – David kept cringing with every new purchase, but couldn’t he see it was worth it? – buying a huge fake Christmas tree we could barely fit inside the lounge, a handmade stocking for Anabelle, the most gorgeous red smocked dress with tights, and present after present. What with all her birthday gifts, too, she has so many toys that we can barely move without tripping over something, but her squeals of delight as she tore off the paper were priceless. Granted, she was more interested in the box half the time than the toy inside, but that’ll come. I snapped photo after photo until my phone ran out of storage, glancing through them with nostalgia before the day had even finished.

  I was so caught up in making this her first proper Christmas at home that I let the side down a bit when it came to buying David’s gifts. In the past, I’d always showered him with armloads of presents, from expensive boxers to bottles of cologne to watches. Despite his pleas to tone it down – that he didn’t need anything – I’d wave them away and go wild. I loved him, and I wanted to show it. Besides, Christmas wasn’t about giving people what they needed, right?

  But this year, well . . . I thought I’d take my husband at his word. He wasn’t one for excesses, and besides, we both had this new little person on whom to shower our love. I got him a few bits and bobs, but even I have to admit my main gift to him of a silk tie from M&S was a little underwhelming. It was just that . . . unlike previous years, when I knew exactly what he was eyeing up and lusting after, this year I had no idea.

  I had no space in my mind for any idea – I had to throw myself into fully embodying my new role. Ever since Anabelle’s recent discharge from hospital, everything has been about her . . . not that, outwardly, it’s any different to how things were before. Inside, though, I feel different. I don’t miss anything about my old world now, not even my husband. It feels like my love for David is part of my former life; part of the person I had to bury. In order to access it, I’d need to resurrect that woman, and there’s no way I’m risking that – there’s no way I’m risking my daughter.

  Not again.

  I could tell by the flicker of hurt on David’s face when he opened my gift that he expected something more, though. That
he had hoped I’d made room for him in my mind . . . in my heart.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ he said, meeting my eyes with what looked like a forced grin. ‘It’ll go wonderfully with my grey suit.’ He cleared his throat and put it aside, and I bit my lip. I hadn’t meant to hurt him. I just needed to focus on Anabelle.

  ‘Here, give this to Mummy,’ David said, reaching behind him to grab a rectangular-shaped box. He sat back and smiled as Anabelle kicked her way through the shiny foil littering the floor and practically threw the box at me.

  ‘Thank you, honey,’ I said to her, even though I was really thanking David. The box was heavy in my hands and I glanced over at him, wondering what he’d bought me. In past years, I’d always given him a list, preferring to receive gifts I wanted rather than the element of surprise. But this time, I realised, I’d given him no clues at all.

  I tore off the wrapping paper and removed the top of the box, revealing the most high-tech pair of trainers I think I’d ever owned (and I’d owned many over the years). They were so white they practically hurt my eyes, and the fluorescent orange and pink trimming, which could have been so garish, contrasted perfectly. I lifted one from the box, revelling in how it felt so light yet solid at the same time. Before I could stop myself, I’d slipped both of them on, flexing my feet and envisioning how I’d fly through the park. I could almost feel the steady beating of my heart, the way the fresh air cleansed my lungs, how—

  ‘I knew you’d love them.’ David’s voice interrupted my reverie; I’d almost forgotten where I was. ‘It’s been so long since you went for a run. It’s well past time for you to do something for yourself again.’

  I met his steady gaze, the glorious images in my mind blanching to white then turning black. The trainers felt like concrete on my feet, dragging me down towards a well of guilt and fear – towards the person who’d planned to run until her waters broke; someone who’d never even thought running might damage her child. Yes, they were just shoes, but they were also a signpost to a past littered with carelessness and mistakes, and I could no more hit the streets with them now than I could turn back time.

  But I wanted to run. Oh, how I wanted to. Desire surged inside of me, almost taking away my breath with its intensity.

  I jerked the shoes off my feet like they’d scalded my soles, ignoring David’s surprised expression. I couldn’t let myself slip backwards. I couldn’t let one crack appear in this still-fragile mould of a mother I wanted so desperately to harden, in case it should fall completely apart. I am all in, and I’ll find another way to fly.

  This time with my daughter firmly in tow.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  A week passes, and then another, and Charlotte is no closer to finding a job – a job that she wants, anyway, with pay levels and responsibility that reflect her expertise. She’s registered with countless recruitment agencies, sent out a multitude of CVs and even had an interview, but . . . nothing. And while she knows these things can take time, she can’t help feeling frustrated that it’s going so slowly – and that it’s not just one recruiter who has issues with her résumé gap. It’s pretty much all of them.

  Charlotte shakes her head, anger rushing into her, just thinking of the last recruitment consultant she’d spoken to. He’d advised that instead of telling employers she’d spent three years at home with her daughter, she should simply say she took a career break to write a book or climb mountains for charity . . . anything but raise a child. Never mind the fact that she hasn’t the foggiest how to pen a novel or that she’s terrified of heights. Apparently anything is better than eschewing the world of work to care for your daughter.

  Although she can’t even remember making the decision, she’s starting to feel incredibly defensive about it. Staying at home is hardly a holiday – in a way, it’s even harder than working. It’s non-stop from morning to night, and women hardly take time off to indulge themselves. They’re raising proper human beings, for goodness’ sake.

  David’s pitching in to help, despite his own busy schedule, making it home most nights in time to put Anabelle to bed and taking her out for a few hours at the weekends so Charlotte can focus on her search. He even helped her pick out a suit for the one interview she’d had, where it transpired she’d be more of a PA than the account executive the advert had led her to believe. It’s good he’s helping, but she can’t help wondering about his motivation. Does he actually want to help, or is he just trying to cram in as much support as he can before taking off? Is he keen to get her and Anabelle settled so he can leave sooner rather than later? Part of her wants to scream at him to just leave now – that they’ll be fine – but he is still Anabelle’s father.

  Rain streams down the windows, and she sighs at the thought of another day inside. They’ve used up all the watercolours, the Play-Doh has dried up, the tablet needs recharging . . . and she and Anabelle need to get out of the house. In desperation, she checks the WhatsApp mums’ group she muted weeks ago, eyebrows rising when she spots there’s a playgroup in a nearby church today. She’s so bored that it actually sounds like a good idea, even if she does need to face all those smug mums alone. Maybe she’ll try Lily again, just in case . . . She picks up her mobile and dials her friend’s number, but there’s no answer.

  Right, well, Lily may not be free this week or any time in the foreseeable future, but Charlotte needs to get out. It might be hell, but at least it’ll be a different kind of hell.

  Hopefully with coffee.

  One hour later, Charlotte can confirm that it is indeed hell. With rain slicing through the air, the whole of Chelsea (anyone with offspring, anyway) seems to have had the same idea, making their way to the church to let their kids loose. Stuffed full of children ranging from infants to preschoolers, the noise is deafening, with screams, bangs and laughter echoing off the high ramparts. Charlotte loses sight of her daughter within seconds as Anabelle streaks towards the crowd of kids racing madly from toy to toy, clambering through nylon tunnels and shoving their chubby bodies into too-small plastic cars.

  At least Anabelle’s safe here, Charlotte thinks, folding herself into a small wooden chair clearly meant for someone a quarter of her size. Not even a madman would come within fifty feet of this place.

  ‘Charlotte! Oh my goodness, is that you?’ A woman with the kind of tousled, dirty-blonde hair that looks natural but actually costs a fortune to maintain swoops into the chair beside her. Charlotte notes with envy how her bottom fits neatly into the small seat, while her own is hanging off the side. ‘We haven’t seen you for ages! I texted you but you never responded, naughty girl. Everything okay?’ She lifts her head. ‘Jo! Come here! Look who I’ve found!’

  A fine-boned, dark-haired woman turns from the counter by the kitchen, where she’s clutching two mugs of steaming liquid as if they’re more precious than diamonds. ‘Charlotte! Where the hell have you been?’ Jo laughs and crosses to them as the first woman shoots her an evil look – Charlotte’s not sure if it’s mock or not. ‘Whoops. Sorry, Jemma. Guess I shouldn’t swear in a church. Wouldn’t want you to lose the back-up church-school place you’ve been gunning for by hanging around with us heathens.’

  Jemma rolls her eyes, and Charlotte laughs, already liking Jo . . . a far cry from the type of smug mum she thought she’d find here. Maybe she should have replied to those messages, after all.

  ‘So? Where have you been?’ Jemma turns to lift a drooling baby from a car seat. ‘Can you hold her for a second while I sort out this one?’ Charlotte glances down at the toddler hanging on to his mother’s legs. God, she hadn’t even noticed that one.

  Charlotte nods and takes the baby, trying to avoid the drool dripping from her mouth. She looks up to meet Jo’s curious gaze and forces a smile, jiggling the baby on her lap with what she hopes resembles a practised air. Ugh, that drop of drool is getting closer and closer to falling on her leg . . .

  ‘Great. Thanks.’ Jemma lifts the baby from her arms just in the nick of time, seemingly oblivio
us to the smear of drool that’s now transferred to her arm. Charlotte wonders at what point you stop noticing your child’s bodily fluids.

  ‘Poor thing,’ Jemma says, stroking the baby’s head. ‘She’s been stuck in her car seat pretty much all morning. By the time you get to number three, they’re lucky if you can remember their names.’

  Charlotte gulps back a gasp. Three kids? God, this woman must adore being a mum. Either that or she’s certifiably insane.

  ‘Thank God I stopped at one,’ Jo says, sitting down. She carefully sets Jemma’s mug beside her on the floor. ‘I can’t imagine dealing with Henry’s tantrums and coping with a baby at the same time. You are a very brave woman.’

  ‘I wouldn’t even attempt to do it without a nanny.’ Jemma gestures towards a woman who’s trying to stop a little girl with two golden plaits from hitting a boy over the head with a spade. She turns to look at Charlotte. ‘Have you given any more thought to what I told you? About schools for Anabelle? Such a shame you didn’t put her name down for Penworth at birth. She and Felicity could have started together. It’ll be impossible to get her in now.’

  Charlotte shakes her head, trying to process the flow of words. At least they’re not talking about where she disappeared to any more. ‘Er, yes, I know. Such a shame. I—’

  ‘Layla!’ Jemma’s voice cuts through the noise around them. ‘Layla! Get Felicity down from there.’ She points to the front of the altar, where the blonde-haired girl is now climbing up a stone column, but Layla is busy chasing after the toddler. Jemma sighs and gets to her feet, lunging towards the column. Jo and Charlotte watch her in silence, Charlotte admiring her trim figure after three babies – and one barely out of the womb.

  ‘How are you?’ Jo flashes her a smile, then sips her drink. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch for so long.’ She grimaces. ‘You know how it is. After a full day with Henry, I barely have enough energy to crawl into bed. And then I see people like Jemma who have three and who still make them organic meals every day. Sure, she has a nanny, but still. Three! I’d gouge my eyes out.’