I don’t know if I can survive that long. Every breath is agony.
‘Hold on, baby,’ Rob says, kissing my forehead, his eyes bright with tears. ‘It’s going to be okay.’
But I can’t imagine it’s ever going to be okay again.
***
Tuesday, 7:12am
Post Natal Ward, Brave Cove Hospital
Monday’s child is fair of face, Tuesday’s child is full of grace.
I can’t remember the rest, but that’s what’s going around in my head as I gaze at Ruby’s funny, squashed face. She is a Monday child, but so far the poem is proving to be inaccurate. At this moment she kind of reminds me of an old man. I don’t think she’s going to be very pretty, but I’m sure I’ll love her anyway. I can’t work out who she looks like just yet. But her colouring is all mine.
It’s bizarre to be holding this creature. I’m not one of those people who think all newborns are beautiful, and it seems my own child is no exception. But she is pretty miraculous, even if the very sight of her fills me with a panic so intense I almost can’t breathe.
Rob is in love. It’s almost worth it, seeing his face. He got to feed her her first meal while I was in recovery, after they couldn’t get any colostrum from me. It’s all fine, now, though, as she’s breastfeeding like a champion. I didn’t get to see her until this morning, however, because the pain team didn’t make it to me until three fucking thirty in the morning and once the morphine finally kicked in I passed out cold from sheer exhaustion.
The social workers have been in, as apparently the entire medical team who witnessed the birth, and learned of what happened afterwards, was worried that I might experience some post-traumatic stress. But seriously. I’m not worried about what happened before, that bit’s over. I’m worried about what on earth I’m going to do next, how we’re going to work out how this tiny creature fits in to our lives. Everything feels different now. And all I feel is a distant sort of terror.
Ruby makes a face and a different feeling takes over. I go cold. The expression that passed across her face in that moment was so familiar that I knew. I knew with cold-blooded certainty that the very thing I hoped wasn’t true, is. I glance worriedly at Rob. He meets my gaze and there’s the tiniest of frowns between his eyebrows, as if he is carefully considering something.
It’s then I feel the stab of an entirely different sort of terror.
Chapter 5
Liz
June, 2017
Monday, 6:45am
It’s the first time we’ve been separated for any significant length of time. Well, aside from Adam’s brief trip to Australia when his dad was first diagnosed with cancer. But at that time, I was still so consumed by what had happened at work I scarcely noticed.
This is different. I get the distinct feeling that the honeymoon is over – and, I suppose, technically it is. Adam kisses me on the nose and smooths my bed hair down behind my ears and though I put on a brave face, I can already feel the empty day stretching ahead of me. Bleak, pointless hours. I can’t think of it, I have to focus on something, so I pull my husband closer and kiss him on the mouth. I draw him in, gratified by the immediate hardness against my hip and the surprised, slightly annoyed look he gives me.
‘You can’t do that, Lizzie. It’s not fair,’ he says, slightly breathless.
‘I miss you already. We’ve barely even had time to speak this morning.’
‘I know. And I’ll miss you like crazy. It’s not ideal, I know.’ He pins me with that intense gaze of his that makes me feel both treasured and unsettled. ‘God knows this is the last thing I want to do.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’
Adam’s gaze softens. ‘Don’t be. I understand.’ He presses his lips to my forehead. ‘Take the chance to relax. Remember what the doctor said about exercising and keeping up the meds.’
I nod, once.
‘And now I really have to go.’ He kisses me, too briefly, and lifts his satchel over his shoulder. ‘Bye, darling.’
And just like that, I’m alone.
***
8:30am
Back in London, I’d be on my way to work by now. Hell, I’d probably have already made my way from Liverpool Street to Euston, stealing sips from my precariously balanced refillable coffee cup, having inserted myself into a crammed tube carriage and lugged that cumbersome old briefcase I keep meaning to replace the two and a half blocks to my office building. I can almost smell the petrol fumes, the summer air, the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans and bacon grease.
As a case worker for a counselling and respite centre for woman in crisis, my job could get pretty intense. You’d think I’d be grateful for the break from it all, but in truth it was a matter of necessity. After my client, Christy and her six-month-old baby Bella were found murdered, I didn’t take it too well. I felt guilty, started having nightmares. Night terrors more like. I felt I’d failed her as her case worker. I should have seen the signs, listened to her fears. This had never happened to me before, and I simply couldn’t process it.
And then it was politely suggested by my boss that I might want to take some compassionate leave. They provide free counselling for employees, he said. You’ve been through a trauma; it’s the best thing for you.
I took the hint.
I saw a counsellor, was put on some meds and over the last few months I’ve been improving. But I know Adam worries, and he wishes we didn’t have to go through all this business with selling the house when I’m still recovering. I stare out of the grimy kitchen window as I pour the cold remains of my coffee down the sink. I find myself longing to be with Adam in Sydney, but if we’re to get out of here as soon as is humanly possible – and God knows that’s what I want – someone is going to have to sort through and get rid of all of Tim’s things of which, thankfully, there are few. I thought Adam might want to do it, but he’s said he doesn’t care what happens to any of it. I suppose I’ll see if there’s anything of value to sell and then throw away the rest.
Pinpricks of light sparkle like stars on the surface of the creek and the houses over the other side, shadowed by night when I saw them last, stand gleaming white in their grand, colonial-style glory. Large bay windows look out like lidded eyes and lush green lawns slope down towards the shimmering water.
London feels a world away from here.
I look for the woman from last night, but her curtains are drawn. The house to the right appears empty, but on the left, in the least grand of the three houses, the one with the peeling paint and shabby awnings, the curtains are open on the top floor. There’s movement in the window. A man – no, a boy? I can’t tell as his back is to me – stands shirtless, lifting weights. I watch him for a moment, mesmerised by his rhythmic movements. Then I shake my head and look away.
Someone’s in the backyard of the house on the right. It’s surrounded by a beautiful garden, full of brightly coloured flowers and lush with shrubs and trees. A woman stands beneath a row of trees that descend in size from left to right. What did Adam say her name was? Erica. Erica and Samir. She’s on her knees on the grass, her face in her hands.
It’s hard to tell from here, but it looks like she might be crying. Short, pale hair fluttering in the breeze, Erica stands and pulls something from her pocket and runs it across her face. A tissue, most likely. She reaches up towards one of the four trees and runs a hand over the leaves and then – wait, is it my imagination or did she just plant a kiss on one of the branches? I rub my eyes. Ridiculous. I must be seeing things.