Karl said, you haven’t told us what you do.
I pointed to the cake. She does this, I said, and we all laughed.
I used to work as a set designer, Merry said, almost inaudibly.
For movies? Karl asked.
Movies, TV shows, often just TV commercials.
Yes, I said, she was always constructing these little made-up worlds. Kitchens and living rooms, those generic sets you see on all the crappy ads. Disinfectant hand soap or mattresses.
Well, there were some more interesting projects, Merry said.
I had a sudden memory of her coming home one night with a green armchair she’d spent all day tracking down. She’d asked me to help her haul it up to our apartment. I remember how I resented that chair, and her for interrupting me for help with something so silly while I was grading papers. The job was beneath her. Beneath us.
I looked at her now. She had that look she gets from time to time. Pensive. Melancholic. Like she is slipping away. Forgetting herself.
I took another mouthful of cake. God, this is good, isn’t it?
Yes, Karl agreed. It’s a very good cake.
Merry blinked and smiled.
Do you plan to find something similar over here? Elsa asked. There are a lot of shows shot locally, in Stockholm or Gothenburg. It would be very convenient, very close by for you.
I caught Merry’s eye, and she shook her head. No, she said. It’s good to just focus on motherhood for now. That’s really the most important thing.
Before they left, I took Karl inside to show him my collection of African masks. Six carved wooden faces: three from the Ivory Coast, one from Benin, two Igbo fertility masks from my semester in Nigeria.
How exotic, he said.
They are terrifying. Elsa shuddered.
I laughed. Merry feels the same way. She’s been begging me to put them away in a box for years.
Elsa smiled. And still they are on the wall, she said.
After we said our goodbyes, I closed the door and pulled Merry to me.
That was fun, I said.
Yes, she said.
Aren’t they like wax models, those two?
Yes, she said. Elsa is flawless.
I made a mental note to take Karl up on his offer to go hunting, while Merry went to finish the last of the cleaning up, packing dishes into the dishwasher, wiping down the countertops, gathering the crumbs into her hand.
I lifted Conor off the rug and into my arms. He smelled of Elsa’s perfume. And shit.
I handed him over to Merry. Looks like it’s time for a diaper change, I said.
I watch the baby through the bars of his crib. A little prison, to keep him safely inside. He watches me. He does not smile. I do not bring him joy.
Well. The feeling is mutual.
I look at his face. I watch closely for signs of change. They tell you that they transform all the time. They are supposed to resemble their father first, then their mother, then back again. But he is only me. All me. Too much of me.
His eyes stare, a constant reproach. Accusatory. Remember, they say, remember what you have done. I’m sorry, I whisper, and look away.
My bars are not bars. They are glass and trees. The glass cage that is our house, the huge glass windows all around that Ida’s father installed to maximize light and space. The ancient tall pines that block off the light. My island exile, all escapes closed off, all outside life shut out. Just us.
Sam and me and the baby.
All we need, Sam says.
Is it? I say. Doesn’t it feel like we’re the last three survivors of a plane crash?
Oh … He laughs at my silliness.
He was off in Stockholm or Uppsala today – I forget which – playing his show reel for ad executives and producers. He is trying hard to make this work. He really is doing his best. He always does. Family, he says: nothing matters more. This is why we moved here, a new start, the very best place to raise a family. How he loves the baby. How he adores every part of him and every little thing he does. Once, he looked at me like this, as though I were a wonder of nature, a rare being to worship and adore.
Ba-ba. Ma-ma. Pa-pa.
Everything we say is broken into two syllables.
Bird-ee.
Hors-ee.
Hous-ie.
The baby eats some of the time but not always. Often I make him food and eat it myself, letting him watch as I spoon it into my mouth.
See? No mess.
I offer him the spoon and he shakes his head.
The baby cries a lot but forms no words. He rocks on his belly but does not yet know how to crawl. There are milestones that I am surely supposed to be checking and am not. The copy Sam bought me of The Ultimate Guide to Baby’s First Year lies unopened next to the bed, under a tube of organic rose hand cream that sends five percent of its profits to the preservation of the rain forest.
You read it, right?
Of course, I lie. It was terrifically informative.
The baby. My baby. He has a name, but somehow I can’t bring myself to say it out loud. Conor Jacob Hurley. Naturally, Sam named him. Conor Jacob, he said, Jacob after his best friend from high school who was lost at sea on a round-the-world sailing trip. Conor in deference to Sam’s vaguely Irish roots. Conor Jacob. Conor Jacob Hurley. It was decided, written down on the tag on his tiny wrist. I read it. I mouthed the words of my son’s name. Conor Jacob Hurley.
The balloons next to the hospital bed were baby blue. One had already burst, its deflated remains drifting forlornly among the rest.
Would you like to hold your son? the nurse offered.
If Sam was out of the room, I would shake my head.
He believes I am a good mother, the very best kind. Devoted and all-nurturing and selfless. Without a self. Perhaps he is right about the last part. Sometimes I wonder myself: Where am I? Or: Was there anyone there to begin with?
The days Sam isn’t home always feel like a vacation. The baby and I have no audience to impress. Usually, I don’t shower. I don’t change out of my nightgown. I sit on the couch watching reality TV, my dirty little habit (one of many, I should add). I cannot get enough. Plastic women devouring each other, housewives and teen mothers. How they play at being real, when really it’s all for the cameras. Still, everyone pretends not to know. The conspiracy is a success.
Most days, I eat wedges of butter to stave off my sugar cravings and keep my weight down, but when Sam’s away, I unpack my hidden stash from the barrel of the washing machine and indulge in whole bags of crisps and cookies, which I smuggle home from the grocery store under packs of diapers and organic detergent. I am vile. Terrifically unladylike. I pick at my toenails and squeeze out the ingrown hairs from my legs. Sam would shudder if ever he saw me like this. Sometimes I shudder myself, at this version of me. Well, she will need to be banished once Frank arrives. There will be no such escapes for a while.
Some days, I think it would be nice to go out, to leave our little island territory, but of course Sam has the car. It’s an hour on foot to get anywhere from here, and forty minutes’ walk to the nearest bus station. Sam bought himself a mountain bike for the trails, but it’s been ruled out for me. Too dangerous, he said, with a baby.
That leaves us stuck. Just us.