as if detecting sound. I jump to my feet.
‘What’s the matter?’ James’s voice is clipped.
‘Maybe Cory’s woken up?’
‘He’s not crying. He’ll be fine. Stay out here a little bit.’
I chew on my bottom lip while continuing to look down at the monitor, which has suddenly dropped down to two bars. ‘I think I best go and check on him. This thing is really active. Best to be on the safe side.’
‘He’ll be fine.’ James’s voice is a little harder this time, almost as if he’s annoyed. He takes out a packet of cigarettes and lights one, tips the packet over towards me. ‘For old times’ sake.’
I shake my head. ‘You know I haven’t smoked for years. I’m not about to start now.’
‘Suit yourself.’
I take a deep breath, confused as to why he’s tempting me with cigarettes, especially so soon after giving birth to our son. He knows how hard it was for me to quit smoking, especially given my issues. Cigarettes and red wine have always been my crutches, but as soon as we began trying for a child, I managed to quit both of them.
I have suffered with anxiety my whole life, depression coming and going in spits and spats. The illnesses are as much a part of me as my red hair and freckly skin. When I was a child I attended therapy for a while. The therapist’s name escapes me now but I remember how she smelt of ginger nuts and coffee, and her hair always looked messy even though her face was permanently plastered in make-up. She told me the darkness inside of me would one day go away, that it was only temporary, like a snotty nose or a grazed knee. I believed her at the time. I waited patiently for the scabs to heal, for her medicine to work its magic. But she was wrong. It wasn’t temporary, it wasn’t a grazed knee or a snotty nose. It was more like eczema, a lifetime affliction which flared up at the worst possible moments, needing only slight provocation.
Now, many years later, I am finally starting to believe that the therapist might have been right, that finally I can be free. Cory has to be the cure to my illness. I owe it to him as much as I owe it to myself. ‘Is there something else bothering you?’ I ask James. ‘Apart from your god-awful mother.’ I slide my eyes over towards him and hold my breath, proud of my courage even though a part of me is terrified of his answer.
A long silence stretches out between us. The smell of fresh smoke seeps up my nostrils and I feel my index and middle fingers twitch in response. ‘James?’ I whisper. ‘We can talk about whatever you want, you know.’
He shakes his head, slowly, almost deliberately. ‘I’m fine, Lou… there’s nothing to talk about.’ He flicks his half-smoked cigarette into the bush behind him, plummeting his face back into darkness.
‘You should use an ashtray.’
‘Shhh.’ I sense him freeze. ‘Can you hear that sound?’
I look over at him, his large bulk reminding me how small I really am. ‘Can I hear…?’
‘Quiet! I can hear something, in the trees… like footsteps.’
My blood runs cold. I look over towards the rear garden fence, the wasteland beyond overrun with bushes and trees. The bare branches seem to morph into creatures of the night, the wind cutting between their openings creating an audible whistling noise. ‘No, you can’t. It’s just the wind.’ My words are shaky, my tongue suddenly feeling too large for my mouth. I instinctively look back down at the baby monitor where two bars have lazily dipped down to one. ‘The signal isn’t good here. I need to check on Cory. Finish your cigarette. I’ll make us a drink and some supper.’ Quickly, I turn on my heel and run towards the house, deciding I’ve indulged in quite enough bravery for one night.
I sense James’s eyes on me the whole time. But I refuse to turn back around.
Sometimes it’s best not to look.
‘I prayed for this child, and the Lord has granted me what I asked of him.’ 1 Samuel 1: 27
I watch her from afar as she potters around in the brightly lit kitchen, dusting away crumbs from the work surface and straightening the tins in the overhead cupboard so the labels are facing outward. Her arse is stuffed into a pair of denim jeans, the waistband pulled up to her navel. It’s hard to believe by looking at her that she was ever pregnant; that something so precious dwelt inside of her for so long. The baby is stuck to her chest like a magnet, her hand resting underneath his bottom. She flicks on the kettle and spins round to grab two mugs off the draining board. This gives me the perfect vantage point from which to assess her. Studying her facial expressions, while she thinks nobody is watching, is the only way to accurately validate her mental state. It is crucial that I correctly diagnose her at this early stage. I have of course seen her expressions countless times before; have witnessed the whole spectrum of emotions flash across her face; from the dizzying heights of happiness to the darkest depths of despair.
Louisa is no stranger to me…
She doesn’t see me watching her, as she completely disregards her tea-making session a mere five seconds into it, perhaps realising that to pour boiling water into two mugs while holding a baby is a recipe for disaster. Of course she could have placed him down, or asked for help, but I doubt the thought even entered her pretty little head. He is ‘her’ child after all, and nobody is easily going to come between them. That isn’t a great concern to me though. I enjoy a challenge.
The little hospital ‘gift’ has most certainly had the desired effect. She is trying to disregard it, to place it at the back of her brain while telling herself there is a logical explanation. I know that is what she’ll be doing… because, as I previously mentioned, I know Louisa very well indeed. Unfortunately for her though, any attempt at logical thinking soon becomes drenched in anxiety until it is extinguished, her sanity reduced to flaky ashes which can be blown away in a puff.
The baby is exquisite though, all pale skin and red hair.
Yes, I prayed for a child just like him… and God has most certainly granted me my desire.
Louisa
Now
‘Hey, Lou, look, I think he might be smiling.’
I place my Kindle down on the nightstand, having not read a single word, and look over to where James is lying, Cory propped up on his thighs wearing nothing but a nappy and a smile. He’s now two weeks old and changing by the day. ‘Well, it does says in the book that babies properly smile around six weeks old; until then it’s most probably wind.’
‘Balls to the book. You’re a little prodigy, aren’t you, son?’ James sticks out his tongue and widens his eyes at Cory who wriggles around in response, his eyes transfixed on his daddy’s face as if it’s the most amazing thing he has ever seen.
‘He does pull that face a lot though, normally before taking a dump.’ I hold in a laugh, knowing that any talk of nappies sends James into a frenzy.
‘Oh God no.’ He covers his mouth with his hand as if he’s about to heave. ‘I’m still recovering from that one last week. Seriously it was horrific, right up his back like a lamb korma.’
I laugh. ‘You’ve told me a million times. It can’t have been that bad?’
In actual fact I had panicked when James had explained the colour and texture to me. I waited until he went shopping before calling the GP’s surgery, the snotty receptionist informing me that unless it was white there was no cause for concern. I wanted to ask her where she’d got her practitioner’s licence from but didn’t because the surgery is only on the doorstep, meaning it’s conveniently placed in case of emergency.
It’s now mid-December, meaning the temperature has plummeted into the minuses. We have central heating throughout