The Mistress's Revenge (32 page)

When I was on my way up to the maternity ward, the nausea I’d been keeping at bay since the morning surged to the surface. Luckily with my handy map I could locate the nearest toilet! And how refreshingly clean it was! I knelt in the cubicle by the toilet bowl without any concerns about hygiene whatsoever. In addition to the reassuring smell of disinfectant, there was a pleasant citrusy fragrance. I wish our bathroom at home smelled more like that. It made me realize I hadn’t cleaned the toilet in quite a long time. In fact I couldn’t really remember the last time. I made a mental note to buy some lemony-smelling cleaning stuff on my way home.

I don’t know how long I knelt by the toilet, but I’m pretty sure it was quite long because a couple of times people came and tried the outside handle and I could hear the heavy tread of impatient footsteps walking away from the door.

I almost forgot why I was there. Forgot about Emily, the Sacred Vessel, who perhaps wasn’t even a vessel anymore, forgot about the thing that called itself a baby, forgot that I was being Susan. Or was I being you?

But eventually I forced myself to my feet (which, I noticed, were a little bit grubby, nails blackened with London grime. I found myself hoping I hadn’t inadvertently brought in some germs into this pristinely antiseptic environment. I imagined trailing in MRSA on the soles of my flip-flops like old chewing gum). Washing my hands at the sink was a pleasure in itself. I loved the designer hand lotion, and even thought about trying to wash my feet, but didn’t feel up to attempting to lift them into the sink.

The obstetrics ward was on the second floor, and had its own stylish reception desk in white and lilac, with soothing down-lights under the counter. The Scandinavian nurse behind the desk beamed at me as I approached.

“Very popular lady, Emily,” she said when I announced who I’d come to visit.

I have to admit that as I made my way down the corridor past the slightly ajar doors of the individual rooms where wan-looking women lay back on jolly purple-printed pillowcases while their well-dressed visitors liberated vast bouquets from their cellophane wrappers, I started to feel quite apprehensive. I’d been in such a rush to come that I hadn’t even thought about bringing a gift. I’d thought only of Emily, as any parent would do.

Standing outside room number 7, I hesitated slightly when I heard voices inside. It sounded like there were quite a few people in there. For some reason, I’d been imagining Emily on her own, suffering through whatever had happened to her without the support of her honeymooning parents. I’d forgotten about her bland barrister husband and her double-barreled friends with their Notting Hill highlights.

When I pushed open the door, there were at least six people gathered around the bed, and they all fell silent as they looked up at me. Emily, sitting up in bed surrounded by cards and flowers and specialist fruits that might have been guavas, gaped as if witnessing some kind of spiritual visitation.

“I came as soon as I heard,” I gasped. “I knew you’d be missing your mother.”

Emily’s still slender arms crept instinctively around her stomach which, I now noticed, was still swollen up like a dead thing in the sun.

“Is the baby all right?”

“It’s fine. It was just a scare, that’s all.”

It was the bland barrister who spoke, the first time he’d ever said anything directly to me. He put his arm protectively around Emily’s shoulder and I got a very strange feeling, as if they didn’t want me there. I couldn’t work it out. We’d almost been friends, Emily and I. She’d even invited me to her baby shower! It could only have been the baby who had turned her against me, that ever-multiplying, ever-dividing blob. It was growing too big, demanding too much space, pushing me out. I thought about my baby. The baby that wasn’t, the one who hadn’t mattered enough to exist. Do you remember, Clive, how you told me afterward you wished it had been real? (“Then something would have had to happen,” you said. “We’d have had to be
together.”) It would have been the uncle or aunt to the thing inside Emily’s bloated belly. We would all have been family. But now she didn’t even want me near her.

“Thank you for coming, but now I think you should go,” the bland barrister said. (Does he have a name? I can’t remember.) “Emily has been through hell and is completely exhausted.”

Do you know, I had this overwhelming urge then to tell him that I was also exhausted. Suddenly it washed over me, this feeling of being completely and utterly drained, as if someone had sucked every single last drop of energy from me (the thing that calls itself a baby?). I wanted the bland barrister to come and put his arm around me, lead me to one of the comfy-looking padded armchairs (also purple! Some interior designer was having a Prince period no doubt) and settle me in. I wanted him to crouch down next to me, take my hand, and ask me if there was anything I needed. Was that too much to ask, do you think? Just that little gesture?

Instead he remained by the bed, his hand on Emily’s fragile shoulder. Emily herself couldn’t look at me. Turning her face up to look at him, she whispered. “Make her leave.”

Well, I say whisper but actually it reached all around the room, ricocheting off the walls and eventually pinging back in my face like a stretched elastic band. I think I might actually have sagged against the doorway when I heard it. It felt physical, you see, that “make her leave.”

“I just wanted to help.”

My own voice was whiny like a child’s and I tried to disown it, shifting slightly away to put distance between myself and the sound of it.

“We appreciate it.” The bland barrister’s voice was stiff and embarrassed. “But Emily really needs to rest.”

I looked around at the other people in the room—three girls perched on the edge of the prettily patterned bed (yes, shades of purple! How clever of you to guess, Clive!), the two men in the armchairs. None of them could meet my eyes. Instead they pretended to be studying their hands, or looking out of the window. Two of the girls were flicking through magazines (Vogue and Heat), but they kept sneaking glances at each other, perfectly shaped eyebrows faintly arched.

I wanted to grab them by their glossy, sleek, ponytailed hair and smash their heads together, tinted-moisturized forehead crushed against tinted-moisturized forehead, smirk against smirk. I wanted to tie the legs of their skinny jeans around their necks in knots and pull them tight. I wanted to press their leather Mulberry bags over their heads until they suffocated.

Oh Clive, don’t be so disapproving. I didn’t do any of that. Silly! I even managed a smile (although it might just have been an internal smile, I’m not quite sure).

“’Bye then,” I said.

That was quite dignified, don’t you think? No hint of reproach or bitterness.

Still, after I’d pulled the door shut behind me and heard the collective squeal of “OHMYGOD!” from inside, that’s when the bitterness came, scouring through me like lemon-scented antiseptic cleaner. Running to the toilet, I leaned over the bowl and vomited up my insides, closing my eyes for fear that what came up would be streaked with blood and clotted with lumps of internal organs (does that disgust you? Sorry. Sometimes these days I lose sight of what other people find shocking).

I don’t know what is happening to me. I’m in the dark like the monstrous baby, feeling around blindly with my jelly fingers, kicking against flesh, floating in blood.

A
nd now I suppose I should tell you about what happened next.

The honest truth (though we never were ones for honesty really, were we?) is I’m not quite sure what happened immediately after I left the hospital. I vaguely recall being in a tube station but it was incredibly hot and I was standing too close to the edge of the platform and I was scaring myself by how intently I was staring down at the tracks and how easy it was to imagine myself lying down on them.

Then I was outside (thank god) and walking through a crowded shopping area. Did I try on a pair of shoes? I rather think I did. I have a rather shameful recollection of my dirt-ingrained toes peeping out
from the end of a gold strappy sandal and the disapproving salesgirl hovering with a redundant pop sock.

I know I did a lot of walking.

I know I cried in Pret A Manger.

I know time was lost (my daughter is lost. She has lost her way).

When I finally let myself in through the front door, it was quite a lot later and I knew instantly that things were very wrong indeed. When I walked into the living room, Daniel was sitting on the sofa with an arm around each of the children and they all looked as if they’d been crying.

Daniel didn’t speak. Not one word, which I knew was ominous, but Tilly for a change was anxious to break the silence, and her voice when it came was free of its usual cynicism.

“I told you she’d come back. And look, she’s got you something. I knew she wouldn’t forget. Show Jamie what you’ve got him, Mum.”

She was looking pointedly at me and I realized I was carrying a plastic shopping bag, but when I opened it, guess what was in there? Lemon-scented bathroom cleaner! And I couldn’t for the life of me remember buying it.

“Just what every ten-year-old boy dreams of.”

Daniel had clearly taken over the cynic mantle from Tilly, I remember thinking. Then he spoke again, this time to the children, although he continued staring straight at me.

“Kids, go and get some stuff together for a sleepover. We’re going to Uncle Darren’s to celebrate Jamie’s birthday.”

Tilly, who was half-standing, half-sitting, looked at Daniel uncertainly, while Jamie burrowed his face in his father’s shoulder.

“Is Mum coming?” Tilly wanted to know, and I couldn’t tell whether she was hoping for a yes or a no.

“Not tonight. Mum’s tired.”

But Daniel was the one who sounded tired.

I knew I’d failed Jamie. How could I not know that? His face was red and puffy, and he wouldn’t look at me.

“I’m sorry about the present,” I said. “Why don’t we go out and have a pizza?”

Daniel shut his eyes for a long moment.

“It’s 8:30 on a school night. We’ve already had tea. We’ve already had cake that I went out and bought from Londis. You missed it. You missed it all. And now I’m going to take the kids to my brother’s.”

While Tilly and Jamie were upstairs putting pajamas into bags, I remained standing, stupidly holding the fucking bathroom cleaner.

“I don’t want you to go,” I said. But even as I said it, I realized I didn’t know that it was exactly true. I’m finding the children so draining at the moment, that constant pressure to keep remembering they are there. You know, I remember when I first had Tilly the health visitor explained that because a baby has no concept of the world outside of itself, it thinks that every time its mother goes out of the room, she has disappeared from the world completely. I remember being so horrified by how terrifying that must be. But now the same thing seems to be happening except in reverse. When the kids step out of my sight, they cease to exist, and every time they reappear I have to relearn them all over again. It’s exhausting.

“Just for a night, yes,” I said, but it was impossible to tell if it was a question or a statement.

As soon as the children came back downstairs, Daniel met them in the hallway.

“You’re going to have such fun with Uncle Darren,” I told Jamie, but the smile I’d stuck onto my face kept peeling off at the edges. “And when you come back home, I’ll have everything prepared for a fantastic belated birthday. I just need to get a good night’s sleep.”

Jamie’s eyelids were so swollen his eyes had virtually disappeared. They looked out at me like two raisins in a puffed-up scone.

“Your feet are dirty,” he said.

T
he children left the night before last, yet already it is hard to believe they were ever here. Whenever I catch sight of a football sock drying on the radiator (in truth, already dried and stiff with excess powder) or a frayed copy of Twilight I am jolted twice over—first
with the memory of their existence and secondly with the memory of their loss.

You think loss is too strong a word? You think I exaggerate?

They are not coming back.

Daniel arrived yesterday and packed more of their things into a big case. He told me he was through with reasoning with me and now he was trying to shock me into taking control of my life.

“The kids will be back when they have a fully functioning mother,” he said.

What do you suppose a fully functioning mother consists of, Clive? Are mothers perhaps a bit like appliances? Do we need regular servicing to maintain our full and splendid array of functions?

I wish I knew.

Daniel seemed cross to find me in bed. (He’s becoming very judgmental these days, I think. I’m sure he used to have more tolerance.) I had the laptop with me of course, and my cell, but I’d unplugged the landline. I didn’t like the way it kept looking at me. I also had an almost-empty aerosol can of whipped cream which I’d found in the fridge and kept squirting into my mouth whenever I felt light-headed with hunger.

In truth though, I haven’t felt hungry much. My head still hurts, although it’s better when I’m lying down, and any sudden movement sets my insides swaying dangerously.

Daniel made a big fuss about pulling up the blinds and flinging open the windows. Anyone would think the room smelled or something, the way he was huffing about. I could tell he was building up to say something. His pursed-lipped silence was wound tightly around him like a kimono. Eventually he couldn’t bear it anymore.

“Don’t you even care?” he burst out.

Well, what does one say to something like that?

“Don’t you care that you’re in danger of losing everything? The kids, the house? Me?”

I was a bit nonplussed by that last “me,” I have to say. It seemed inconceivable that Daniel might yet see his leaving as a loss, rather than a consolation prize.

Daniel said I was “insane” to have stopped the antidepressants. Isn’t that ironic? It’s insane to stop the drugs that are a sign of being insane? When I told him I’d started taking them again, in fact I’d taken three that very morning, he didn’t seem any more mollified.