Is sleep deprivation making me paranoid? Disjointed since Fleur was born. Barely an hour straight since Romilly left.
I weigh it up.
Don’t turn on the only people in the world who are changing your baby, feeding her, covering her gently in a soft blanket. Who sing to her and read her books even though she is less than a week old. Who make you coffee that may be the difference between you being sane and losing your mind. On the one who stays over, despite having her own kids, just in case you need her.
Don’t be an idiot, Marc.
I nod. Loll nods too, briefly.
Agreed then.
As we were.
Don’t turn on your allies.
But I can’t help it, something is scratching at me like a mosquito bite.
I leave the room so Loll can finish off her tidying but she shouts to me a few minutes later.
‘I’m popping home now, Marc,’ she says, voice neutral. Steffie has just gone too. ‘I can see Adam coming back up the drive so you’re all good and I’ll be back before he leaves.’
She pauses.
‘Let me know if you need anything bringing back,’ she adds.
And the words are a tacit agreement: we will carry on as we were, say no more about the conversation we had earlier.
I’ll stop asking questions, she’ll keep burping my baby.
Why rock the boat, I think, when it has already capsized and disappeared under water anyway?
But while I keep quiet, the thoughts won’t.
What do you know, Loll?
When I glance at the coffee table after she leaves, the batteries are back in the remote control. It is lined up, neatly, alongside the others. I am fairly sure it has been dusted.
‘So I’m doing this, right?’ says Adam as he walks through the door, swapping quick pleasantries with Loll in the hall as she puts her shoes on.
I look at him.
Adam would board the plane now if he could. He is hopping from foot to foot like a child at a party having to speak to the adults when there’s a bouncy castle and ten classmates on the other side of the grass.
He’s fired up on adrenalin; of the joy of being able to do something when you have been frustrated by inaction. He’s also fired up on sleep and a trip to the gym this morning; I recognise what used to be normal with a shot of envy.
‘Let’s make a plan,’ he says, following me as I close the front door behind him.
‘Can I talk to you about something else first?’ I ask.
‘Sure, mate,’ he nods. Small frown.
He follows me into the kitchen.
Leans down to kiss Fleur, who’s flat out in her Moses basket.
I sit down at the table; Adam heads across to the kettle to make coffee. People do that in our home now, Romilly, I think, as I talk to her sometimes in my head. Help themselves.
I watch my friend as he makes a drink.
The bulb in the kitchen spotlight flickers on, off, on, off. No one mentions it. I guess it’s my job to replace it.
I can’t be bothered.
Let’s face it, this is barely still a home that you tend to so much as a Marc and Fleur support system; a tent that has been put up to deal with the suffering and the needy.
Loll’s not the only one who recoils at victim status.
When I made myself some toast at 11 p.m. last night there was a brand of butter I’ve never seen in our fridge before. I took it out, stared at it for ten seconds and then slammed it against the wall before crying, quietly, until my eyes hurt. I look now at the pale blue paint of our kitchen and feel the memory of the anger. A little grease remains on there where the wrapper had come open a touch and I picture Romilly spotting it in a year, tiny finger touching it lightly. What’s this?
Would I be angry then too? Or just too grateful to have her back to care? Or is this a picture that can never really happen anyway, us all slotting back into our positions? Not after everything.
God, I miss her.
Now, Adam is looking in the fridge.
‘Just going to make us a sandwich,’ he says. ‘You’ve not got any butter?’
I laugh, sort of. Shake my head.
I had thrown it away straight after it slammed into the wall. Decided I preferred no butter to pity butter, placed into my fridge wordlessly without people telling me along with vegetarian sausages I don’t eat, my short-lived attempt at being veggie long gone, and cheese that’s too strong because I prefer mild cheddar with the texture of rubber. There was also something purple and pickled in a jar that Steffie brought over from the café.
Adam opens the cupboard and takes out some cereal instead.
‘Want some?’
I shake my head. Whatever other problems she brings, the catering is better when Loll is on a shift.
Adam sloshes milk into his Rice Krispies then sets down our coffees.
‘Right, mate. Sorry. I’m good to go. Talk to me.’
I lean forward.
And at that moment, of course, Fleur wakes up with a cry.
I pick her up and pull the blanket around her tighter; stand up to rock her gently as she curls into my chest.
‘Is it possible that Romilly could have done this alone?’ I whisper to Adam.
Back, forth, back, forth. Fleur’s eyes droop.
Adam looks confused as he shovels cereal into his mouth.
I sigh.
‘After childbirth, women are … you know, they’re in pain. Losing blood.’
Adam picks up his mug.
‘Go on,’ he says, back down low to the cereal.
‘They’re also physically, mentally exhausted,’ I say. ‘Beyond any sort of tiredness we can imagine.’
I feel my own eyelids sag.
‘Sure, mate, yeah,’ he says, nodding slowly.
I think of the irony that Romilly would be impressed by my empathy. By Adam and I speaking openly about childbirth.
She’d appear behind Adam at this moment, give him a squeeze. She adores him.
She would try to switch his cereal for home-made granola though.
‘The midwife brought it up,’ I say. ‘Not necessarily that Romilly has been with someone all the way along. But that it was impossible that she could have done this without any help at all.’
Adam nods.
‘Okay,’ he says, still eating. ‘Wow. Yes. That makes sense. I feel stupid for not thinking of it. I just thought … with the psychosis … that it was all about her, nothing to do with anyone else. Sorry.’
I feel my cheeks heat up. My chest feels hot too, with the warmth of a second heart close to my own.
I look down at my girl.
‘Man, if I didn’t think of it – and I’m her bloody husband – you shouldn’t be expected to.’
He dismisses me.
‘You’re exhausted, mate. In sole charge of a newborn. It’s inevitable you’ll miss stuff.’
I feel even hotter then, like I’m a fake because am I in sole charge? I think of Loll, and how often she feeds Fleur. Of my baby’s little space on Loll’s shoulder, my sister-in-law stroking her back like a ritual as they pace, rock, then come to rest.
How I already feel like Loll knows her better than me, somehow; that she’s the real parent here and how sometimes I hover in doorways awkwardly when I enter a room, feeling like I have no idea what to do; suspecting I am interrupting a sweet moment between Fleur and Loll that is at its essence maternal.
Does Fleur know there’s a difference? Or to her, is that voice that coos into her ear, that warm body, simply her mum, the end, done? What’s the definition of a mother?
‘Does this mean though … are you discounting the psychosis?’
I shake my head. Firm.
‘Not at all. I’m just considering that when she made the plan to leave, someone helped her on her way.’
I kiss my daughter on the head. Still getting used to her smell, her shape.
Adam puts down his spoon into an empty cereal bowl. Takes a swig of coffee. Winces.
‘Sorry, mate, I’ve made that a bit strong,’ he says. ‘Though we probably all need it.’
We sit in silence.
‘Someone she trusts then,’ he says. ‘Really trusts. And someone who would do anything for her, always put her first. Even above Fleur. Because otherwise you’d stop her, wouldn’t you? Tell her that she had to stay with her baby? That you can’t leave a newborn?’
I nod. Yep. These are all thoughts I had as I have sat with this today, changing nappies, making up bottles, trying and failing to get in the shower.
I sip the coffee. Feel the zing of the caffeine.
Adam shifts in his seat. Then he stands up, takes his cereal bowl to the sink. Fills it with water.
‘Not many of us have people who would go that far for us,’ he says. ‘They’re the “drop everything at 4 a.m. if you need them” people. There can’t be many people in Romilly’s life who would do that for her?’ He stays there, leaning on the sink.
‘Not many at all,’ I say, holding my mug.
We make eye contact. He turns the tap off. Looks at me.
Then he says it, at the same time that I am once again thinking it.
‘Two, maybe?’