SHARNEETA HAD THE baby held up above her head.
She had this image of it smashing against the wall, the (awful) sound it would make and yet the sound of its effin’ crying and colic-induced screaming, always screaming, would come to a final end.
She saw outside through the living-room window that it was full daylight, middle of the day, and yet plastered over the walls, everywhere within her immediate sight, was this stuff like dark gauze, or dark-tinted film.
The baby she saw as a shape, and a weight labouring, hurting on her uplifted arms. It wasn’t Rachel. It didn’t have that name suggested and accepted by the hospital angel, the beautiful Sue Clifford nurse. No. It was just this thing, this living lump that she didn’t allow, couldn’t allow too long of feeding, suckling, from her breasts. (Greedy li’l shit, near sucked my nipples off. Or it was never satisfied and kept spitting me out and scratching my tits with its tiny fingernails. No sooner fed than throwing it up everywhere. Or it would have colic and scream from dawn till dusk and nothing, but nothing, would shut the li’l effer up. Nothing!)
She called the doctor and he wouldn’t come, she had to take baby to him. For some reason the baby decided she’d stop crying for the duration of the visit to Dr Reynolds, who said Rachel looked a perfectly good baby to him, and he seemed suspicious about something as he asked Sharns to remove baby’s clothing, and she hoping that’d set the li’l bitch off shrieking again, in the doctor’s smarmy, upper-class face.
Doctor ran narrowed eyes over the baby: Do you strike her when she’s crying, as you say she is doing — a loaded pause — non-stop?
Sharneeta didn’t get the question, asked him, What? What did you say, doctor? (I don’t know where you’re coming from.)
There are bruises around her armpits, Ms Hurrey. Looking directly at her now.
I haven’t hit her. I grabbed her. Quite a few times. Because she’s driving me nuts.
How about the medication I prescribed you, for depression? Have you been taking it?
No. I haven’t.
Why not?
Made me feel funny, all fuzzy in the head. Like my thoughts got muddied up. (Even though my mood flattened out and the darkness did ease considerably. But why would I opt for darkness if the damn Prozac pills were so damn good for me?)
I see. Doctor turned away, dropped beneath the sightline of his spectacles, looking not at Rachel but at papers he had. And still the baby didn’t, wouldn’t cry. In fact, she gurgled a bit and smiled, and when the doctor tickled under her chubby chin she giggled.
So, how are you feeling now, still down, is everything still, as you put it, as if in shadow?
Mostly, yeah. But I still don’t like what the stuff does for me. It’s like I’m in even less control of things. I guess I keep thinking I’ll wake up one day and it’ll be gone.
If only it did happen like that. But it doesn’t. And I would urge you to reconsider and start taking the Prozac again.
She nodded to save saying the lie that she would when she had no intention. (I just know it’s not where my condition is at. I just know that some day I’ll find the answer.) Though with the baby it seemed finding an answer was an impossible dream.
Doctor said, I’ll prescribe some Pamol, which you can use to calm baby. But only if her crying is driving you to — he hesitated (why, does he know?) — to distraction. I suggest if it is becoming too much to bear you get in touch with a Karitane Family Unit. There’s a very good clinic in Pine Block. They’ll happily take baby for a few hours to let you get some rest, catch up on lost sleep. Whatever you do, please call for help. Will you promise me that?
Sure I will. Think I want to carry on like this forever and a day? Told you, it’s driving me nuts (nuttier).
Good. Now, I have one more question to ask. Do you feel as if, well, as if you could harm the baby sometimes? I’m asking, is her crying so getting to you you feel you could near, well, kill the child?
(Oh yes, Doc. Course it is. Only this morning. Yesterday morning. Last night. All through the day — less the few hours I get out and walk or drive the streets to get away from the crying. Sure like killing her, Doctor. Wouldn’t anyone?) Do you ask other mothers that question?
Some, yes. I mean no offence, but in light of the medication I have prescribed for you, and the bruises on baby, it had to be asked.
And how do these other (mothers) women answer?
Well, mostly they answer in the affirmative, I have to say.
Affirmative? What’s that?
Means yes. They answer yes, that indeed they do feel like doing harm to the child.
What do you say then?
Usually that I intend informing the appropriate authorities and health bodies who handle this kind of thing. To protect mother and child.
You mean child from mother?
In the final analysis, yes. It stands to reason. Though of course one has both party’s interests in mind.
Okay then. Yes. Now what? (Please tell me now what?)
Now let’s seek some help that is available.
She took herself to the pharmacist to get the Pamol, and the baby started up soon after the doctor’s, crying in its pram like she’d pushed it live into a coffin. Be quiet. Oh, shut-up. Yeah, you would start now the doc’s not here to hear you, ya li’l shit. Shuddup!
Then she went to the Karitane Family Unit and the doc was right, they were so nice, so understanding. Took baby — who was still bawling loudly — and told her to come back in five hours, have a sleep, enjoy some respite, Sharneeta.
But that was yesterday, last week — no, last month. No, two months ago. The Karitane people expressed concerns that she was using their service every day and for longer and longer extended periods. (I just can’t stand the crying. How can you love a thing that won’t stop screaming?)
A visit from a man — they send a man? — who was from this special unit that dealt with cases — he called it instances — like mine (and baby’s, you keep forgetting, Sharns. And baby in the same instance). Who turned out to be real nice, of real understanding, a big Maori man, gentle as a lamb. Name of Charlie Bennett, who asked who the father was and I found myself telling him of this coconut raping me and how it wasn’t enough, he had to assault me, too.
He said, From such an ugly act you get this beautiful child? It could be a miracle, if you wanted it to be. I couldn’t see it quite like that, but I did end up crying in his arms and he felt like a good father I’d never known, and kept saying, There there, it’ll be all right.
And he made me feel as if indeed it would be all right. The baby had been crying her head off when he arrived, but during his visit she settled down to a steady grizzle, and so we both felt things had already got better. And I said, No, never, I wouldn’t kill my own baby. And he did look at me like he wanted to believe and yet, I have to say, did not necessarily. (But that was a long time ago now. Despite several visits he, Charlie Bennett, made. And several visits by a psychologist, asking weird questions. My wall went slowly up. Things change, don’t they?)
With her arms aching now, wanting relief from this pain, ears wanting relief from the most awful, soul-shattering screaming, Shuddup! Shuddup! Shuddup! Shut-up! Shuddup! Shuddupshuddupshuddupshuddup — SHUT THE EFF UP! SHUT YOUR EFFIN’ GOB! SHUT YOUR DAMN EFFIN’ CRYING! (It’s breaking me in pieces. Bringing the final dark curtain down.)
Readying to hurl it now. Hurl it. Into eternity. Where it can cry for ever, who cares? Where I’ll be going there won’t be no babies, just iron grilles slamming, cell doors opening and closing. Women, deprived mothers, murderers, taken away from their babies, crying softly, sometimes, in their cells. For life and lives got ended. Yet with relief the noise had stopped, even though you had to murder it to stop. Is there any worse sound that gets to you than a child in pain that won’t cease? Your child? Which you didn’t want to have, not a missing lowlife father. Oh, baby, Mummy’s sorry …
About to hurl it. Dash it against the wall. End the noise. End the darkness, bring on another kind of darkness, bad but not as bad as this. Shut up, baby. I said: Shut-up. Voice calm now, and thinking it was being reasonable (to justify myself ).
Then I look up at movement and see it’s Alistair. No, it’s just another shape at first, an intrusion on my intended (good or foul) deed. And I hear him like he’s the father, not the one who impregnated me, but the kid’s father by being here in this flat, by getting to know the kid and loving her despite the never-ending crying.
And he’s saying: What are you doing to Rachel, Sharns? Give her here. Give the — did he say the or my? — child to me.
So Sharns unknowingly saves herself consequences too dire to contemplate. (Jail’s a lot worse than you’ve ever imagined, Sharns.) She unknowingly saves her child’s life and hers with it. She utterly unknowingly, and yet can kind of intuit, has handed Alistair back his childhood, so scarred and suffered from whatever did damage him, even if a lot was his character, a tendency to self-pity.
He’s smiling, even though the horrible li’l shit’s crying is deafening. Come to Uncle Al, Raych sweetie. Uncle Alistair’s here.
And so, therefore and thank heaven, is Sharneeta Hurrey. If only tomorrows didn’t always come.