Faith gently closed the door and stepped inside her studio. This was her space – quiet, ordered, soothing – and she needed it now. Putting the final touches to the nursery had been fun – no, it had been more than that, it had been significant, moving even, given her long battle to conceive – but several hours of her mother fussing and getting under her feet was more than enough. She needed some time alone, so predictably had retreated to her sanctuary.
She had almost finished her self-portrait – an elegant, modern image in greys and blacks – and was keen to get it done before the baby arrived. It was already promised to the Fourwalls gallery, and as they had been so good to her, she didn’t want to let them down. If it wasn’t for them, she would never have broken through in Chicago, let alone nationwide.
Many of her girlfriends who’d had kids had often talked about carrying on with their careers after the birth, but in reality few had found the time. She didn’t want to be one of those women who made promises they couldn’t keep, and, besides, that wasn’t how she wanted it to be. She wanted motherhood to be all-consuming, having waited so long to enjoy it. She loved being an artist, it gave her life meaning – had saved her from herself – and she loved the people she met through her work. But she was thirty-seven now, Adam nearly forty-two, and it had taken them three long, distressing years of IVF to get this far, so why wouldn’t she want to immerse herself fully in the experience?
Right on cue, baby gave a small kick. Smiling to herself, Faith laid one hand on her bump, even as she raised her other hand to paint. Feeling the life inside her with one hand, she tried to bring the illusion of life to bear with the other, gently guiding the tip of the brush down the contours of her alter ego’s face. Painting this portrait had been the most significant artistic experience of her life, because the picture had changed so much during the process. She had set out to paint one thing – woman without child, the last vestige of herself before motherhood – yet somehow the baby had intruded. Not physically, or at least not obviously physically, as the portrait was only head and shoulders. Was it then the fullness of her face, the expression in her eyes, the serenity of her gaze, that gave the game away. Perhaps it was all three, she couldn’t say for sure, but the truth was that the painting had changed because she’d changed. Ten years ago she had been lost – bent on a path of self-destruction – but first Adam and now the baby had healed her wounds. Had helped her grow. How glad she was of their intervention now.
Putting her brush back on the palette, Faith placed her other hand on her tummy, cradling her bump. There was no fighting it – the love she had for her baby, for her new life, was fierce, consumed her totally. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before.
Such was the bond between a mother and her child.