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36
SKY
Some days are betterthan others, but however much Dylan does to help with Rhys, however many nights he allows me to sleep while he takes care of him, I still have days I can’t cope. Thoughts of what I did the day I took Rhys to the hospital sicken me, and on my low days, the guilt eats into my heart as I hold him tight.
A distance grows between Dylan and me too as the weeks pass and as pressure mounts on him. He’s convinced his role is to make us both happy, and I gently explain he can never achieve this. Dylan agrees, but doesn’t listen, and his frustration with the situation spills out adding to my guilt.
Other days, the world looks brighter, and I have energy to put into more than looking after Rhys. Those days I don’t worry about being a perfect mother and go with the flow. As the months pass, those days become more frequent and push away the darker ones. But a numbness remains, frustrating, because I don’t know how to take it away.
Lily’s trial looms. Dylan’s intense rage at Lily doesn’t ebb, and he blames her for my illness afterwards. Of course the horror around the day, and my baby’s birth a million miles from what I expected didn’t help, but the labour would’ve happened anyway. If I’d returned to an empty house, how would I’ve coped with a baby coming quicker than an ambulance?
But I don’t think about that day.
I don’t think about Lily.
Rhys sits on my lap, and I attempt to show him pictures in a cardboard book but all he wants is to chew the corner. I give in and put the book down, passing him his favourite toy: a plastic ring ridged in places with attachments that crinkle when he squeezes. He dribbles around the toy in his mouth, eyes fixed on mine. Rhys’s wispy hair grows blond, with big blue eyes to match his dad’s.
Despite my struggles, the love I have for my son grows every day, and I hug him closer, kissing his face and protesting when he takes a fistful of my hair.
“You’ll be like your daddy and break hearts,” I whisper, and his smile grows, as if he knows what I’m saying. He already does. Dylan’s fans are crazy over his son, and every woman we meet gushes how beautiful he is.
Some days, we sit, the three of us together on the sofa, watching TV as if we’re as ordinary as any new family. These peaceful times recharge us, the world Dylan and me created now contains somebody else; days filled with love and laughter, the ones where the connection between Dylan and me rebuilds if we’ve had a shaky week.
The days I hold onto on my darkest, to remind myself life is good.
I cradle Rhys in my arms, tuned into his actions, aware he’s becoming sleepy. He sucks on the toy, eyes heavy as he drifts in and out of sleep until his eyes stay closed. I’m repeatedly told not to compare myself to mums who instantly bond with their babies, that his early days will have no effect on him, and I slowly accept this. Cuddling him against my chest, his head beneath my chin, I fight against drifting to sleep too.
Time to make the most of my quiet time.
I lay Rhys down for a sleep in the nearby bassinette and curl up on the sofa to bury myself in this week’s magazine. I still read the gossip rags; I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself. Sometimes, watching pressure on other stars adds a weird sense of normal because they share the problems in my world.
Since I stepped forward and admitted my struggle with postnatal depression, the scrutiny on us drops. I agree to an interview and first photos of Rhys in return for a large charity donation. A very skeletal interview with no mention of the birth or the episode preceding the depression.
Episode. I swallow down the memory.
The front door slams closed, as Dylan always does despite my pleas not to because it disturbs Rhys. He startles with a small noise, but then his head lolls back into sleep.
Dylan appears in the lounge, bringing with him the happy energy he creates when he’s spent time working on his music. “Hey, beautiful girl.” I place a finger on my lips and nod at Rhys. Dylan lowers his voice “Oh. Sorry.”
He crouches down and gazes at his son. “And hey, beautiful boy,” he says with a smile before standing. “I won’t pick him up if he’s sleeping.”
“Thanks.”
He flops onto the sofa next to me and leans in for a soft kiss, stroking my cheek as he does. “Why are you reading that shit again, Sky?”
“Curiosity.”
“Crazy woman.” He rests his feet on the low table.
“Says in here there’re a few women with gynaecological problems, thanks to you.” I flick a page over and bite down a smile.
He gives me ahuh?face.
“There’s a picture here of you and Rhys.” I hold up the magazine, a picture of us walking through the London streets, hand in hand, Rhys snuggled into a carrier against Dylan’s chest, other arm protectively around his son.
“You make no bloody sense sometimes,” he mutters and kicks off his shoes.
“Apparently you make women’s ovaries explode,” I lick my finger and flick to the next page. “Unpleasant.”
