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‘Have you been out today?’ His eyebrows are still high. It is hope that will kill us in the end.
‘Not today, no.’ I avert my eyes from his face. ‘But I did play the piano for an hour.’
‘That’s good! Great!’ He is too pleased, far too pleased. ‘We could go for a walk later?’
Oh, the wild optimism.
‘I thought you were training with Neil?’
‘I can cancel.’
‘No, it’s fine.’ I switch my gaze to Fred’s soft, dark, impossible mass of hair. ‘I’ll go out tomorrow, I promise. Jen came over actually.’
‘Jen?’
‘Jennifer from next door. She was working from home so she dropped by for a coffee.’
‘That’s great! That’s so great!’
‘I really like her.’
The air shifts. He is still at the door. I can feel him hovering. I know he wants to ask me if I’ve changed my mind about the party. I almost have. I think. But I don’t want to give up this shelter in case my weather changes.
‘I’ll just get changed then,’ he says after a moment. ‘I can’t run in these shorts.’
‘Sure.’
His feet pad up the stairs. He is changing one sports kit for another. He will barely eat between now and when he goes out running, telling me he can’t run on a full stomach. What began as a fitness crusade has become an obsession. He must have lost a stone since that morning and he never had it to lose.
Fred finishes feeding and lies back like a man inebriated. Like the bath, like fresh cotton on clean skin, the sight of my baby boy after a feed has the power to stir the small beginnings of joy in me: his sated obliviousness, his heavy-lidded eyes, his dopey, gummy grin. There were fears I wouldn’t bond with him. My mother came down for two weeks when he was born.
‘I’ll look after you,’ she said with the affectionate pragmatism she has given me all my life. ‘You look after him.’
She was calm, she was quiet, she was there. In down times we sat together and did the crossword. Endless tea. Endless talking. Now, she calls me every day on the landline, knowing she’ll find me here, at home, and this too helps, alongside the counselling, which Matt’s parents insisted on paying for.
Love has not been an issue. It is not without terror, but every new mother feels a certain amount of terror, and again, thanks to Barbara, I have learnt to see this love, my ability to feel it, to give it, as a triumph on a par with a Nobel prize. With help, I have time, I think, for Fred to never see this ragged version of me. I am working on it – on her – on me. I am trying to get near to who I used to be. It is hard – gruelling, in fact – to aim for something that seems so out of reach without crucifying yourself when you miss. But Barbara talks about charging my batteries with the good moments so as to store energy for the bad. She talks a lot about being in the moment, about being kind to myself. Compassion is a word she uses a lot. Compassion for myself is necessary if I am to treat myself better. But it seems to me a tragedy both specific and cruel that all the things we might do to lift ourselves out of our lowest moments – a long walk, a carefully prepared meal, a favourite piece of music – are, in those moments, all the things we cannot face, while all the things that will make us feel worse, much worse – eating junk, drinking too many glasses of wine, staying in a room that vibrates with haunted silence – seem infinitely enticing.
Today, Jen’s unexpected visit charged my batteries and gave me enough energy to play the piano for the first time since Abi’s disappearance. It felt so good I am at a loss as to why I haven’t played in so long. I knew, must have known, that it would soothe me. It always did. I have waited too long, but today I got there and that’s what matters. I got there eventually. And if I can sit at my long-neglected mini grand, if I can feel the smooth, sliding embrace of the keys under my fingertips, if I can close my eyes to melodies forgotten, familiar and beloved – Chopin, Beethoven, Rachmaninov – and find myself coming to a kind of home, I know that there is healing here, that there can be, at least, and that one day, fresh air and people will heal me too.
Matt’s footsteps return down the stairs. The moment he goes into the kitchen, he will see I haven’t prepared any dinner. It will bother him, but not for himself. He will not voice his concern, not to me at least, nor will he remind me that the supermarket delivery he ordered came only yesterday afternoon, that there is plenty to eat, even though he eats so little himself. He doesn’t need to say any of it, just as he doesn’t need to tell me I need to try to find a way to live despite the hanging chord of our bodyless daughter. We both do. We both know it. We both know that we know it, so what’s the point?
‘Do you want an omelette?’ he says instead of all these things. Instead ofI will take care of you. For as long as it takes.
‘I’ll make it,’ I reply, instead ofI’m sorry for still being like this.
‘I don’t mind.’I am tired, so tired, but if you need me to do this, I will.
‘Don’t be silly, I’ll make something.’I’m sorry I’m not looking after you.
The clank of bottles as he opens the fridge door. ‘There’s some couscous. Some salad leaves and some ham and cheese?’Sod cooking. Let’s just agree to eat, at least.
‘Perfect. I might have a small glass of wine.’See? I am returning. Please wait for me.
‘Great.’Oh, the relief.
‘Great.’I’m sorry.
Great. Great. Great. Great. Great. Great.
