‘That is my son’s name,’ he called as he walked away.
After that D didn’t once refer to him by his name and I continued to call him Baby Boy.
When Baby Boy was eight months old, D came home from work or wherever he had been one afternoon, and came through the door, followed sheepishly by a petite woman with a mousy-brown sleek bob.
‘This is Olga – she is here to help you out, babes.’ D waved his introduction and began rooting through the fridge for a beer.
I looked at the small woman with a lost expression in her eyes, then I looked at D with confusion.
‘What do you mean, help me out?’ Baby Boy was sitting right up on my hip, clutching on to my T-shirt, occasionally rooting for the boob. D looked on, a frustrated expression flashed across his face. He had not got used to having to share me with the baby, and I knew he was expecting me to give up breastfeeding him very soon. But I had no intentions of giving up; feeding my son was the only control I had.
‘Well, you’re my girl, that’s my baby, and this is our house. I want you both to be happy and not worry about anything except making yourself look pretty and keeping the baby alive. No more cleaning for you.’ He winked. An act I hadn’t seen him do since we first started dating. I looked at Olga. She shifted uncomfortably. I wondered if she already knew his behaviour was all an act.
‘So what am I expected to do with myself all day?’ I could hear the agitation rising in my voice as I looked at this Olga woman that had arrived in our house. I was grateful for the help, but to just bring an actual person into our lives without discussing it with me first was disturbing to say the least. What was more disturbing was that Olga’s repugnance at being here was palpable.
‘And where will Olga be living?’
D approached me. Olga physically shrank backwards.
I knew D was daring me to push him a little further. I knew what was in store for me if I did, but something uncontrollable within me spurred me on anyway.
‘Olga will be staying with us. In the spare room.’ D’s voice was high and stretched. He knew I was testing him, and he didn’t like to be challenged. But I wasn’t sure how he would react with another woman in the house. Something urged me on.
‘And would you like me to organise Olga’s room or will she be doing that herself?’
By this point D was almost at my face, so close I could smell his skin, which reeked of stale alcohol.
‘I think it might be nice if we do that for her seeing as she is our guest.’ He spoke through gritted teeth.
‘We?’ I said it so fast I hadn’t realised it had fallen out of my mouth, but knowing it would be me who sorted the room while D drank himself to sleep with a bottle of whisky, I couldn’t help myself. Quick as a flash Baby Boy was ripped from my arms and thrown at Olga who barely had a second to think about what had happened but who managed to catch him by the arm and pulled him, red-faced and wailing, into her chest. I didn’t have time to thank her as I was dragged into the bedroom with only Olga’s shocked and worried face in my mind’s eye and the screams of my baby ringing in my ears.
27
Now
A mere few hours later, I woke to the sound of screaming. I had been dreaming again. I was stuck between sleep and wakefulness, and the sounds of crying were ringing in my ears. I started to grab around me, to pull him close to me, but I woke to empty, flailing arms. I looked up and saw the window had been left ajar. For a second, I panicked; how had that happened? Then I remembered. I had left it open after the serene sense of calm that had followed my date with Will.
But now the open window that brought me so much joy last night and only a few hours ago at 5 a.m., plagued me. The sounds of the child had entered my dreams and made me wake with a pain in my chest and a gut so tight it hurt. I jumped out of bed and opened the window a little further just to look out. The birds were still tweeting their morning chorus; the sun was already warm and it was going to be a lovely day. But the beautiful morning was marred; I could hear the now muffled cries of the little boy next door. I couldn’t bear it any longer. It was pure torture. I was going to have to deal with this, to speak with her directly. If she refused to speak with me, I would put in another complaint to social services.
As a way of pain relief, I opened my phone to Mrs Clean’s account. I was instantly soothed by her easy tone and aesthetic symmetry. I could feel the pain in my gut easing as the sound of the cries faded.
The usual Monday-morning routine of everyone getting ready to leave the house was in full swing by the time I got downstairs.
I hadn’t seen or spoken to Karen since our little chat at the table before I went for brunch with Will. I think she had spent the rest of the day in her room, and I wanted to catch up and check in with her before I went to my seminar.
