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Back A Bumpy Year Save as PDF
Chapters (49)
  1. Cover
  2. Also by Olivia Spooner
  3. A BUMPY YEAR
  4. Copyright
  5. Contents
  6. Dedication
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. Acknowledgements
  48. About the Author
  49. An Invitation from the Publisher

I push it away, as if I’m forcing a large, heavy object from the room. I can’t afford to have one of those episodes. Not now.

*

But after Mags leaves, the heaviness descends again. It sits like a weight in my chest and I have to muster all the energy I have to change Rose’s nappy and coax her back to sleep. The second I lay her in her bassinet, I crawl into bed, pull the covers over my head and let the blackness return.

The night is relentless. Rose must pick up on my mood, because she won’t settle. Even when I try to breastfeed her, she wriggles in distress. She’ll only take a couple of sucks before she cries and arches her back. Even once I finally manage to rock her to sleep, she only sleeps fitfully for about twenty minutes before she’s awake and crying again. I find myself wanting to scream at her, throw her onto the bed and walk away. I hate myself. Every single part of me.

At 6 a.m., as the sky finally lightens into day, I carry Rose outside and pace slowly round and around my garden. Rose finally starts to relax in my arms and I’m so afraid she’ll cry again, that I begin to talk. Surely, if I fill the silence with noise, she won’t be able to.

I talk about the plants in the garden. I tell Rose about the jasmine growing along the fence and how badly it needs a trim. I tell her about the hibiscus and how much it likes the warm, sunny corner, and the Japanese maple I planted because I love the way the leaves change colour with the seasons. I tell her the names of all the varieties of roses I have growing and which ones have the best scent. I talk for more than an hour until I’m hoarse. Then I lie on the grass, still damp with morning dew, curl up on my side, with Rose pressed to my chest, and close my eyes.

Lily finds me there half an hour later. I wake to her gently shaking my shoulder and whispering my name. Blinking my eyes open, I stare at her face, inches from mine.

“Bad night?” she asks softly.

I can only nod, tears in my eyes. I want to tell her about the blackness hovering around the edges of my vision. The weight I’m carrying deep inside that I’m afraid is going to spread until I can’t stand up anymore. But how do I explain?

Carefully, Lily extracts the deeply asleep infant from my arms.

“I’m going to put her in her bassinet and come straight back,” she mutters.

I roll onto my back and look up at the fat white clouds. My mind is blank. Empty.